Were an apple tree a pine,
Tall and slim, and softly swaying,
Then her beauty were like thine,
Salmacis, when boune a Maying,
Tall as any poplar tree,
Sweet as apple blossoms be!
Had the Amazonian Queen
Seen thee‘ midst thy maiden peers,
Thou the Coronel hadst been
Of that lady's Grenadiers;
Troy had never mourned her fall,
With thine axe to guard her wall.
As Penthesilea brave
Is the maiden ( in her dreams );
Ilium she well might save,
Though Achilles’ armour gleams,
‘ Midst the Greeks; all vain it is,
‘ Gainst the glance of Salmacis!