The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 32

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 vanis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.bles. 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.ds? 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 n.o.ble wrath, with the consuming fever And fierce delight of vengeance.