Somewhere in Italy
A handsome young knight loved
A maiden who had escaped from the world,
[Loved her] despite the cloister’s gate and grille;
He spoke much of his love-agony,
And upon his knees he vowed
To free her from the prison
And always to love her fervently.

"By this image of the Madonna,
By this Christchild,
Who fills her motherly arms,
I swear to you, oh Belinda:
My entire heart is dedicated to you
As long as there is breath in my body;
By the salvation of my soul,
I shall love you unto the grave!"

What all will a maiden not believe,
Particularly when locked in a cell?
Alas, she forgot her duty as a nun,
Forgot heaven and hell;
She, who, watched by the [angels]1
Had dedicated herself to her Jesus,
The pure, beautiful bride of God,
Became a malefactor's victim.

Thereupon, as is the wont of men, his heart
Became lukewarm from that hour onward,
He left the poor creature
Forever to her grief.
He forgot the old tenderness
And all of his vows,
And in a colourful gala raiment
He took himself off to other beauties;

Began to dance with other women
In brightly candle-lit halls,
To other women he proffered flatteries
At noisy wine banquets,
And boasted of his luck in love
To his beautiful nun,
And of every kiss, every glance
And every other pleasure.

The nun, full of Italian rage,
Became enflamed in her spirit,
And thought of nothing but daggers and blood,
And [was immersed in thoughts of pure]1 blood;
She suddenly hired a swarm
Of wild assassins,
To dispatch the man who had become faithless
Into the realm of death.

They sank many a murderous sword
Into his black soul:
His black, false spirit flies forth
Like a sulphurous mist from hell;
His whimpering sounded through the air
Where a claw-footed devil awaited him;
Thereupon his bleeding bones
Were buried in a crypt.

As night fell, the nun fled
To the little village chapel,
And pulled the wounded knight
From out his resting place.
She tore out his knavish heart
[In order to give full vent to her rage,
And trod upon it so that the church
Rang with the sounds of her feet.]3

Her ghost, as the legend goes,
Lurks in this church,
Now wailing, now howling
Until the cocks crow in the village.
As soon as the [clock-hand reaches]4 twelve
She rushes forth from a crypt
Along the wall of gravestones and carries
A bleeding heart in her hands.

Her deep, hollowed eyes spew forth
A dismally red fire
And glow, as sulphurous flames glow,
Through her white veil;
She stares at that torn heart
With a wild revengeful mien,
And lifts it three times toward Heaven
And throws it to the ground;

And she rolls her anger-filled eyes,
Which gaze upon a hell,
And shakes blood out of her veil,
And stomps the heart into pieces.
A [dark]5 deathly glow therewhile
Brightens the windows;
The watchman who guards the town
Has [often seen it in the chapel]6.