Like some drowsy bayaderes
 Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring
 In their snowy shirts of clouds,
 Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.
Yet they soon become enliven’d
 By the sun-god stripping from them
 All the veil that’s hanging o’er them
 Lighting up their naked beauty!
Early in the morn I started
 With Lascaro on our journey
 Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
 We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
So they call the bridge which leadeth
 Out of France and into Spain,
 To the land of west barbarians,
 Who’re a thousand years behind us,—
Yes, a thousand years behind us
 In all modern civ’lisation;
 My barbarians to the eastward
 But a hundred years behind are.
Slowly, almost trembling, left I
 France’s sacred territory,
 Blessèd fatherland of freedom
 And the women that I love!
On the middle of the bridge
 A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry
 Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,
 Misery in his eyes was lurking.
An old crazy mandoline
 With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;
 Shrill the discord which re-echoed
 From the rocks, as in derision.
Oftentimes his figure bent he
 Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,
 Tinkling harder then than ever,
 While the following words he sang:
“In the middle of my bosom
 “Stands a little golden table;
 “Round the little golden table
 “Stand four little golden chairs.
“On the golden chairs are sitting
 “Little ladies, golden arrows
 “In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,
 “But ’tis only Clara wins.
“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;
 “Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
 “Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,
 “For thou holdest nought but trumps.”
Wand’ring onward, to myself I
 Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness
 Sits and sings upon yon bridge,
 That from France to Spain leads over.
“Is this madman but the emblem
 “Of the interchange ’mongst nations
 “Of their thoughts? or his own country’s
 “Wild and crazy title-page?”
We arrived not until evening
 At the wretched small posada,
 Where an olla-podrida
 In a dirty dish was smoking.
There I swallow’d some garbanzos,
 Heavy, large as musket-bullets,
 Indigestible to Germans,
 Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.
Fit companion to the cooking
 Was the bed. With insects pepper’d
 It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are
 Far the greatest foes of man.
Fiercer than the wrath of thousand
 Elephants, I find the hatred
 Of one tiny little bug,
 When across my bed it crawleth.
One must let them bite in quiet,—
 This is bad enough,—still more ’tis
 If one crushes them. The stink then
 Keeps one all night long in torment.
Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble
 Is the fight with noxious vermin,
 Who a stench employ as weapons,—
 Is a duel with a bug!

CAPUT XII.

How they rave, the race of poets,
 E’en the tame ones, singing ever
 And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely
 “The Creator’s mighty temple—
“Is a temple all whose glories
 “To our Maker’s fame bear witness,
 “Sun and moon and stars all hanging
 “In its cupola as lamps.”
Well and good, my worthy people!
 Yet confess that in this temple
 Are the stairs uncomfortable,
 Bad and inconvenient stairs!
All this up-and-down-stairs going,
 Mountain-climbing and this jumping
 Over rocks is very tiring
 To the legs as well as spirit.
Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,
 Pale and lanky, like a taper;
 Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,
 He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.
Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,
 Dead long since, but yet his mother
 Old Uraca’s magic science
 Kept him living in appearance.—
That accursèd temple-staircase!
 It exceeds my comprehension
 How my neck escaped from breaking,
 Stumbling o’er a precipice.
How the cataracts were shrieking!
 How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees
 Till they howl’d! The clouds began too
 Crashing suddenly—bad weather!
In a little fishing cottage
 By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we
 Shelter and some trout for luncheon;
 Most delicious were the latter.
In an arm-chair was reclining,
 Ill and grey, the ferryman;
 On him his two pretty nieces,
 Like a pair of angels, waited.
Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,
 Seeming from a frame descended
 Of a Rubens; gold their tresses,
 Full of health their eyes, and liquid.
Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,
 With a secret slyness in them;
 Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,
 Giving pleasure to the fancy.
Dear, affectionate young creatures,
 Keeping up a sweet discussion,
 As to which drink would be relish’d
 Most of all by their sick uncle.
If the one the cup should bring him
 Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,
 Then the other hastes to feed him
 With an elder-flow’r decoction.
“I’ll not drink of either of them,”
 “Cried impatiently the old man;
 “Fetch some wine, that I may offer
 “To my guests some better drink!”
Whether it was wine they gave me
 At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really
 Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick
 By the name of Mum they’d call it.
Of the very best black goat-skin
 Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;
 Yet the old man drank with pleasure,
 And he seem’d quite well and joyous.
He recounted the achievements
 Of the smugglers and banditti
 Merrily and freely living
 In the Pyrenean forests.
Many old traditions also
 Well he knew: amongst the others
 Were the battles of the giants
 With the bears in times primeval.
Yes, the bears then and the giants
 Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry
 Of these mountains and these valleys,
 Ere by man they were discover’d.
But when man arrived, the giants
 Fled away from out the country
 Stupified, for little brains
 Are contain’d in heads gigantic.
And ’tis said the silly fellows,
 On arriving at the ocean,
 And observing how the heavens
 In its azure depths were mirror’d,
Cleverly supposed the ocean
 To be heaven, and plunged down in it,
 Full of godlike confidence,
 And were drown’d, the whole together
As respects the bears, however,
 They are gradually being
 Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly
 In the mountain still decreasing.
“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,
 “One gives place unto another,
 “And when men are put an end to,
 “Then the dwarfs will be the masters.
“Yes, the clever little people,
 “Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,
 “‘Mongst the golden mines of riches
 “Digging and collecting nimbly.
“How they from their hiding-places
 “With their small sly heads keep peeping!
 “Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,
 “And then trembled at the future;
“At the power their gold will give them;
 “Ah, I fear lest our descendants
 “Fly for refuge, like the stupid
 “Giants, to the watery heaven!”

CAPUT XIII.

In the black and rocky caldron
 Rest the waters deep of ocean;
 Stars, all pale and melancholy,
 Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.
Night and silence. Oars are moving.
 Like a splashing wondrous secret
 Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces
 Play the part of ferrymen,
Joyously and nimbly rowing;
 Ofttimes glisten in the darkness
 Their stout naked arms, illumined
 By the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.
By my side Lascaro sitting
 Is as pale and mute as usual,
 And the fearful thought shoots through me:
 Is he but a very corpse then?
I myself,—am I dead also,
 And embarking on my journey
 With my ghostly comrades by me
 To the chilly realm of shadows?
And this lake, can it be Styx’s
 Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina,
 In default of Charon’s presence,
 Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?
No! I am not yet departed
 And extinguish’d; in my spirit
 Is the living flame of life still
 Glowing, blazing and exulting.
And these maidens, gaily pulling
 At their oars, and o’er me splashing
 With the water dripping from them,
 Full of merriment and laughter,—
These two fresh and sprightly damsels
 Are most certainly not ghostly
 Chambermaids in hell residing,
 Waiting-maids of Proserpina!
That I might be fully certain
 Of their upper-worldliness,
 And by practical experience
 Ascertain my own existence,
Hastily my lips applied I
 To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,
 And then framed this syllogism:
 Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!
When we reach’d the shore, again I
 Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;
 In this coin, and no other,
 Would they take the passage-money.

CAPUT XIV.

Violet-colour’d mountain summits
 Smile from out the sunny gold-ground;
 To the slope a village clingeth,
 Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.
When I climb’d up to it, found I
 That the old ones all had flown,
 And that none were now remaining
 Save the young, who could not fly yet;
Pretty boys, and little maidens,
 Almost hidden in their scarlet
 Or white woollen caps, whilst playing
 At a marriage, in the market.
Still they play’d regardless of me,
 And I saw how the enamour’d
 Mouse-prince knelt pathetically
 To the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.
Poor young prince! Alas! he’s married
 To the beauty. She morosely
 Wrangles, bites him, and then eats him;
 When he’s dead, the game is over.
Almost all the day I linger’d
 With the children, and we chatted
 Like old friends. They fain would ask me
 Who I was, and what my business.
“Dear young friends, my native country
 “Is call’d Germany,” I told them:
 “Bears are found there in abundance,
 “And my business is bear-hunting.
“There I’ve torn the skin from many
 “Of their bearish ears, and sometimes
 “Found myself full sorely handled
 “By the paws of Master Bruin.
“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily
 “I was forced to keep on wrangling
 “In my own dear home, and found it
 “Get at length beyond all bearing.
“And accordingly here came I,
 “Some more noble prey desiring,
 “And I fain would try my forces
 “‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.
“He’s a noble adversary,
 “Worthy of me. Ah! I often
 “Have in Germany been victor,
 “When my victory ashamed me.”
When I took my leave, around me
 Danced the pretty little beings
 In a rondo, whilst thus sang they:
 “Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Full of charming impudence
 Stepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,
 Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,
 While with pleasing voice thus sang she:
“When the king I chance to meet with,
 “Then I make him two low curtsies;
 “When the queen I chance to meet with,
 “Then I make her curtsies three.
“But whene’er the devil happens
 “With his horns to come across me,
 “Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—
 “Girofflino, Girofflette!”
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
 Sang the chorus, and with bant’ring
 Round my legs kept gaily whirling
 With their circling dance and sing-song.
Whilst descending to the valley
 That sweet echo still pursued me
 Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping:
 “Girofflino, Girofflette!”

CAPUT XV.

Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,
 All-misshapen and distorted,
 Gaze upon me like fierce monsters
 Turn’d to stone, from times primeval.
Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ring
 High above me, like their double;
 They’re the pallid counterfeit
 Of those wild and stony figures.
In the distance roars the streamlet,
 And the wind howls through the fir-trees;
 ’Tis a noise inexorable,
 And as wretched as despair.
Solitude most terrible!
 Troops of jackdaws black are sitting
 On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,
 Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.
Close beside me goes Lascaro,
 Pale and silent,—I myself, too,
 Looking like incarnate madness,
 With grim death as my companion.
Wild and wretched is the country;
 Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I
 On the roots of yonder stunted
 Tree can marks of blood discover.
It o’ershadoweth a cottage,
 Which is modestly half-hidden
 In the earth; with meek entreaty
 Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee.
They who this poor cot inhabit
 Are Cagots,[31] surviving relics
 Of a race that deep in darkness
 Lives a sad despised existence.
In the hearts of the Biscayans
 Still is rooted fast the loathing
 Of Cagots, dark heritage
 From dark days of superstition.
In Bagnères cathedral even
 Is a narrow grated entrance;
 This, the sacristan inform’d me,
 Was the door Cagots went in at.
Once to them all other ingress
 To the church was interdicted,
 And by stealth they had to enter
 In God’s holy house, like felons.
There, upon a lowly footstool,
 Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there
 All alone,—as though infected,
 Sever’d from the congregation.
But the consecrated tapers
 Of this century flare brightly,
 And their lustre scares the evil
 Shadows of the middle ages!
So outside remained Lascaro,
 Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage
 Enter’d, and my hand extended
 Kindly to my suff’ring brother.
And I also kiss’d his infant,
 Who, close-clinging to the bosom
 Of his wife, suck’d greedily,
 Looking like a sickly spider.

CAPUT XVI.

When thou see’st yon mountain summits
 From a distance, they are gleaming
 As though deck’d with gold and purple,
 Proud and princely in the sunlight.
But when close at hand, this splendour
 Vanishes, and, as in other
 Earthly loveliness and glory,
 ’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.
What to thee seem’d gold and purple
 Is, alas! but common snow,
 Common snow, which, pale and wretched,
 Lives a weary life and lonely.
Just above me heard I plainly
 How the hapless snow was crackling,
 To the heartless cold winds telling
 All the tale of its white sorrows.
“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,
 “In the desert waste the hours!
 “O these hours that seem quite endless,
 “Like eternities hard frozen!
“Hapless snow! O had I only,
 “‘Stead of on these mountain summits,
 “Fallen into yonder valley,
 “Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,
“Then should I have softly melted,
 “And become a brook, whilst fairest
 “Village maidens in my waters
 “Would have washed their smiling faces.
“Yes, perchance I should have floated
 “To the ocean, there becoming
 “Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d
 “To adorn a monarch’s crown!”
When I heard this pretty language,
 Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful
 “Whether such a brilliant future
 “Would have met thee in the valley.
“Comfort take! But few amongst you
 “Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen
 “Probably in some small puddle,
 “And become a piece of dirt!”
Whilst I in this friendly fashion
 With the snow held conversation,
 Came a shot, and from above me
 Fell to earth a tawny vulture.
’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,
 Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features
 Still continued fix’d and solemn,
 His gun-barrel only smoking.
He in silence tore a feather
 From the bird’s tail, and then stuck it
 On the top of his peak’d felt-hat,
 And then hasten’d on as usual.
Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,
 As his shadow with the feather
 On the white snow of the mountain,
 Black and long, was onward moving.

CAPUT XVII.

Like a street there runs a valley,
 Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;
 Rugged cliffs on either side of’t
 Rise to giddy elevation.
On the widest, steepest slope there,
 Peers Uraca’s daring cottage
 Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;
 Thither follow’d I Lascaro.
With his mother held he counsel
 In mysterious signal-language,
 As to how great Atta Troll
 Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d.
For we had explored his traces
 Carefully, and he no longer
 Could escape us. Now are number’d,
 Atta Troll, thy days on earth!
As to whether old Uraca
 Was in truth a mighty witch
 Of distinction, as the people
 In the Pyrenees asserted,
I’ll not venture to determine;
 This much know I, her exterior
 Was suspicious, and suspicious
 Was her red eyes’ constant dripping.
Evil was her look, and squinting,
 And the poor cows (’tis reported)
 Whom she look’d on, in their udders
 Had the milk dried suddenly.
It is even said that many
 Fatted swine and strongest oxen
 She had put to death, by merely
 Stroking with her wither’d hands.
She at times for such offences
 Was exposed to accusations
 To the justice. But the latter
 Was a follower of Voltaire,
Just a modern, shallow worldling,
 Void of faith and penetration,
 And the’ accusers sceptically
 Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.
Publicly Uraca follow’d
 Quite an honest occupation,
 Namely, selling mountain-simples
 And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.
Full her cottage was of suchlike
 Curiosities, and frightful
 Was the smell of fungi in it,
 Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.
There was quite a fine collection
 Of the vulture tribe display’d there,
 With their wings extended fully,
 And their monstrous beaks projecting.
Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mounted
 To my head and stupified me?
 Wondrous feelings stole across me,
 As I gazed upon those birds.
They’re perchance enchanted mortals,
 Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,
 To the wretched stuff’d condition
 Of poor birds have been converted.
Fixedly they gaze upon me,
 Sadly, yet with much impatience;
 Often they appear to throw
 Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.
But the latter, old Uraca,
 Close beside her son Lascaro
 Cowers in the chimney corner,
 Melting lead and casting bullets,—
Bullets that by fate are destined
 To destroy poor Atta Troll.
 How the flames with hasty motion
 Quiver o’er the witch’s features!
She incessantly keeps moving
 Her thin lips, but nothing says she;
 Mutters she the witches’ blessing,
 That the casting be successful?
Oft she chuckles and oft nods she
 To her son, but he continues
 Earnestly his occupation,
 And as silently as Death.
Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,
 To the window went I, seeking
 For fresh air, and then look’d downward
 O’er the valley far below me.
What I saw on that occasion
 ’Tween the hours of twelve and one,
 I will faithfully and neatly
 Tell you in the following chapters.

CAPUT XVIII.

And it was the time of full moon
 On St. John the Baptist’s evening,
 When the wild hunt’s apparition
 Rush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.
From the window of Uraca’s
 Witchlike hut I excellently
 Could observe the spirit-army
 As it sped along the valley.
Capital the place I stood in
 For observing what was passing;
 I enjoy’d a full sight of the
 Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.
Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,
 Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
 Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
 How they joyously re-echoed!
On in front by way of vanguard
 Ran the wondrous game they hunted,
 Stag and sow, in herds enormous,
 With the pack of hounds behind them.
Huntsmen out of every region
 And of every age were gather’d;
 Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,
 For example, rode Charles X—.
High upon their snowy horses
 On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d
 The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
 And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild procession
 Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman
 In the golden glist’ning armour,—
 Was he not the great King Arthur?
And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
 Wore he not his green and glancing
 Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him
 All the’ appearance of a frog?
In the long train also saw I
 Many intellectual heroes;
 There I recognized our Wolfgang,
 By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,
 In his grave he cannot slumber,
 But his earthly love for hunting
 With the heathen throng continues.
By his mouth’s sweet smile I also
 Knew again the worthy William,[32]
 Whom the Puritans had likewise
 Cursed with bitterness; this sinner
Needs must join at night that savage
 Army, on a black steed mounted;
 On an ass, and close beside him
 Rode a man,—and, O good heavens,
By his weary, praying gestures,
 By his pious snow-white nightcap,
 By his grief of soul, I straightway
 Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!
Just for writing commentaries
 On the world-child Shakespear, must he
 After death, poor fellow, with him
 Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,
 Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;
 Who ne’er moved, except when praying,
 Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!
Would not all the aged maidens,
 Long accustomed to caress him,
 Shudder if they came to hear that
 Francis was a savage huntsman!
When he breaks into a gallop,
 The great William with derision
 Looks on his poor commentator
 Who at donkey’s pace goes after,
Helplessly and wildly clinging
 To the pommel of his donkey,
 Yet in death as well as lifetime
 Following faithfully his author.
Many ladies saw I also
 In the spirits’ wild procession,
 Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
 With their slender, youthful figures.
They astraddle sat their horses,
 Mythologically naked;
 Yet their long and curling tresses
 Fell low down, like golden mantles.
Garlands on their heads they carried,
 And with saucy backward-bending
 Supercilious wanton postures
 Leafy wands kept ever swinging.
Hard beside them saw I certain
 Closely-button’d dames on horseback
 On their ladies’ saddles sitting
 With their falcons on their fists.
As in parody behind them
 On their knackers, lanky ponies,
 Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d
 Women, looking like comedians.
Full of beauty were their features,
 But perchance a little bold;
 Madly were they shouting with their
 Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.
How they joyously re-echoed,
 Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
 Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
 Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.

CAPUT XIX.

But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,
 In the midst of the procession
 Figures three I noticed; ne’er I
 Can forget those lovely women.
Easily the first one knew I
 By the crescent on her forehead;
 Like a statue pure, all-proudly
 Onward rode the mighty goddess.
High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,
 Half her breast and hip disclosing;
 Torchlight, moonlight both were playing
 Gaily round her snowy members.
White as marble were her features,
 Cold as marble too; and fearful
 Was the numbness and the paleness
 Of that face, so stern and noble.
Yet within her black eye plainly
 Terribly but sweetly sparkled
 A mysterious, glowing fire,
 Spirit-dazzling and consuming.
O, how alter’d was Diana
 Who, with haughty chastity,
 To a stag once turn’d Acteon,
 And as prey to dogs abandon’d!
Does she expiate this crime now
 Join’d to these gallant companions?
 Like a wretched spectral creature
 Nightly through the air she travels.
Late, indeed, but all the stronger
 She to thoughts of lust awakens,
 And within her eyes ’tis burning,
 Like a very brand of hell.
All the lost time now laments she,
 When mankind were far more handsome
 And by quantity perchance she
 Now makes up for quality.
Close beside her rode a beauty
 Whose fair features were not chisell’d
 In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d
 With the Celtic race’s charms.
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
She at times the head hurls from her
 Through the air, with childish laughter,
 And then catches it again
 Very nimbly, like a plaything.
And as she was riding by me,
 On me look’d she, and she nodded
 So coquettishly and fondly,
 That my inmost heart was shaken.
Three times up and downward moving
 The procession pass’d, and three times
 Did the lovely apparition
 Greet me, as she rode before me.
When the train at last had faded,
 And the tumult was extinguish’d,
 Still that loving salutation
 Glow’d within my inmost brain.
And throughout the livelong night
 I my weary limbs kept tossing
 On the straw (for feather beds
 Were not in Uraca’s cottage),
And methought: What meaning was there
 In that strange, mysterious nodding?
 Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me
 With such tenderness, Herodias?

CAPUT XX.