Browning, whose household gods were planted
Beside the banks of classic Arno,
Once, in a dainty ballad, chanted
The lady of the _bella mano_.
Pass from the Arno to the Tiber,
From Tuscan to a Roman lady;
And let a humbler bard describe her--
This fair one of the _bel piede_.
To Roman dame, as I and you know,
Is rarely given a foot symmetrical;
No Cinderellas--many a Juno--
Upon the Pincian we can yet recall.
Those were the days when bonnets did not
Expose the face to every starer;
When skirts, worn short and airy, hid not
The foot and ankle of the wearer.
With high arched instep, narrow, tapering,
Divinely booted--none could beat hers--
The foot, that set my young heart capering,
Came down the broad steps of St. Peter's.
Her long black veil, the crowd around me,
Her swift landau, my swift emotion--
She came: her fairy foot spell-bound me;
She went: which way, I had no notion.
Haunting all public haunts was fruitless,
Mid solemn pomps, on festal hey-day;
Search for those glorious boots was bootless:
Rome showed no more my _bel piede_.
In Paris next enchained it held me,
Through redowa, waltz, all sorts of dances;
But mask and domino repelled me--
She moved, but I made no advances.
Again she passed--no trace behind her--
I sought, enquired, left nothing undone;
But all was vain: I could not find her,
And, in despair, set off for London.
The sea between Boulogne and Dover
Was, as it always is, terrific;
Against that awful passage over,
Why not invent some smooth specific?
Cloaked, muffled, shawled, a form was leaning
Across the gunwale, keeping shady;
I recked not what might be its meaning--
I thought not, then, of _bel piede_.
Sudden, a lurch, a shriek, a splashing!
I knew the shriek was from a lady;
But horror through my brain went crashing--
I saw, heels up, my _bel piede_!
She sank. No more! But O ye mermaids,
Of whose long tails we've had a surfeit,
If ye were worthy to be her maids,
You'd cut your tails, and copy her feet!