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! WHO IS HE? _A Reply to Quevedo_. These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_. A Spanish writer once decided, In flippant song, That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did All that went wrong. Nay, that the true mode of unmasking Her wiles would be, On all occasions simply asking-- Pray, who is she? Now, why must woman's petticoats Aye be the blamables? How is't Quevedo never quotes Mankind's unnamables? He rates the sex, and certès for it he Makes a good plea; But can't I, on as good authority, Ask, who is he? Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen Wrought dire mishaps: That Adam and the Trojans fell in Their deep-laid traps. Eve?--why Diabolus beguiled her; You know't, Quevedo! Helen?--that rascal Paris wiled her: That's Homer's _credo_! Trust me, man causes woman's failing; And, on my life, He's always wantonly assailing Maid, widow, wife. Beneath the surface let the gazer Look deep--he'll see Some stronger vessel that betrays her: Just ask--who's he? Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?-- Lubin's love-making: Is her fate scandalous or baleful?-- Lubin's been raking! The school-girl loaths her bread and butter, Pouts o'er her tea, Mumbles her lessons in a flutter-- Ask, who is he?