So the White Czar imperial progress made Through terror-haunted days. A shock, a cry Whose echoes ring the globe—the spectre's laid. Hurled o'er the abyss, see the crowned martyr lie Resting in peace—fear, change, and death gone by. Fit end for nightmare—mist of blood and tears, Red climax to the slow, abortive years.

The world draws breath—one long, deep-shuddering sigh, At that which dullest brain prefigured clear As swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky. How heaven-anointed humblest lots appear Beside his glittering eminence of fear; His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates, His golden palace honey-combed with hates.

Well is it done! A most heroic plan, Which after myriad plots succeeds at last In robbing of his life this poor old man, Whose sole offense—his birthright—has but passed To fresher blood, with younger strength recast. What men are these, who, clamoring to be free, Would bestialize the world to what they be?

Whose sons are they who made the snow-wreathed head Their frenzy's target? In their Russian veins, What alien current urged on to smite him dead, Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains? What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains, So royally endured, no human thrill Awoke, in hearts drunk with the lust to kill?

Not brutes! No tiger of the wilderness, No jackal of the jungle, bears such brand As man's black heart, who shrinks not to confess The desperate deed of his deliberate hand. Our kind, our kin, have done this thing. We stand Bowed earthward, red with shame, to see such wrong Prorogue Love's cause and Truth's—God knows how long!



DON RAFAEL.

"I would not have," he said, "Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave, Grief's hideous panoply I would not have Round me when I am dead.

"Music and flowers and light, And choric dances to guitar and flute, Be these around me when my lips are mute, Mine eyes are sealed from sight.

"So let me lie one day, One long, eternal day, in sunshine bathed, In cerements of silken tissue swathed, Smothered 'neath flowers of May.

"One perfect day of peace, Or ere clean flame consume my fleshly veil, My life—a gilded vapor—shall exhale, Brief as a sigh—and cease.

"But ere the torch be laid To my unshrinking limbs by some true hand, Athwart the orange-fragrant laughing land, Bring many a dark-eyed maid

"From the bright, sea-kissed town; My beautiful, beloved enemies, Gemmed as the dew, voluptuous as the breeze, Each in her festal gown.

"All those through whom I learned The sweet of folly and the pains of love, My Rose, my Star, my Comforter, my Dove, For whom, poor moth, I burned.

"Loves of a day, and hour, Or passions (vowed eternal) of a year, Though each be strange to each, to me all dear As to the bee the flower.

"Around me they shall move In languid contra dances, and shall shed Their smiling eyebeams as I were not dead, But quick to flash back love.

"Something not alien quite To tender ruth, perchance their breast shall fill, Seeing him that was so mobile grown so still, The fiery-veined so white.

"And when the dance is o'er, The pinched guitar, the smitten tambourine, Have ceased their rhythmic beat,—oh, friends of mine, On my rich bier, then pour

"The garlands that ye wear, The happy rose that on your bosom breathes, The fresh-culled clusters and the dewy wreaths That crown your fragrant hair.

"Though blind, I still shall see, Though dead, shall feel your presence and shall know, I who was beauty's life-long slave, shall so Win her in death to me.

"Thanks, sisters, and farewell! Back to your joys. My brother shall make room For my tried sword upon the high-piled bloom, And fire the pinnacle.

"My soul, pure flame, shall leap To meet its parent essence once again My body dust and ashes shall remain, Tired heart and brain shall sleep.

"Life has one gate alone, Obscure, beset with peril and fierce pain. Large death has many portals to his fane, Why choose we to make moan?

"Why dwell with worms and clay When we may soar through air on wings of flame, Dissolve to small, white dust our perfect frame, And never know decay?

"A brother's pious hand The pure, fire-winnowed ashes shall inurn, And lay them in the orange grove where burn Globed suns that scent the land.

"The leaf shall be more green, Even for my dust—more snowy-soft the flower, More juicy-sweet the fruit's live pulp—the bower Richer that I have been.

"For I would not," he said, "Tears and the black pall and the wormy grave, Grief's hideous panoply I would not have Round me when I am dead."



OFF ROUGH POINT.

We sat at twilight nigh the sea, The fog hung gray and weird. Through the thick film uncannily The broken moon appeared.

We heard the billows crack and plunge, We saw nor waves nor ships. Earth sucked the vapors like a sponge, The salt spray wet our lips.

Closer the woof of white mist drew, Before, behind, beside. How could that phantom moon break through, Above that shrouded tide?

The roaring waters filled the ear, A white blank foiled the sight. Close-gathering shadows near, more near, Brought the blind, awful night.

O friends who passed unseen, unknown! O dashing, troubled sea! Still stand we on a rock alone, Walled round by mystery.



MATER AMABILIS.

Down the goldenest of streams, Tide of dreams, The fair cradled man-child drifts; Sways with cadenced motion slow, To and fro, As the mother-foot poised lightly, falls and lifts.

He, the firstling,—he, the light Of her sight,— He, the breathing pledge of love, 'Neath the holy passion lies, Of her eyes,— Smiles to feel the warm, life-giving ray above.

She believes that in his vision, Skies elysian O'er an angel-people shine. Back to gardens of delight, Taking flight, His auroral spirit basks in dreams divine.

But she smiles through anxious tears; Unborn years Pressing forward, she perceives. Shadowy muffled shapes, they come Deaf and dumb, Bringing what? dry chaff and tares, or full-eared sheaves?

What for him shall she invoke? Shall the oak Bind the man's triumphant brow? Shall his daring foot alight On the height? Shall he dwell amidst the humble and the low?

Through what tears and sweat and pain, Must he gain Fruitage from the tree of life? Shall it yield him bitter flavor? Shall its savor Be as manna midst the turmoil and the strife?

In his cradle slept and smiled Thus the child Who as Prince of Peace was hailed. Thus anigh the mother breast, Lulled to rest, Child-Napoleon down the lilied river sailed.

Crowned or crucified—the same Glows the flame Of her deathless love divine. Still the blessed mother stands, In all lands, As she watched beside thy cradle and by mine.

Whatso gifts the years bestow, Still men know, While she breathes, lives one who sees (Stand they pure or sin-defiled) But the child Whom she crooned to sleep and rocked upon her knee.



FOG.

Light silken curtain, colorless and soft, Dreamlike before me floating! what abides Behind thy pearly veil's Opaque, mysterious woof?

Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-long Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads, Nigh me I still can mark Cool fields of beaded grass.

No more; for on the rim of the globed world I seem to stand and stare at nothingness. But songs of unseen birds And tranquil roll of waves

Bring sweet assurance of continuous life Beyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams, Of tissue subtler still Than the wreathed fog, arise,

And cheat my brain with airy vanishings And mystic glories of the world beyond. A whole enchanted town Thy baffling folds conceal—

An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques, Turret from turret springing, dome from dome, Fretted with burning stones, And trellised with red gold.

Through spacious streets, where running waters flow, Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the broad-leaved palm, Past the gay-decked bazaars, Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues, While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares. The sultry air is spiced With fragrance of rich gums,

And through the lattice high in yon dead wall, See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face, Flushed like a musky peach, Peers down upon the mart!

From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head She hath cast back the milk-white silken veil: 'Midst the blank blackness there She blossoms like a rose.

Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes, And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam? Behold her smile on me With honeyed, scarlet lips!

Divine Scheherazade! I am thine. I come! I come!—Hark! from some far-off mosque The shrill muezzin calls The hour of silent prayer,

And from the lattice he hath scared my love. The lattice vanisheth itself—the street, The mart, the Orient town; Only through still, soft air

That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hear The distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyes Stands the white wall of mist, Blending with vaporous skies.

Elusive gossamer, impervious Even to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts! With what a jealous art Thy secret thou dost guard!

Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds, Within an opal hollow, there abides The lady of the mist, The Undine of the air—

A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form, Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair, In waving raiment swathed Of changing, irised hues.

Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazed The freshened grass, a richer emerald glows: Into each flower-cup Her cool dews she distills.

She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks, She knows the green soft hollows of their sides, And unafraid she floats O'er the vast-circled seas.

She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams, Lying, night-long upon the moist, dark earth, And leave her seeded pearls With morning on the grass.

Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courts Of her fantastic palace I might pass, And reach the inmost shrine Of her chaste solitude,

And feel her cool and dewy fingers press My mortal-fevered brow, while in my heart She poured with tender love Her healing Lethe-balm!

See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves! Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streams Upon a newborn world And laughing summer seas.

Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glance Through crystal air. On the horizon's marge, Like a huge purple wraith, The dusky fog retreats.



THE ELIXIR.

"Oh brew me a potion strong and good! One golden drop in his wine Shall charm his sense and fire his blood, And bend his will to mine."

Poor child of passion! ask of me Elixir of death or sleep, Or Lethe's stream; but love is free, And woman must wait and weep.



SONG.

Venus.

Frosty lies the winter-landscape, In the twilight golden-green. Down the Park's deserted alleys, Naked elms stand stark and lean.

Dumb the murmur of the fountain, Birds have flown from lawn and hill. But while yonder star's ascendant, Love triumphal reigneth still.

See the keen flame throb and tremble, Brightening in the darkening night, Breathing like a thing of passion, In the sky's smooth chrysolite.

Not beneath the moon, oh lover, Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire. Speak to-night! The gods are with thee Burning with a kindred fire.



SPRING LONGING.

What art thou doing here, O Imagination? Go away I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fashion. I am not angry with thee—only go away. —Marcus Antoninus

Lilac hazes veil the skies. Languid sighs Breathes the mild, caressing air. Pink as coral's branching sprays, Orchard ways With the blossomed peach are fair.

Sunshine, cordial as a kiss, Poureth bliss In this craving soul of mine, And my heart her flower-cup Lifteth up, Thirsting for the draught divine.

Swift the liquid golden flame Through my frame Sets my throbbing veins afire. Bright, alluring dreams arise, Brim mine eyes With the tears of strong desire.

All familiar scenes anear Disappear— Homestead, orchard, field, and wold. Moorish spires and turrets fair Cleave the air, Arabesqued on skies of gold.

Low, my spirit, this May morn, Outward borne, Over seas hath taken wing: Where the mediaeval town, Like a crown, Wears the garland of the Spring.

Light and sound and odors sweet Fill the street; Gypsy girls are selling flowers. Lean hidalgos turn aside, Amorous-eyed, 'Neath the grim cathedral towers.

Oh, to be in Spain to-day, Where the May Recks no whit of good or evil, Love and only love breathes she! Oh, to be 'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!

Or on such a day to glide With the tide Of the berylline lagoon, Through the streets that mirror heaven, Crystal paven, In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier May not hear, May not see our furtive kiss; But he lends with cadenced strain The refrain To our ripe and silent bliss.

Golden shadows, silver light, Burnish bright Air and water, domes and skies; As in some ambrosial dream, On the stream Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so! Naught to know Of the trouble, toil, and fret! This is love, and this is May: Yesterday And to-morrow to forget!

Whither hast thou, Fancy free, Guided me, Wild Bohemian sister dear? All thy gypsy soul is stirred Since yon bird Warbled that the Spring was here.

Tempt no more! I may not follow, Like the swallow, Gayly on the track of Spring. Bounden by an iron fate, I must wait, Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.



THE SOUTH.

Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies Behold the Spirit of the musky South, A creole with still-burning, languid eyes, Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth: Swathed in spun gauze is she, From fibres of her own anana tree.

Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease, By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed: 'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees, Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest, Her airy hammock swings, And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.

How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair: Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death, Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air, While movelessly she lies With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.

Full well knows she how wide and fair extend Her groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades, Majestic streams that indolently wend Through lush savanna or dense forest shades, Where the brown buzzard flies To broad bayou 'neath hazy-golden skies.

Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp, With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom, Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp, Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom— Where from stale waters dead Oft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.

Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,— Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods, Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees; And ever midst those verdant solitudes The soldier's wooden cross, O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.

Was her a dream of empire? was it sin? And is it well that all was borne in vain? She knows no more than one who slow doth win, After fierce fever, conscious life again, Too tired, too weak, too sad, By the new light to be stirred or glad.

From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore, From broad plantations where swart freemen bend Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend Life-currents of pure health: Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.

Yet now how listless and how still she lies, Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen, Rocked in her hammock 'neath her native skies, With the pathetic, passive, broken mien Of one who, sorely proved, Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!

But look! along the wide-branched, dewy glade Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto-trees And cypresses reissue from the shade, And SHE hath wakened. Through clear air she sees The pledge, the brightening ray, And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.



SPRING STAR.

I.

Over the lamp-lit street, Trodden by hurrying feet, Where mostly pulse and beat Life's throbbing veins, See where the April star, Blue-bright as sapphires are, Hangs in deep heavens far, Waxes and wanes.

Strangely alive it seems, Darting keen, dazzling gleams, Veiling anon its beams, Large, clear, and pure. In the broad western sky No orb may shine anigh, No lesser radiancy May there endure.

Spring airs are blowing sweet: Low in the dusky street Star-beams and eye-beams meet. Rapt in his dreams, All through the crowded mart Poet with swift-stirred heart, Passing beneath, must start, Thrilled by those gleams.

Naught doth he note anear, Fain through Night's veil to peer, Reach that resplendent sphere, Reading her sign. Where point those sharp, thin rays, Guiding his weary maze, Blesseth she or betrays, Who may divine?

"Guard me, celestial light, Lofty, serenely bright: Lead my halt feet aright," Prayerful he speaks. "For a new ray hath shone Over my spirit lone. Be this new soul the one whom my soul seeks."



II.

Beside her casement oped the maiden sits, Where the mild evening spirit of the Spring Gently between the city's homesteads flits To kiss her brows, and floats on languid wing, Vague longings in her breast awakening. While her heart trembles 'neath those dim, deep skies, As the quick sea that 'neath the globed moon lies.

Where her eyes rest the full-orbed evening star Burns with white flame: it beckons, shrinks, dilates. She, dazzled by that shining world afar, May not withdraw her gaze: breathless she waits. Some promised joy from Heaven's very gates Unto her soul seems proffered. When shall be The bright fulfilment of that star's decree?

Nor glad nor sad is she: she doth not know That through the city's throng one threads his way, Thrilled likewise by that planet's mystic glow, And hastes to seek her. What sweet change shall sway Her spirit at his coming? What new ray Upon his shadowy life from her shall fall? The silent star burns on, and knoweth all.



A JUNE NIGHT.

Ten o'clock: the broken moon Hangs not yet a half hour high, Yellow as a shield of brass, In the dewy air of June, Poised between the vaulted sky And the ocean's liquid glass.

Earth lies in the shadow still; Low black bushes, trees, and lawn Night's ambrosial dews absorb; Through the foliage creeps a thrill, Whispering of yon spectral dawn And the hidden climbing orb.

Higher, higher, gathering light, Veiling with a golden gauze All the trembling atmosphere, See, the rayless disk grows white! Hark, the glittering billows pause!

Faint, far sounds possess the ear.

Elves on such a night as this Spin their rings upon the grass; On the beach the water-fay Greets her lover with a kiss; Through the air swift spirits pass, Laugh, caress, and float away.

Shut thy lids and thou shalt see Angel faces wreathed with light, Mystic forms long vanished hence. Ah, too fine, too rare, they be For the grosser mortal sight, And they foil our waking sense.

Yet we feel them floating near, Know that we are not alone, Though our open eyes behold Nothing save the moon's bright sphere, In the vacant heavens shown, And the ocean's path of gold.



MAGNETISM.

By the impulse of my will, By the red flame in my blood, By me nerves' electric thrill, By the passion of my mood, My concentrated desire, My undying, desperate love, I ignore Fate, I defy her, Iron-hearted Death I move. When the town lies numb with sleep, Here, round-eyed I sit; my breath Quickly stirred, my flesh a-creep, And I force the gates of death. I nor move nor speak—you'd deem From my quiet face and hands, I were tranced—but in her dream, SHE responds, she understands. I have power on what is not, Or on what has ceased to be, From that deep, earth-hollowed spot, I can lift her up to me. And, or ere I am aware Through the closed and curtained door, Comes my lady white and fair, And embraces me once more. Though the clay clings to her gown, Yet all heaven is in her eyes; Cool, kind fingers press mine eyes, To my soul her soul replies. But when breaks the common dawn, And the city wakes—behold! My shy phantom is withdrawn, And I shiver lone and cold. And I know when she has left, She is stronger far than I, And more subtly spun her weft, Than my human wizardry. Though I force her to my will, By the red flame in my blood, By my nerves' electric thrill, By the passion of my mood, Yet all day a ghost am I. Nerves unstrung, spent will, dull brain. I achieve, attain, but die, And she claims me hers again.



AUGUST MOON.

Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high, In the glowing August sky, Quenching all her neighbor stars, Save the steady flame of Mars. White as silver shines the sea, Far-off sails like phantoms be, Gliding o'er that lake of light, Vanishing in nether night. Heavy hangs the tasseled corn, Sighing for the cordial morn; But the marshy-meadows bare, Love this spectral-lighted air, Drink the dews and lift their song, Chirp of crickets all night long; Earth and sea enchanted lie 'Neath that moon-usurped sky.

To the faces of our friends Unfamiliar traits she lends— Quaint, white witch, who looketh down With a glamour all her own. Hushed are laughter, jest, and speech, Mute and heedless each of each, In the glory wan we sit, Visions vague before us flit; Side by side, yet worlds apart, Heart becometh strange to heart.

Slowly in a moved voice, then, Ralph, the artist spake again— "Does not that weird orb unroll Scenes phantasmal to your soul? As I gaze thereon, I swear, Peopled grows the vacant air, Fables, myths alone are real, White-clad sylph-like figures steal 'Twixt the bushes, o'er the lawn, Goddess, nymph, undine, and faun. Yonder, see the Willis dance, Faces pale with stony glance; They are maids who died unwed, And they quit their gloomy bed, Hungry still for human pleasure, Here to trip a moonlit measure. Near the shore the mermaids play, Floating on the cool, white spray, Leaping from the glittering surf To the dark and fragrant turf, Where the frolic trolls, and elves Daintily disport themselves. All the shapes by poet's brain, Fashioned, live for me again, In this spiritual light, Less than day, yet more than night. What a world! a waking dream, All things other than they seem, Borrowing a finer grace, From yon golden globe in space; Touched with wild, romantic glory, Foliage fresh and billows hoary, Hollows bathed in yellow haze, Hills distinct and fields of maize, Ancient legends come to mind. Who would marvel should he find, In the copse or nigh the spring, Summer fairies gamboling Where the honey-bees do suck, Mab and Ariel and Puck? Ah! no modern mortal sees Creatures delicate as these. All the simple faith has gone Which their world was builded on. Now the moonbeams coldly glance On no gardens of romance; To prosaic senses dull, Baldur's dead, the Beautiful, Hark, the cry rings overhead, 'Universal Pan is dead!'" "Requiescant!" Claude's grave tone Thrilled us strangely. "I am one Who would not restore that Past, Beauty will immortal last, Though the beautiful must die— This the ages verify. And had Pan deserved the name Which his votaries misclaim, He were living with us yet. I behold, without regret, Beauty in new forms recast, Truth emerging from the vast, Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere, Making the obscure air clear. He shall be of bards the king, Who, in worthy verse, shall sing All the conquests of the hour, Stealing no fictitious power From the classic types outworn, But his rhythmic line adorn With the marvels of the real. He the baseless feud shall heal That estrangeth wide apart Science from her sister Art. Hold! look through this glass for me? Artist, tell me what you see?" "I!" cried Ralph. "I see in place Of Astarte's silver face, Or veiled Isis' radiant robe, Nothing but a rugged globe Seamed with awful rents and scars. And below no longer Mars, Fierce, flame-crested god of war, But a lurid, flickering star, Fashioned like our mother earth, Vexed, belike, with death and birth."

Rapt in dreamy thought the while, With a sphinx-like shadowy smile, Poet Florio sat, but now Spake in deep-voiced accents slow, More as one who probes his mind, Than for us—"Who seeks, shall find— Widening knowledge surely brings Vaster themes to him who sings. Was veiled Isis more sublime Than yon frozen fruit of Time, Hanging in the naked sky? Death's domain—for worlds too die. Lo! the heavens like a scroll Stand revealed before my soul; And the hieroglyphs are suns— Changeless change the law that runs Through the flame-inscribed page, World on world and age on age, Balls of ice and orbs of fire, What abides when these expire? Through slow cycles they revolve, Yet at last like clouds dissolve. Jove, Osiris, Brahma pass, Races wither like the grass. Must not mortals be as gods To embrace such periods? Yet at Nature's heart remains One who waxes not nor wanes. And our crowning glory still Is to have conceived his will."



SUNRISE.

September 26, 1881.

Weep for the martyr! Strew his bier With the last roses of the year; Shadow the land with sables; knell The harsh-tongued, melancholy bell; Beat the dull muffled drum, and flaunt The drooping banner; let the chant Of the deep-throated organ sob— One voice, one sorrow, one heart-throb, From land to land, from sea to sea— The huge world quires his elegy. Tears, love, and honor he shall have, Through ages keeping green his grave. Too late approved, too early lost, His story is the people's boast. Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil, Of peasant lineage, reared to toil, In Europe he had been a thing To the glebe tethered—here a king! Crowned not for some transcendent gift, Genius of power that may lift A Caesar or a Bonaparte Up to the starred goal of his heart; But that he was the epitome Of all the people aim to be. Were they his dying trust? He was No less their model and their glass. In him the daily traits were viewed Of the undistinguished multitude. Brave as the silent myriads are, Crushed by the juggernaut world-car; Strong with the people's strength, yet mild, Simple and tender as a child; Wise with the wisdom of the heart, Able in council, field, and mart; Nor lacking in the lambent gleam, The great soul's final stamp—the beam Of genial fun, the humor sane Wherewith the hero sports with pain. His virtues hold within the span Of his obscurest fellow-man. To live without reproach, to die Without a fear—in these words lie His highest aims, for none too high. No triumph his beyond the reach Of patient courage, kindly speech; And yet so brave the soul outbreathed, The great example he bequeathed, Were all to follow, we should see A universal chivalry.

His trust, the People! They respond From Maine to Florida, beyond The sea-walled continent's broad scope, Honor his pledge, confirm his hope. Hark! over seas the echo hence, The nations do him reverence. An Empress lays her votive wreath Where peoples weep with bated breath. The world-clock strikes a fateful hour, Bright with fair portents, big with power,— The first since history's course has run, When kings' and peoples' cause is one; Those mourn a brother—these a son!

O how he loved them! That gray morn, When his wound-wasted form was borne North, from the White House to the sea, Lifting his tired lids thankfully, "How good," he murmured in his pain, "To see the people once again!" Oh, how they loved him! They stood there, Thronging the road, the street, the square, With hushed lips locked in silent prayer, Uncovered heads and streaming eyes, Breathless as when a father dies. The records of the ghostly ride, Past town and field at morning-tide.

When life's full stream is wont to gush Through all its ways with boisterous rush, —The records note that once a hound Had barked, and once was heard the sound Of cart-wheels rumbling on the stones— And once, mid stifled sobs and groans, One man dared audibly lament, And cried, "God bless the president!" Always the waiting crowds to send A God-speed to his journey's end— The anxious whisper, brow of gloom, As in a sickness-sacred room, Till his ear drank with ecstasy The rhythmic thunders of the sea.

Tears for the smitten fatherless, The wife's, the mother's life-distress, To whom the million-throated moan From throne and hut, may not atone For one hushed voice, one empty chair, One presence missing everywhere. But only words of joy and sheer, The people from his grave shall hear. Were they not worthy of his trust, From whose seed sprang the sacred dust? He broke the bars that separate The humble from the high estate. And heirs of empire round his bed Mourn with the "disinherited."

Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds, Whose martyrdom even his exceeds, Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstood— Oh, all-enduring multitude, Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice! There issues from this grave a voice, Proclaiming your long night is o'er, Your day-dawn breaks from shore to shore. You have redeemed his pledge, remained Secure, erect, and self-sustained, Holding more dear one thing alone, Even than the blood of dearest son, Revering with religious awe The inviolable might of Law.



A MASQUE OF VENICE.

(A Dream.)

Not a stain, In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky— Not a ripple on the black translucent lane Of the palace-walled lagoon. Not a cry As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by, Through the golden afternoon.

From this height Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o'erjuts Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light Shimmer soft beneath the bridge, That abuts On a labyrinth of water-ways and shuts Half their sky off with its ridge.

We shall mark All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours, Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark To their music as they fare. Scent their flowers Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers Through the laughter-ringing air.

See! they come, Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans, With the mandoline, viol, and the drum, Gems afire on arms ungloved, Fluttering fans, Floating mantles like a great moth's streaky vans Such as Veronese loved.

But behold In their midst a white unruffled swan appear. One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold, White its tasseled, silver prow. Who is here? Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear, Clad in glittering silken snow?

Cheek and chin Where the mask's edge stops are of the hoar-frosts hue, And no eyebeams seem to sparkle from within Where the hollow rings have place. Yon gay crew Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue. 'T is our sport to watch the race.

At his side Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance, From her forehead, shines the splendor of a bride, And her feet seem shod with wings, To entrance, For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance, Like Salome at the King's.

'T is his aim Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast, Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game. Ah, she fears him overmuch! Is it jest,— Is it earnest? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed In her horror of his touch.

For each time That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray From the glory of her beauty in its prime; And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance Is no play 'Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay— But the whirl of fate and chance.

Where the tide Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea, There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride. Hark, one helpless, stifled scream! Must it be? Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye? Was all Venice such a dream?



AUTUMN SADNESS.

Air and sky are swathed in gold Fold on fold, Light glows through the trees like wine. Earth, sun-quickened, swoons for bliss 'Neath his kiss, Breathless in a trance divine.

Nature pauses from her task, Just to bask In these lull'd transfigured hours. The green leaf nor stays nor goes, But it grows Royaler than mid-June's flowers.

Such impassioned silence fills All the hills Burning with unflickering fire— Such a blood-red splendor stains The leaves' veins, Life seems one fulfilled desire.

While earth, sea, and heavens shine, Heart of mine, Say, what art thou waiting for? Shall the cup ne'er reach the lip, But still slip Till the life-long thirst give o'er?

Shall my soul, no frosts may tame, Catch new flame From the incandescent air? In this nuptial joy apart, Oh my heart, Whither shall we lonely fare?

Seek some dusky, twilight spot, Quite forgot Of the Autumn's Bacchic fire. Where soft mists and shadows sleep, There outweep Barren longing's vain desire.



SONNETS.

ECHOES.

Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope, The freshness of the elder lays, the might Of manly, modern passion shall alight Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope (Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope) With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight; Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope. But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave O'erbrowed by hard rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard, Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave, Lending elf-music to thy harshest word, Misprize thou not these echoes that belong To one in love with solitude and song.



SUCCESS.

Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain, The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng. These I ignore to-day and only long To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain, One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song, For all the victories of man's high endeavor, Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever, The splendor clothing him whose will is strong. Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice! On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun. Salute him with free heart and choral voice, 'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan, The bold, significant, successful man.



THE NEW COLOSSUS.*

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to be free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

*Written in aid of the Bartholdi Pedestal Fund, 1883.



VENUS OF THE LOUVRE.

Down the long hall she glistens like a star, The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. When first the enthralled enchantress from afar Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone, Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne, As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,— But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. Here Heine wept! Here still we weeps anew, Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.



CHOPIN.

I.

A dream of interlinking hands, of feet Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof, Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet, Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof. Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snow Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms. Hark to the music! How beneath the strain Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs One fundamental chord of constant pain, The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs. So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice, The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.



II.

Who shall proclaim the golden fable false Of Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strain Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz, The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song Of love and languor, varied visions rise, That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes. The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long, The seraph-souled musician, breathes again Eternal eloquence, immortal pain. Revived the exalted face we know so well, The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame, Slowly consuming with its inward flame, We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.



III.

A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine As the sad spirit of the evening breeze, Throbbing with human passion, yet divine As the wild bird's untutored melodies. A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim, Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall The wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for him Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call Of the first robin on the first spring day. A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart, Who, still misprized, must perish by the way, Longing with love, for that they lack the art Of their own soul's expression. For all these Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.



IV.

Then Nature shaped a poet's heart—a lyre From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire. How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl Of seething passions; he is scourged and stung, Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung. No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be, An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes, Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly-wise, Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony. Rich gain for us! But with him is it well? The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!



SYMPHONIC STUDIES.

(After Robert Schumann.)

Prelude.

Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea: Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony With the wild, restless tone of air and sky. Shall we not call him Prospero who held In his enchanted hands the fateful key Of that tempestuous hour's mystery, And with him to wander by a sun-bright shore, To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly With disembodied Ariel once more Above earth's wrack and ruin? Far and nigh The laughter of the thunder echoed loud, And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.



I.

Floating upon a swelling wave of sound, We seemed to overlook an endless sea: Poised 'twixt clear heavens and glittering surf were we. We drank the air in flight: we knew no bound To the audacious ventures of desire. Nigh us the sun was dropping, drowned in gold; Deep, deep below the burning billows rolled; And all the sea sang like a smitten lyre. Oh, the wild voices of those chanting waves! The human faces glimpsed beneath the tide! Familiar eyes gazed from profound sea-caves, And we, exalted, were as we had died. We knew the sea was Life, the harmonious cry The blended discords of humanity.



II.

Look deeper yet: mark 'midst the wave-blurred mass, In lines distinct, in colors clear defined, The typic groups and figures of mankind. Behold within the cool and liquid glass Bright child-folk sporting with smooth yellow shells, Astride of dolphins, leaping up to kiss Fair mother-faces. From the vast abyss How joyously their thought-free laughter wells! Lulled by the overwhelming water's sound, And some make mouths at dragons, undismayed. Oh dauntless innocence! The gulfs profound Reecho strangely with their ringing glee, And with wise mermaids' plaintive melody.



III.

What do the sea-nymphs in that coral cave? With wondering eyes their supple forms they bend O'er something rarely beautiful. They lend Their lithe white arms, and through the golden wave They lift it tenderly. Oh blinding sight! A naked, radiant goddess tranced in sleep, Full-limbed, voluptuous, 'neath the mantling sweep Of auburn locks that kiss her ankles white! Upward they bear her, chanting low and sweet: The clinging waters part before their way, Jewels of flame are dancing 'neath their feet. Up in the sunshine, in soft foam, they lay Their precious burden, and return forlorn. Oh, bliss! oh, anguish! Mortals, LOVE is born!



IV.

Hark! from unfathomable deeps a dirge Swells sobbing through the melancholy air: Where Love has entered, Death is also there. The wail outrings the chafed, tumultuous surge; Ocean and earth, the illimitable skies, Prolong one note, a mourning for the dead, The cry of souls not to be comforted. What piercing music! Funeral visions rise, And send the hot tears raining down our cheek. We see the silent grave upon the hill With its lone lilac-bush. O heart, be still! She will not rise, she will not stir nor speak. Surely, the unreturning dead are blest. Ring on, sweet dirge, and knell us to our rest!



V.

Upon the silver beach the undines dance With interlinking arms and flying hair; Like polished marble gleam their limbs left bare; Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance. Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet Print not the moist floor where they trip their round: Affrighted they will scatter at a sound, Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nimbly fleet, And we shall doubt that we have ever seen, While our sane eyes behold stray wreaths of mist, Shot with faint colors by the moon-rays kissed, Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had been. Already, look! the wave-washed sands are bare, And mocking laughter ripples through the air.



Epilogue.

Forth in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped, Sweet with the dripping grass and flowering vine, And saw through irised clouds the pale sun shine. Back o'er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept Like a transparent curtain's slivery sheen; And fronting us the painted bow was arched, Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched: In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue. Our hearts o'erflowed with peace. With smiles we spake Of partings in the past, of courage new, Of high achievement, of the dreams that make A wonder and a glory of our days, And all life's music but a hymn of praise.



LONG ISLAND SOUND.

I see it as it looked one afternoon In August,—by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown. The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon, A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon. The shining waters with pale currents strewn, The quiet fishing smacks, the Eastern cove, The semi-circle of its dark, green grove. The luminous grasses, and the merry sun In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide, Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide, Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon. All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.



DESTINY.

1856.

Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass, Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells, And martial strains, the full-voiced paean swells. The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass, In holiday confusion, class with class, And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm! In the Imperial palace that March morn, The beautiful young mother lay and smiled; For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child, Heir to an empire, to the purple born, Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart Like a blown clarion—one more Bonaparte.

1879.

Born to the purple, lying stark and dead, Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun Of brazen Africa! Thy grave is one, Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world, Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled. Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own, Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son. Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head, And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.



FROM ONE AUGUR TO ANOTHER.

So, Calchas, on the sacred Palatine, Thou thought of Mopsus, and o'er wastes of sea A flower brought your message. I divine (Through my deep art) the kindly mockery That played about your lips and in your eyes, Plucking the frail leaf, while you dreamed of home. Thanks for the silent greeting! I shall prize, Beyond June's rose, the scentless flower of Rome. All the Campagna spreads before my sight, The mouldering wall, the Caesars' tombs unwreathed, Rome and the Tiber, and the yellow light, Wherein the honey-colored blossom breathed. But most I thank it—egoists that we be! For proving then and there you thought of me.



THE CRANES OF IBYCUS.

There was a man who watched the river flow Past the huge town, one gray November day. Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play The boys made merry as they saw him go, Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream, The immortal screed he held within his hand. For he was walking in an April land With Faust and Helen. Shadowy as a dream Was the prose-world, the river and the town. Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down. He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes, Lo—a black line of birds in wavering thread Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!



CRITIC AND POET.

An Apologue.

("Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned; therefore he is not a poet.")

No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define—what is a bird, To classify by rote and book, nor fail To mark its structure and to note the scale Whereon its song might possibly be heard. Thus far, no farther;—so he spake the word. When of a sudden,—hark, the nightingale!

Oh deeper, higher than he could divine That all-unearthly, untaught strain! He saw The plain, brown warbler, unabashed. "Not mine" (He cried) "the error of this fatal flaw. No bird is this, it soars beyond my line, Were it a bird, 't would answer to my law."



ST. MICHAEL'S CHAPEL.

When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain Roars round about me as I walk the street, The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain Of struggle hand to hand and brain to brain, Ofttimes a sudden dream my sense will cheat, The gaudy shops, the sky-piled roofs retreat, And all at once I stand enthralled again Within a marble minster over-seas. I watch the solemn gold-stained gloom that creeps To kiss an alabaster tomb, where sleeps A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies, And every day in dusky glory steeps Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.



LIFE AND ART.

Not while the fever of the blood is strong, The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless The poet-soul to help and soothe with song. Not then she bids his trembling lips express The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain. Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness. But when the dream is done, the pulses fail, The day's illusion, with the day's sun set, He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale Divine Consoler, featured like Regret, Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow. Then his lips ope to sing—as mine do now.



SYMPATHY.

Therefore I dare reveal my private woe, The secret blots of my imperfect heart, Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert, Nor beautify nor hide. For this I know, That even as I am, thou also art. Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go, To pause and bide with me, to whisper low: "Not I alone am weak, not I apart Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day. Here is my very cross by strangers borne, Here is my bosom-sun wherefrom I pray Hourly deliverance—this my rose, my thorn. This woman my soul's need can understand, Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand."



YOUTH AND DEATH.

What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine, Thou cold, white, silent Stranger? From my hand Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine; Here eyes that flamed with love, at thy command Stare stone-blank on blank air; her frozen heart Forgets my presence. Teach me who thou art, Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me. I never saw thee till this sudden hour. What secret door gave entrance unto thee? What power in thine, o'ermastering Love's own power?



AGE AND DEATH.

Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend, Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast. Life has grown strange and cold, but thou dost bend Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest. So often hast thou come, and from my side So many hast thou lured, I only bide Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine. Thy world is peopled for me; this world's bare. Through all these years my couch thou didst prepare. Thou art supreme Love—kiss me—I am thine!



CITY VISIONS.

I.

As the blind Milton's memory of light, The deaf Beethoven's phantasy of tone, Wrought joys for them surpassing all things known In our restricted sphere of sound and sight,— So while the glaring streets of brick and stone Vex with heat, noise, and dust from morn till night, I will give rein to Fancy, taking flight From dismal now and here, and dwell alone With new-enfranchised senses. All day long, Think ye 't is I, who sit 'twixt darkened walls, While ye chase beauty over land and sea? Uplift on wings of some rare poet's song, Where the wide billow laughs and leaps and falls, I soar cloud-high, free as the the winds are free.



II.

Who grasps the substance? who 'mid shadows strays? He who within some dark-bright wood reclines, 'Twixt sleep and waking, where the needled pines Have cushioned all his couch with soft brown sprays? He notes not how the living water shines, Trembling along the cliff, a flickering haze, Brimming a wine-bright pool, nor lifts his gaze To read the ancient wonders and the signs. Does he possess the actual, or do I, Who paint on air more than his sense receives, The glittering pine-tufts with closed eyes behold, Breathe the strong resinous perfume, see the sky Quiver like azure flame between the leaves, And open unseen gates with key of gold?



INFLUENCE.

The fervent, pale-faced Mother ere she sleep, Looks out upon the zigzag-lighted square, The beautiful bare trees, the blue night-air, The revelation of the star-strewn deep, World above world, and heaven over heaven. Between the tree-tops and the skies, her sight Rests on a steadfast, ruddy-shining light, High in the tower, an earthly star of even. Hers is the faith in saints' and angels' power, And mediating love—she breathes a prayer For yon tired watcher in the gray old tower. He the shrewd, skeptic poet unaware Feels comforted and stilled, and knows not whence Falls this unwonted peace on heart and sense.



RESTLESSNESS.*

Would I had waked this morn where Florence smiles, A-bloom with beauty, a white rose full-blown, Yet rich in sacred dust, in storied stone, Precious past all the wealth of Indian isles— From olive-hoary Fiesole to feed On Brunelleschi's dome my hungry eye, And see against the lotus-colored sky, Spring the slim belfry graceful as a reed. To kneel upon the ground where Dante trod, To breathe the air of immortality From Angelo and Raphael—TO BE— Each sense new-quickened by a demi-god. To hear the liquid Tuscan speech at whiles, From citizen and peasant, to behold The heaven of Leonardo washed with gold— Would I had waked this morn where Florence smile!

*Written before visiting Florence.



THE SPAGNOLETTO.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

DON JOHN of AUSTRIA. JOSEF RIBERA, the Spagnoletto. LORENZO, noble young Italian artist, pupil of Ribera. DON TOMMASO MANZANO. LUCA, servant to Ribera. A GENTLEMAN. FIRST LORD. SECOND LORD.

MARIA-ROSA, daughter to Ribera. ANNICCA, daughter to Ribera, and wife to Don Tommaso. FIAMETTA, servant to Maria-Rosa. ABBESS. LAY-SISTER. FIRST LADY. SECOND LADY.

Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Servants.

SCENE—During the first four acts, in Naples; latter part of the fifth act, in Palermo. Time, about 1655.



ACT. I.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA at work before his canvas. MARIA seated some distance behind him; a piece of embroidery is in her hands, but she glances up from it incessantly toward her father with impatient movements.

MARIA. Father! (RIBERA, absorbed in his work, makes no reply; she puts by her embroidery, goes toward him and kisses him gently. He starts, looks up at her, and returns her caress).

RIBERA. My child!

MARIA. Already you forget, Oh, heedless father! Did you not promise me To lay aside your brush to-day at noon, And tell me the great secret?

RIBERA. Ah, 't is true, I am to blame. But it is morning yet; My child, wait still a little.

MARIA. 'T is morning yet! Nay, it was noon one mortal hour ago. All patience I have sat till you should turn And beckon me. The rosy angels breathe Upon the canvas; I might sit till night, And, if I spake not, you would never glance From their celestial faces. Dear my father, Your brow is moist, and yet your hands are ice; Your very eyes are tired—pray, rest awhile. The Spagnoletto need no longer toil As in the streets of Rome for beggars' fare; Now princes bide his pleasure.

RIBERA (throws aside his brush and palette). Ah, Maria, Thou speak'st in season. Let me ne'er forget Those days of degradation, when I starved Before the gates of palaces. The germs Stirred then within me of the perfect fruits Wherewith my hands have since enriched God's world. Vengeance I vowed for every moment's sting— Vengeance on wealth, rank, station, fortune, genius. See, while I paint, all else escapes my sense, Save this bright throng of phantasies that press Upon my brain, each claiming from my hand Its immortality. But thou, my child, Remind'st me of mine oath, my sacred pride, The eternal hatred lodged within my breast. Philip of Spain shall wait. I will not deign To add to-day the final touch of life Unto this masterpiece.

MARIA. So! that is well. Put by the envious brush that separates Father from daughter. Now you are all mine own. And now—your secret.

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. Hell, 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 shine.

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 brimming 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 god 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 masses 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 passed 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 God'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 vanishing 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?

MARIA. None, none, dear father! Pardon me! Thy love, Generous and wise as tender, shames my power To merit or repay. Fie o my lips! Look if they be not blistered. Let them smooth With contrite kisses the last frown away. We must be young to-night—no wrinkles then! Genius must show immortal as she is.

RIBERA. Thou wilt unman me with thy pretty ways. I had forgot the ball. Yea, I grow old; This scanty morning's work has wearied me. Once I had thought it play to dream all day Before my canvas and then dance till dawn, And now must I give o'er and rest at noon. [Rises.]

Enter LUCA, ushering in LORENZO, who carries a portfolio.

LUCA. Signor Lorenzo. [LORENZO ceremoniously salutes RIBERA and MARIA. Exit LUCA.]

LORENZO. Master, I bring my sketch. [Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to RIBERA.]

RIBERA. Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived; I note some progress; but your drawing's bad— Yes, bad, sir. Mark you how this leg hangs limp, As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched, Not loosely clasped, as you intended them. [He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes. Thus should it stand—a single line will mend. And here, what's this? Why, 't is a sloven's work. You dance too many nights away, young gallant. You shirk close labor as do all your mates. You think to win with service frivolous, Snatched 'twixt your cups, or set between two kisses, The favor of the mistress of the world.

LORENZO. Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong. Mayhap I lack the gift. Alas, I fear it! But not the patience, not the energy Of earnest, indefatigable toil, That help to make the artist.

RIBERA. 'S death! He dares Belie me, and deny the testimony Of his own handiwork, whose every line Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will, A brain that's bred to idleness. So be it! Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto His own defects and qualities! 'T were best He find another teacher competent To guide so apt, so diligent a scholar.

MARIA. Dear father, what hath given thee offence? Cast but another glance upon the sketch; Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise.

RIBERA. Daughter, stand by! I know these insolent slips Of young nobility; they lack the stuff That makes us artists. What! to answer me! When next I drop a hint as to his colors, The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke, He'll bandy words with me about his error, To prove himself the master.

LORENZO. If my defect Be an hereditary grain i' the blood, Even as you say, I must abide by it; But if patrician habits more than birth Beget such faults, then may I dare to hope. Not mine, I knew, I felt, to clear new paths, To win new kingdoms; yet were I content With such achievement as a strenuous will, A firm endeavor, unfaltering love, And an unwearying spirit might attain. Cast me not lightly back. Banish me not From this, my home of hope, of inspiration!

MARIA. What, my ungentle father! Will you hear, And leave this worthy signor's suit unanswered?

RIBERA. Well, he may bide. Sir, I will speak with you Anon upon this work. I judged in haste. Yea, it hath merit. I am weary now; To-morrow I shall be in fitter mood To give you certain hints. [LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA. RIBERA silences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Exit LORENZO.]

RIBERA. Should I o'ersleep Mine hour, Maria, thou must awaken me; But come what may, I will be fresh to-night, To triumph in thy triumph. [Exit RIBERA.]

MARIA (alone). Could I have told, Then when he bade me? Nay, what is to tell? He had flouted me for prizing at such height Homage so slight from John of Austria, even. A glance exchanged, a smile, a fallen flower Dropped from my hair, and pressed against his lips. The Prince! my father gloats upon that name. Were he no more than gentleman, I think I should be glad. I cannot tell to-day If I be sad or gay. Now could I weep Warm, longing tears; anon, a fire of joy Leaps in my heart and dances through my veins. Why should I nurse such idle thoughts? Tonight We are to meet again. Will he remember?— Nay, how should he forget? His heart is young; His eyes do mirror loyalty. Oh, day! Quicken thy dull, slow round of tedious hours! God make me beautiful this happy night! My father's sleeping saint rebukes my thought. Strange he has left his work, against his wont, Revealed before completed. I will draw The curtain. [She stands irresolute before the picture with her hand on the curtain.] Beautiful, oh, beautiful! The far, bright, opened heavens—the dark earth, Where the tranced pilgrim lies, with eyelids sealed, His calm face flushed with comfortable sleep, His weary limbs relaxed, his heavy head Pillowed upon the stone. Oh, blessed dream That visits his rapt sense, of airy forms, Mounting, descending on the shining ladder, With messages of peace. I will be true Unto my lineage divine, and breathe The passion of just pride that overfills HIS soul inspired.

While she stands before the canvas, reenter, unperceived by her, LORENZO.

LORENZO. Oh, celestial vision! What brush may reproduce those magic tints, Those lines ethereal?—

MARIA (turns suddenly). Is it not marvellous, Signor Lorenzo? I would draw the curtain, But, gazing, I forgot. You are the first, After the master and myself, to look Upon this wonder.

LORENZO (with enthusiasm, looking for he first time at the picture). Ah, what an answer this For envious minds that would restrict his power To writhing limbs and shrivelled flesh! Repose, Beauty, and large simplicity are here. Yes, that is art! Before such work I stand And feel myself a dwarf.

MARIA. There, you are wrong. My father even, who knows his proper worth, Before his best achievements I have seen In like dejection; 't is the curse of genius. Oft have I heard the master grace your name With flattering addition.

LORENZO. 'T is your goodness, And not the echo of his praise, that speaks. My work was worthless—'t was your generous voice Alone secured the master's second glance.

MARIA. Nay, signor, frankly, he esteems your talent. Because you are of well-assured means And gentle birth, he will be rude to you. Not without base is the deep grudge he owes To riches and prosperity.

LORENZO. Signora, Why do I bear such harsh, injurious terms As he affronts me with? Why must I seem In mine own eyes a craven? Spiritless, Dishonorably patient? 'T is not his fame, His power, his gift, his venerable years That bind me here his willing slave. Maria, 'T is thou, 't is thou alone! 'T is that I love thee, And exile hence is death! [A pause. He kneels at her feet. She looks at him kindly but makes no reply.] At thy dear feet I lay my life with its most loyal service, The subject of thy pleasure.

MARIA (tenderly). You are too humble.

LORENZO. Too humble! Do you seek mine utter ruin, With words whose very tone is a caress? I say all. I love you!—you have known it. Why should I tell you? Yet, to-day you seem Other than you have been. A milder light Beams from your eyes—a gentler grace is throned Upon your brow—your words fall soft as dew To melt my fixed resolve.

MARIA. You find me, signor, In an unguarded mood. I would be true To you; and to myself; yet, know no answer. Anon, I will be calm; pray you withdraw.

LORENZO. Till when? Remember what mad hopes and fears Meantime will riot in my brain.

MARIA. To-morrow— Farewell, farewell.

LORENZO (kisses her hand). Farewell. [Exit.]

MARIA. A faithful heart, A name untainted, a fair home—yea, these Are what I need. Oh, lily soul in heaven, Who wast on earth my mother, guide thy child!

While MARIA sits rapt in thought, enter from behind her, ANNICCA, who bends over her and kisses her brow.

ANNICCA. What, sister! lost in dreams by daylight? Fie! Who is the monarch of thy thoughts?

MARIA (starting). Annicca! My thoughts are bounden to no master yet; They fly from earth to heaven in a breath. Now are they all of earth. Hast heard the tidings?

ANNICCA. Yea—of the Prince's ball? We go together. Braid in thy hair our mother's pearls, and wear The amulet ingemmed with eastern stones; 'T will bring good fortune.

MARIA. Tell me, ere we go, What manner of man is John of Austria?

ANNICCA. Scarce man at all—a madcap, charming boy; Well-favored—you have seen him—exquisite In courtly compliment, of simple manners; You may not hear a merrier laugh than his From any boatman on the bay; well-versed In all such arts as most become his station; Light in the dance as winged-foot Mercury, Eloquent on the zither, and a master Of rapier and—

MARIA. A puppet could be made To answer in all points your praise of him. Hath he no substance as of a man?

ANNICCA. Why, sister, What may that be to us?

MARIA. He is our Prince.

ANNICCA. The promise of his youth is to outstrip The hero of Lepanto; bright and bold As fire, he is the very soul, the star Of Spanish chivalry; his last achievement Seems still the flower of his accomplishments. Musician, soldier, courtier, yea, and artist. "He had been a painter, were he not a prince," Says Messer Zurbaran. The Calderona, His actress-mother, hath bequeathed to him Her spirit with her beauty, and the power To win and hold men's hearts.

MARIA. I knew it, sister! His eye hath a command in it; his brow Seems garlanded with laurel.

ANNICCA. What is this? You kindle with his praise, your whole heart glows In light and color on your face, your words Take wing and fly as bold as reckless birds. What! can so rash a thought, a dream so wild, So hopeless an ambition, tempt your soul?

MARIA. Pray you, what thought, what dream, and what ambition? I knew not I had uttered any such.

ANNICCA. Nor have you in your speech; your eyes now veiled, Where the light leaped to hear me voice his fame, Your blushes and your pallor have betrayed That which should lie uncounted fathom deep— The secret of a woman's foolish heart.

MARIA. And there it lies, my sibyl sister, still! Your plummet hath not reached it. Yes, 't is love Flaunts his triumphant colors in my cheek, And quickens my lame speech—but not for him, Not for the Prince—so may I vaunt his worth With a free soul.

ANNICCA. Say on.

MARIA. A gentleman, Favored of earth and heaven, true and loving, Hath cast his heart at my imperial feet; And if to-morrow find me as to-day, I will e'en stoop and raise it to mine own.

ANNICCA. Signor Vitruvio?

MARIA. Not he, indeed! Did not I say favored of earth and heaven? That should mean other gifts than bags of gold, Or a straight-featured mask. Nor will it be Any you name, though you should name him right. Must it not lie—how many fathom deep— The secret of a woman's foolish heart?

ANNICCA. Kiss me, Maria. You are still a child. You cannot vex me, wilful as you be. Your choice, I fear not, doubtless 't will prove wise, Despite your wild wit, for your heart is pure, And you will pause with sure deliberate judgment Before you leave our father.

MARIA. Does love steal So gently o'er our soul? What if he come A cloud, a fire, a whirlwind, to o'erbear The feeble barriers wherewith we oppose him, And blind our eyes and wrest from us our reason? Fear not, Annicca, for in no such guise He visits my calm breast; but yet you speak Somewhat too sagely. Did such cautious wisdom Guide your own fancy?

ANNICCA. Jest no more, Maria. Since I became a wife, is much made clear, Which a brief year ago was dark and vague. Tommaso loves me—we are happier Then I had dreamed; yet matching now with then, I see his love is not that large, rich passion Our father bore us.

MARIA. You regret your home?

ANNICCA. No, no! I have no wish and no regret. I speak for you. His is a sovereign soul, And all his passions loom in huger shape Than lesser men's. He brooks no rivalry With his own offspring, and toward me his love Hath ebbed, I mark, to a more even flow, While deeper, stronger, sets the powerful current Toward you alone. Consider this, Maria, Nor wantonly discrown that sacred head Of your young love to wreathe some curled boy's brow.

MARIA. Think you his wish were that I should not wed?

ANNICCA. Nay, that I say not, for his pride aspires To see you nobly mated.

MARIA (after a pause). Him will I wed Whose name is ancient, fair, and honorable, As the Ribera's is illustrious— Him who no less than I will venerate That white, divine old head. In art his pupil, In love his son; tender as I to watch, And to delay the slow extinguishing Of that great light.

ANNICCA. There spake his darling child!

MARIA. What is't o'clock? If he should sleep too late— He bade me rouse him—

ANNICCA. Haste to seek him, then. 'T is hard on sunset, and he looks for thee With his first waking motion. Till to-night. [Exeunt severally.]



SCENE II.

A hall in RIBERA'S house. Enter LUCA and FIAMETTA.

FIAMETTA. But did you see her?

LUCA. Nay, I saw her sister, Donna Annicca.

FIAMETTA. Tush, man! never name her beside my lady Maria-Rosa. You have lost the richest feast in the world for hungry eyes. Her gown of cloth o' silver clad her, as it were, with light; there twinkled about her waist a girdle stiff with stones—you would have said they breathed. Mine own hands wreathed the dropping pearls in her hair, and pearls again were clasped around her throat. But no, I might tell thee every ornament—her jeweled fan, her comb of pearls, her floating veil of gauze, and still the best of all would escape us.

LUCA. Thou speakest more like her page than her handmaiden.

FIAMETTA. Thou knowest not woman truly, for all thy wit. I speak most like a woman when I weigh the worth of beauty and rich apparel. Heigh-ho! I have felt the need of this. Thou, good Luca, who might have been my father, canst understand me? HE was poor as thou. Why shouldst thou be his lackey, his slave? My hand were as dainty as hers, if it could but be spared its daily labor.

LUCA. Yes, poor child, I understand thee, and yet thou art wrong. He is more slave to pride than I am to him. I know him well, Fiametta, after so many years of service, and to-day I pity him more than I fear him. Why, girl, my task is sport beside his toil! If my limbs be weary, I sleep; but I have seen him sit before his canvas with straining eyes and the big beads standing on his brow. When at last he gave o'er, and I have smoothed his pillow, and served and soothed him, what sleep could he snatch? His brain is haunted with evil visions, whereof some be merely of his own imaginings, and others the phantoms of folk who are living or have lived, and who rouse his jealousy or mayhap his remorse, God only knows! If that be genius—to be alive to pain at every pore, to be possessed of a devil that robs you of your sleep and grants no space between the hours of grinding toil—I thank the saints I am a simple man!

FIAMETTA. I grant thee thou mayst be right concerning him; he hath indeed a strange, sour mien. I shudder when he turns suddenly, as his wont is, and bends his evil eyes on me. The holy father tells me such warnings come from God. No matter how slight the service he asks of me, my flesh creeps and my limbs refuse to move, till I have whispered an Ave. But what of Lady Maria-Rosa? Both heaven and earth smile upon her. To-night she wears a poor girl's dowry, a separate fortune, on her head, her neck, her hands, yes, on her little jeweled feet. One tiny shoe of hers would make me free to wed my lad.

LUCA. If he have but eyes, I warrant thee he finds jewels enough in thy bright face. Tell me his name.

FIAMETTA. Nay, that is my secret.

LUCA. He must be a poor-souled lad if he will wait till thou hast earned a dowry.

FIAMETTA. A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo—ah! but no matter; thou knowest him, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page. There!—is he poor, or mean, or plain, or dull? He claims no dowry, he—but I have my pride, as well as the great ones.

LUCA. May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs! I am heartily glad of thy good fortune. I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosa be the most favored. Well, the end proves all. [Exeunt.]

Enter on one side ANNICCA and DON TOMMASO, attired for the ball; on the other side, RIBERA.

RIBERA. What do ye here, my children? Haste away! Maria waits you for the ball; folk say 'T will be the bravest show e'er seen in Naples. I warrant you the Spagnoletto brings The richest jewels—what say'st thou, my son?

DON TOMMASO. I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarce Re-word, sir, how I prize it.

RIBERA. Why, 't is true. Robbed me, thou sayst? So hast thou. She was mine— The balanced beauty of her flesh and spirit, That was my garland, and I was her all, Till thou, a stranger, stole her heart's allegiance, Suborned—Forgive me, I am old, a father, Whose doting passions blind. I am not jealous, Believe me, sir. When we Riberas give, We give without retraction or reserve, Were it our life-blood. I rejoice with thee That she is thine; nor am I quite bereft, I have some treasure still. I do repent So heartily of my discourteous speech, That I will crave your leave before I kiss Your wife's soft palm.

ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly). Why, father, what is this? Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forget She is the Spagnoletto's child?

RIBERA. Enough. I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save thee And my Maria. My grave son, I fear, Will mock these transports. Pray go in with me. No one of us but has this night a triumph. Let us make ready. [Exeunt.]



ACT II.

SCENE I.

Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN. Dance. DON JOHN and MARIA together. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA. LORDS and LADIES, dancing or promenading.

1st LORD. Were it not better to withdraw awhile, After our dance, unto the torch-lit gardens? The air is fresh and sweet without.

1st LADY. Nay, signor. I like this heavy air, rich with warm odors, The broad, clear light, the many-colored throng. I might have breathed on mine own balcony The evening breeze.

1st LORD. Still at cross purposes. When will you cease to flout me?

1st LADY. When I prize A lover's sigh more dear than mine own pleasure. See, the Signora Julia passed again. She is far too pale for so much white, I find. Donna Aurora—ah, how beautiful! That spreading ruff, sprinkled with seeds of gold, Becomes her well. Would you believe it, sir, Folk say her face is twin to mine—what think you?

1st LORD. For me, the huge earth holds but one such face. You know it well.

1St LADY. The hall is overfilled; Go we without. [They pass on.]

2d LADY. Thrice he hath danced with her. She is not one of us—her face is strange; Colored and carven to meet most men's desire— Is't not, my lord? Certes, it loses naught For lack of ornament. Pray, ask her name, If but for my sake.

2d LORD. I have already asked. She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto, Maria-Rosa.

2d LADY. Ah, I might have guessed. The form and face are matched with the apparel, As in a picture. 'T was the master's hand, I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art, Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls Within her odd, bright hair. [They pass on.]

DON JOHN. Now hope, now fear Reigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sang Like the repeated strain of some caged bird, Its sweet, persistent music through my brain. One vanishing face upon the empty air Shone forth and faded night and day. And you, Did you not find me hasty, over-bold? Nay, tell me all your thought.

MARIA. You know, my lord, I am no courtier, and belike my thought Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.

DON JOHN. Speak on, speak on! Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing Rebeck and mandoline.

MARIA. Is it not strange? I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed, If only from the simple garb of black, And golden collar, 'midst the motley hues Of our gay nobles. I know not what besides, But this first won me. Be not angered, sir; But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher Than simple gentleman. I asked your name; Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower, My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor, For it had fain discrowned you.

DON JOHN. May God's angels Reward such treason. Say me those words again. Let the rich blush born of that dear confession Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt Forever, even as then.

MARIA. We are watched, my lord. This is no place, no hour, for words like these.

DON JOHN. When, where then, may we meet? [They pass on.]



SCENE II.

The Palace Gardens. Interrupted sounds of music and revelry come though the open windows of the ball-room, seen in the background. RIBERA, pacing the stage, occasionally pausing to look in upon the dancers.

RIBERA. This is revenge. Is she not beautiful, Ye gods? The beggar's child matched with a prince! Throb not so high, my heart, 'neath envious eyes Fixed on thy triumph! Now am I well repaid For my slow, martyred years. Was I not wrung by keener tortures than my savage brush, Though dipped in my heart's blood, might reproduce! No twisted muscle, no contorted limb, No agony of flesh, have I yet drawn, That owed not its suggestion to some pang Of my pride crucified, my spirit racked, My entrails gnawed by the blind worm of hate, Engendered of oppression. That is past, But not forgotten; though to-night I please To yield to gentler influence, to own The strength of beauty and the power of joy, And welcome gracious phantasies that throng And hover over me in airy shapes. The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-night For mastery within me; ne'er before Have I been more the Spagnoletto, fired With noble wrath, with the consuming fever And fierce delight of vengeance. From this point I see her clearly—the auroral face A-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised; Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan, Whose wing-like movement stirs above her brow The fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heaven Around her breathed. He leads her 'midst the throng. So, they have gone; but I will follow them, And watch them from afar. [Exit.]

Enter from the opposite side DON JOHN and MARIA.

DON JOHN. I dread to ask What quivers on my lips. My heart is free, But thine?

MARIA. My heart is free, my lord.

DON JOHN. Thank God!

MARIA. It never beat less calmly at the sound Of any voice till now. I laugh to think This very morn I fancied it had met Its master.

DON JOHN. Ah!

MARIA. Fear naught—a simple boy, A pupil of my father's.

DON JOHN. I was mad To dream it could be otherwise. Forgive me; I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealous Of all thy present and thy past.

MARIA. Listen, my lord; You shall hear all. What hour, think you, he chose To urge his cause? The same wherein I learned Your Highness had commanded for to-night Our presence. My winged thoughts were flying back To Count Lodovico's; again I saw you, My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixed Most frankly, yet most reverently, on mine. Again my heart sank as I heard the name, The Prince of Austria; and while I mused, He spake of love. Oh, I am much to blame! My mood was soft;—although I promised naught, I listened, yea, I listened. Good, my lord, Do you not pity him?

DON JOHN. Thanks, and thanks again, For thy confession! Now no spot remains On the unblemished mirror of my faith. Since that dear night, I with one only thought Have gained the sum of knowledge and opinions Touching thine honored father, with such scraps As the gross public voice could dole to me Concerning thine own far-removed, white life. Thou art, I learn, immured in close seclusion; Thy father, be it with all reverence said, Hedges with jealous barriers his treasure; Whilst thou, most duteous, tenderest of daughters, Breath'st but for him.

MARIA. Dear father! Were it so, 'T were simple justice. Ah, if you knew him— A proud, large, tameless heart. This is the cloister Where he immures me—Naples' gayest revels; The only bar wherewith he hedges me Is his unbounded trust, that leaves me free. Let us go in; the late night air is chill.

DON JOHN. Yet one more dance?

MARIA. You may command, my lord. [Exeunt.]

Enter RIBERA.

RIBERA. I lost them in the press. Ah, there they dance Again together. I would lay my hands In blessing on that darling, haughty head. Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honors As lightly as a flower. Yet there glows Unwonted lustre in her starry eyes, And richer beauty blushes on her cheek. Enough. Now must I strive to fix that form That haunts my brain—the blind, old Count Camillo, The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throng My fancy singled him; white beard, white hair, Sealed eyes, and brow lit by an inward light. So will I paint mine Isaac blessing Esau, While Jacob kneels before him—blind, betrayed By his own flesh!

As RIBERA stands aside, lost in thought, enter DON JOHN and MARIA.

MARIA. See the impatient day Wakes in the east.

DON JOHN. One moment here, signora, Breathe we the charm of this enchanted night. Look where behind yon vines the slow moon sets, Hidden from us, while every leaf hangs black, Each tender stalk distinct, each curling edge Against the silver sky.

MARIA (perceiving RIBERA). What, father! here?

RIBERA. Maria!—Ah, my Prince, I crave your pardon. When thus I muse, 't is but my mind that lives; Each outward sense is dead. I saw you not, I heard nor voice nor footstep. Yonder lines That streak the brightening sky east warn us away. For all your grace to us, the Spagnoletto Proffers his thanks to John of Austria. My daughter, art thou ready?

DON JOHN. I am bound, Illustrious signor, rather unto you And the signora, past all hope of payment. When may I come to tender my poor homage To the Sicilian master?

RIBERA. My lord will jest. Our house is too much honored when he deigns O'erstep the threshold. Let your royal pleasure Alone decide the hour.

DON JOHN. To-morrow, then. Or I should say to-day, for dawn is nigh.

RIBERA. And still we trespass. Be it as you will; We are your servants.

MARIA. So, my lord, good-night. [Exeunt MARIA and RIBERA.]

DON JOHN (alone). Gods, what a haughty devil rules that man! As though two equal princes interchanged Imperial courtesies! The Spagnoletto Thanks John of Austria! Louis of France Might so salute may father. By heaven, I know not What patience or what reverence withheld My enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy. Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspect Is balm and blessing. How her love-lit eyes Burned through my soul! How her soft hand's slight pressure Tingled along my veins! Oh, she is worthy A heart' religion! How shall I wear the hours Ere I may seek her? Lo, I stand and dream, While my late guests await me. Patience, patience! [Exeunt.]



SCENE III.

Morning twilight in RIBERA'S Garden. During this scene the day gradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morning illuminates the stage. LORENZO. AUBADE.

LORENZO (sings). From thy poppied sleep awake; From they golden dreams arise; Earth and seas new colors take, Love-light dawns in rosy skies, Weird night's fantastic shadows are outworn; Why tarriest thou, oh, sister to the morn?

Hearken, love! the matin choir Of birds salutes thee, and with these Blends the voice of my desire. Unto no richer promises Of deeper, dearer, holier love than mine, Canst thou awaken from they dreams divine.

Lo, thine eastern windows flame, Brightening with the brightened sky; Rise, and with thy beauty shame Morning's regal pageantry, To thrill and bless as the reviving sun, For my heart gropes in doubt, though night be gone.

(He speaks.) Why should I fear? Her soul is pledged to mine, Albeit she still withheld the binding word. How long hath been the night! but morn breathes hope. "I fain were true to you and to myself"— Did she say thus? or is my fevered brain The fool of its desires? The world swam; The blood rang beating in mine ears and roared Like rushing waters; yet, as through a dream, I saw her dimly. Surely on her lids Shone the clear tears. As there's a God in heaven, She spake those words! My lips retain the touch Of those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refused Nor proffered. Such things ARE, nor can they be Forgotten or foreknown. Yes, she is mine. But soft! Her casement opes. Oh, joy, 't is she! Pale, in a cloud of white she stands and drinks The morning sunlight.

MARIA (above at the window). Ah, how sweet this air Kisses my sleepless lids and burning temples. I am not weary, though I found no rest. My spirit leaps within me; a new glory Blesses the dear, familiar scene—ripe orchard, The same—yet oh, how different! Even I thought Soft music trembled on the listening air, As though a harp were touched, blent with low song. Sure, that was phantasy. I will descend, Visit my flowers, and see whereon the dew Hangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomed Since yester-eve. Why should I court repose And dull forgetfulness, while the large earth Wakes no lesser joy than mine? [Exit from above.]

LORENZO. Oh, heart! How may my breast contain thee, with thy burden Of too much happiness?

Enter MARIA below; LORENZO springs forward to greet her; she shrinks back in a sort of terror.

LORENZO. Good-day, sweet mistress. May the blithe spirit of this auspicious morn Become the genius of thy days to come, Whereof be none less beautiful than this. Why art thou silent? Does not love inspire Joyous expression, be it but a sigh, A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry? Thou hast not granted me the promised pledge For which I hunger still. I would confirm With dear avowals, frequent seals of love, That which, though sure, I yet can scarce believe.

MARIA. Somewhat too sure, I think, my lord Lorenzo. I scarce deemed possible that one so shy But yester-morn should hold so high a mien, Claiming what ne'er was given.

LORENZO. Maria!

MARIA. Sir, You are a trifle bold to speak my name Familiarly as no man, save my father Or my own brother, dares.

LORENZO. Ah, now I see Your jest. You will not seem so lightly won Without a wooing? You will feign disdain, Only to make more sweet your rich concession? Too late—I heard it all. "A new light shines On the familiar scene." What may that be, Save the strange splendor of the dawn of love? Nay, darling, cease to jest, lest my poor heart, Hanging 'twixt hell and heaven, in earnest break.

MARIA. Here is no jest, sir, but a fatal error, Crying for swift correction. You surprise me With rude impatience, ere I have found time To con a gentle answer. Pardon me If any phrase or word or glance of mine Hath bred or nourished in your heart a hope That you might win my love. It cannot be.

LORENZO. A word, a glance! Why, the whole frozen statue Warmed into life. Surely it was not you. You must have bribed some angel with false prayers To wear your semblance—nay, no angel served, But devilish witchcraft—

MARIA. Sir, enough, enough! I hoped to find here peace and solitude. These lacking, I retire. Farewell. [Going toward the house.]

LORENZO. Signora, I will not rob you of your own. Farewell to you. [Exit.]

MARIA. Where have you flown, bright dreams? Has that rude hand Sufficed to dash to naught your frail creations? Sad thoughts and humors black now fill my soul. So his rough foot hath bruised the dewy grass, And left it sere. Why should his harsh words touch me? The truth of yesterday is false to-day. How could I know, dear God! How might I guess The bitter sweetness, the delicious pain! A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weak And melting as a tear, unto its lord; But kindled with quick courage to endure, If I need front for him, a world of foes. If this be love, ah, what a hell is theirs Who suffer without hope! Even I, who hold So many dear assurances, who hear Still ringing in mine ears such sacred vows, Am haunted with an unaccustomed doubt, Not wonted to go hand-in-hand with joy. A gloomy omen greets me with the morn; I, who recoil from pain, must strike and wound. What may this mean? Help me, ye saints of heaven And holy mother, for my strength is naught!

She falls on her knees and bursts into tears. Reenter LORENZO.

LORENZO (aside). Thank heaven, I came. How have I wrung her soul! A noble love, forsooth! A blind, brute passion, That being denied, is swift transformed to hate No whit more cruel. (To Maria.) Lady!

MARIA (rising hastily). Signor Lorenzo! Again what would you with me?

LORENZO. No such suit As late I proffered, but your gracious pardon.

MARIA. Rise, sir, forgiven. I, too, have been to blame, Although less deeply than you deemed. Forbear To bind your life. I feel myself unworthy Of that high station where your thoughts enthrone me. Yet I dare call myself your friend. [Offering him her hand, which LORENZO presses to his lips.]

LORENZO. Thanks, thanks! Be blessed, and farewell. [Exit.]

Enter RIBERA, calling.

RIBERA. Daughter! Maria!

MARIA. Why, father, I am here (kissing him). Good-day. What will you?

RIBERA. Darling, no more than what I always will. Before I enter mine own world removed, I fain would greet the dearest work of God. I missed you when I rose. I sought you first In your own chamber, where the lattice, oped, Let in the morning splendor and smells Of the moist garden, with the sound of voices. I looked, I found you here—but not alone. What man was that went from you?

MARIA. Your disciple, My lord Lorenzo. You remember, father, How yester-morn I pleaded for his work; Thus he, through gratitude and—love, hath watched All night within our garden, while I danced; And when I came to nurse my flowers—he spake.

RIBERA. And you?

MARIA. Am I not still beside you, father? I will not leave you.

RIBERA. Ah, mine angel-child! I cannot choose but dread it, though I wait Expectant of the hour when you fulfil Your woman's destiny. You have full freedom; Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank thee For thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus, Withholding naught from him whose heart reflects Only thine image. Thou art still my pride, Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way, Thy bearing equal in disdainful grace To his who courted thee—thy sovereign's son.

MARIA. Yea, so? And yet it was not pride I felt, Nor consciousness of self, nor vain delight In the world's envy;—something more than these, Far deeper, sweeter—What have I said? My brain Is dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feel The weariness of so much pleasure.

RIBERA (rising). Well, Go we within. Yes, I am late to work; We squander precious moments. Thou, go rest, And waken with fresh roses in they cheeks, To greet our royal guest. [Exeunt.]



ACT III.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA before his canvas. LUCA in attendance.

RIBERA (laying aside his brush). So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?

LUCA. My lord, an hour past noon.

RIBERA. So late already! Well, one more morning of such delicate toil Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance Outvalues a king's gaze, my noble friend Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran. Luca!

LUCA. My lord.

RIBERA. Hath the signora risen?

LUCA. Fiametta passed a brief while since, and left My lady sleeping.

RIBERA. Good! she hath found rest; Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known 'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion; Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine; Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy read The tokens of an overwearied spirit, Strained past endurance, he had spared her still, At any cost of silence. What is such love To mine, that would outrival Roman heroes— Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame, Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away, To save her from a needle-prick of pain, Ay, or to please her? At their worth she rates Her wooers—light as all-embracing air Or universal sunshine. Luca, go And tell Fiametta—rather, bid the lass Hither herself. [Exit Luca.] He comes to pay me homage, As would his royal father, if he pleased To visit Naples; yet she too shall see him. She is part of all I think, of all I am; She is myself, no less than yon bright dream Fixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.