His only daughter, Spidala the fair,
Sat at the pane with beads and rings decked round.
Her face possessed a haunting beauty rare,
But yet her eyes showed wildness without bound.
And so that tender spell she did not weave,
That gently draws and steals the young man's heart;
Her ardent eyes too swiftly could deceive-
To gaze into them risked a burning dart.
"Oh, Spidala," her father sought her leave,
And slowly raised his head in thoughtful art:
"I wish to know an answer still this morn:
Whence come those finest jewels that, preening vain,
You wear your neck and hands thus to adorn?"-
That Spidala then started he saw plain,
The question shocked her that his voice had borne,
Yet in a trice her answer came again:
"Godmother gave to me these jewels to own,
When last into our village she came here;
In golden caskets more I have been shown."
The old man spoke: "Alas my daughter dear,
Such gifts to take I cannot more condone,
And in the future must forbid, I fear."
"She is a witch, and in the people's view,
A fearsome dragon shelters in her care;
She feeds it on the flesh of humans too.
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