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And when their stay in Paris had an end,

He gladly journeyed with this Austrian.

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On Danube’s shores, ’mid wooded hills, a villa

Was smiling welcome to its lord and guest,

But most of all to her—whose name was Stella,

(Her father called her “pulchra me’ puella”)

For whom the servants ready had ein Fest,

Where once encamped the hosts of Attila.

A Florentine among Teutonic scenes,

Led thither by a love, yet unexpressed,

Forgot his sorrows, yea, forgot his bells,

Since nought like love its victim so compels

To full submission to a sweet behest,

The looks and smiles of one still in her teens.

Her beauty was the centre of all scenes,

Her voice the only music of each sound,

Her presence, sole embodiment of bliss,

And heaven itself it would have been, a kiss,

For which the Shibboleth he had not found,

Behind the garden-trees and flow’ry screens.

On horseback did they sometimes ride along

The winding roads, and most in early morn,

While yet the dew was trembling on the blade,