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!