The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 27

RIBERA.

Mine? 'T is none of mine; 'T is thine, Maria. John of Austria Desires our presence at his ball to-night.

MARIA.

Prince John?

RIBERA.

Ay, girl, Prince John. I looked to see A haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyes And burn upon thy cheek. But what is this?

Timid and pale, thou droop'st thy head abashed As a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts.

MARIA.

Forgive me. Sure, 't is you Don John desires The prince of artists--

RIBERA.

Art! Prate not of art!

Think'st thou I move an artist 'midst his guests?

As such I commune with a loftier race; Angels and spirits are my ministers.

These do I part aside to grace his halls; A Spanish gentleman--and so, his peer.

MARIA.

Father, I am not well; my head throbs fast, Unwonted languor weighs upon my frame.

RIBERA.

Anger me not, Maria. 'T is my will, Thou shalt obey. h.e.l.l, what these women be!

No obstacle would daunt them in the quest Of that which, freely given, they reject.

Hold! Haply just occasion bids thee seem Unlike thyself. Speak fearlessly child; Confide to me thy knowledge, thy surmise.

MARIA (hurriedly).

No, father, you were right. I have no cause; Punish me--nay, forgive, and I obey.

RIBERA.

There spake my child; kiss me and be forgiven.

Sometimes I doubt thou playest upon my love Willfully, knowing me as soft as clay, Whom the world knows of marble. In such moods, I see my spirit mirror's first, and then From thy large eyes thy sainted mother's soul Unclouded s.h.i.+ne.

MARIA.

Can I be like to her?

I only knew her faded, white, and grave, And so she still floats vaguely through my dreams, With eyes like your own angels', and a brow Worthy an aureole.

RIBERA.

An earthly crown, My princess, might more fitly rest on thine.

Annicca hath her colors, blue-black hair, And pale, brown flesh, and gray, untroubled eyes; Yet thou more often bring'st her to mind, For all the tawny gold of thy thick locks, Thy rare white face, and brilliant Spanish orbs.

Thine is her lisping trick of voice, her laugh, The blithest music still this side of heaven; Thine her free, springing gait, though therewithal A swaying, languid motion all thine own, Recalls Valencia more than Italy.

Like and unlike thou art to her, as still My memory loves to hold her, as she first Beamed like the star of morning on my life.

Hot, faint, and footsore, I had paced since dawn The sun-baked streets of Naples, seeking work, Not alms, despite the beggar that I looked.

Now 't was nigh vespers, and my suit had met With curt refusal, sharp rebuff, and gibes.

Praised be the saints! for every drop of gall In that day's br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup, I have upheld A poisoned beaker to another's lips.

Many a one hath the Ribera taught To fare a vagabond through alien streets; A G.o.d unrecognized 'midst churls and clowns, With kindled soul aflame, and body faint Or lack of bread. Domenichino knows, And Gessi, Guido, Annibal Caracci--

MARIA.

Dear father, calm yourself. You had begun To tell me how you saw my mother first.

RIBERA.

True, I forgot it not. Why, I AM calm; The old man now can well be grave and cold, Or laugh at his own youth's indignities, Past a long lifetime back. 'T was vespers' hour, Or nigh it, when I reached her father's door.

Kind was his greeting, the first cordial words I heard in Naples; but I took small heed Of speech or toe, for all my sense was rapt In wonder at the angel by his side Who smiled upon me. Large, clear eyes that held The very soul of sunlight in their depths; Low, pure, pale brow, with ma.s.ses of black hair Flung loosely back, and rippling unconfined In shadowy magnificence below The slim gold girdle o'er the snow-soft gown.

Vested and draped about her throat and waist and wrists, A stately lily ere the dew of morn Hath pa.s.sed away--such was thy mother, child.

MARIA.

Would I were like her! But what said she, father?

How did she plead for you?

RIBERA.

Ah, cunning child, I see thy tricks; thou humorest my age, Knowing how much I love to tell this tale, Though thou hast heard it half a hundred times.

MARIA.

I find it sweet to hear as you to tell, Believe me, father.

RIBERA.

'T was to pleasure her, Signor Cortese gave me all I lacked To prove my unfamed skill. A savage pride, Matched oddly with my rags, the haughtiness Wherewith I claimed rather than begged my tools, And my quaint aspect, oft she told me since, Won at a glance her faith. Before I left, She guessed my need, and served me meat and wine With her own flower-white hands. The parting grace I craved was granted, that my work might be The portrait of herself. Thou knowest the rest.

MARIA.

Why did she leave us, father? Oh, how oft I yearn to see her face, to hear her voice, Hushed in an endless silence! Strange that she, Whose rich love beggared our return, should bear Such separation! Though engirdled now By heavenly hosts of saints and seraphim, I cannot fancy it. What! shall her child, Whose lightest sigh reechoed in her heart, Have need of her and cry to her in vain?

RIBERA.

Now, for G.o.d's sake, Maria, speak not thus; Let me not see such tears upon thy cheek.

Not unto us it has been given to guess The peace of disembodied souls like hers.

The vanis.h.i.+ng glimpses that my fancies catch Through heaven's half-opened gates, exalt even me, Poor sinner that I am. And what are these, The painted shadows that make all my life A glory, to the splendor of that light?

For thee, my child, has not my doting love Sufficed, at least in part, to fill the breach Of that tremendous void? What dost thou lack?

What help, what counsel, what most dear caress?

What dost thou covet? What least whim remains Ungratified, because not yet expressed?