Alas! life’s hours which swiftly fly I’ve wasted in amusements vain, But were it not immoral I Should dearly like a dance again. I love its furious delight, The crowd and merriment and light, The ladies, their fantastic dress, Also their feet—yet ne’ertheless Scarcely in Russia can ye find Three pairs of handsome female feet; Ah! I still struggle to forget A pair; though desolate my mind, Their memory lingers still and seems To agitate me in my dreams.
When, where, and in what desert land, Madman, wilt thou from memory raze Those feet? Alas! on what far strand Do ye of spring the blossoms graze? Lapped in your Eastern luxury, No trace ye left in passing by Upon the dreary northern snows, But better loved the soft repose Of splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet cause The thirst for fame and man’s applause, My country and an exile’s lot; My joy in youth was fleeting e’en As your light footprints on the green.
Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaks Charms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet reveal Of untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fire A hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14) Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room’s glassy floor Or by the ocean’s rocky shore.
[Note 14: _Elvine_, or _Elvina_, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, “To Her,” which commences thus:
“Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand,” and so forth.]
Beside the stormy sea one day I envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense array Enamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desired To kiss the feet which I admired! No, never in the early blaze Of fiery youth’s untutored days So ardently did I desire A young Armida’s lips to press, Her cheek of rosy loveliness Or bosom full of languid fire,— A gust of passion never tore My spirit with such pangs before.
Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I stand And grasp a stirrup fortunate— Her foot was in my other hand. Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raised Rekindled in my withered heart The fires of passion and its smart— Away! and cease to ring their praise For ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fire Of passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweet Are oft deceptive—like their feet.