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