The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 30

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sions 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 n.o.bly mated.

MARIA (after a pause).

Him will I wed Whose name is ancient, fair, and honorable, As the Ribera's is ill.u.s.trious-- 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 extinguis.h.i.+ng Of that great light.

ANNICCA.

There spake his darling child!

MARIA.