This one was the fay Abunde, Whom I easily distinguish’d By the sweetness of her smile, And her mad and hearty laughter!
Hale and rosy were her features, As though limn’d by Master Greuze; Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open, Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.
Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she, That the wind to lift attempted; Even in my brightest visions Never saw I such fair shoulders!
Scarcely could I keep from springing Out of window to embrace them; Ill should I have fared, however, For my neck should I have broken.
She, alas! would but have titter’d If before her feet, all-bleeding, In the deep abyss I tumbled,-- Ah! a laugh like this well know I!
And the third of those fair women, Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,-- Was she but a female devil Like the other two first mention’d?
Whether devil she or angel, Know I not; in case of women One knows never where the angel Ceases, and the deuce commences.
On her glowing sickly features Lay an oriental charm, And her costly robes reminded Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories.
Soft her lips, just like pomegranates, And her nose a bending lily, And her members cool and slender As the palms in the oasis.
On a snowy palfrey sat she, Whose gold bridle by two negroes Was conducted, who on foot By the princess’ side were walking.
And in truth she was a princess, Was the queen of far Judæa, Was the lovely wife of Herod, Who the Baptist’s head demanded.
For this deed of blood she also Was accurs’d, and as a spectre With the wild hunt must keep riding, Even to the day of judgment.
In her hands she evermore Bears the charger with the Baptist’s Head upon it, which she kisses,-- Yes, the head she kisses wildly.
For she once loved John the Baptist; In the Bible ’tis not written, Yet in popular tradition Lives Herodias’ bloody love.
Otherwise there’s no explaining That strange fancy of the lady,-- Would a woman ever ask for That man’s head for whom she cared not?
She was somewhat angry, may be, With him,--had him, too, beheaded; But when she upon the charger Saw the much-loved head lie lifeless,
Sore she wept, and lost her senses, And she died of love’s delirium. (Love’s delirium! Pleonasm! Love must always be delirium!)
Every night arising, bears she As I’ve said, the bloody head In her hand as she goes hunting, Yet with foolish woman’s fancy