s I climbed the olive tree
To break the branches for my crucifix--
tall, fair youth with floating yellow curls.
Is he an angel?

_Maria_. Silly darling, peace!
No longer dwell the angels on the earth,
And see, he comes.

_Raphael_. Madonna mia, hail!
God bless thee and thy cherubim!

_Maria_. Amen!
God bless thee also for the pious wish!
No cherubim are these, but, Heaven be thanked,
Two healthy boys. Pray, sit and rest with us:
The heat has been too fierce for wayfarers,
And 'neath these shady vines the afternoon
Is doubly fresh.

_Raphael_. Thanks, 'tis a grateful air:
The weariness of travel it uplifts
From heavy brow and body with its breath,
Delicious as cool water to the touch.

_Maria_. Bernardo, climb yon trunk again and pluck
Some ripened clusters for this gentleman.

_Raphael_. Ah, 'tis a radiant child: what full, lithe limbs!
What cream-white dimpling flesh! what golden lights
Glance through the foliage on his crisp-curled head!
What rosy shadows on the naked form
Against gray olive leaves and blue-green vine!
And see, where now the bright, round face peers down,
And smiles and nods, and beckons us as one
Who leaneth out of heaven.

_Maria_. A wanton imp,
And full of freaks. I marvel much thereat,
Since I have named him from a holy saint,
Who bode among us many years, and gave
His dying blessing unto me and mine.

_Raphael_. The child could be no other than he is
Without some loss, mother. But what saint
Had here his hermitage?

_Maria_. Nay, pardon me,
'Twas but my reverent love that sainted him;
Yet was he one most worthy of the crown,
If austere life of white simplicity,
Large charity and strict self-sacrifice
Can sanctify a mortal.

_Raphael_. Yet I see
No convent nigh.

_Maria_. Nay, sir, no convent his.
Beyond our comfortable homes he dwelt,
Not lonely though alone: 'neath yonder hill
His hut was reared; a tall full-foliaged oak
O'ershadowed it. 'Tis not so long agone
Since he was here to comfort, help and heal,
Yet now no earthly trace of him remains.
Spring freshets from the hills have washed away
The last wrecked fragments of his hermitage,
And though I pleaded hard, I could not save
The oak, his dear dumb daughter, from the axe,
Albeit 'twas she preserved him unto us.
Forgive me, sir, my chatter wearies you,
Here be the grapes my boy has plucked: they