Act II: Scene III

Morning twilight in RIBERA'S Garden. During this scene the daygradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morningilluminates 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 choirOf birds salutes thee, and with theseBlends the voice of my desire.Unto no richer promisesOf 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 shameMorning'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 brainThe fool of its desires? The world swam;The blood rang beating in mine ears and roaredLike rushing waters; yet, as through a dream,I saw her dimly. Surely on her lidsShone the clear tears. As there's a God in heaven,She spake those words! My lips retain the touchOf those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refusedNor proffered. Such things ARE, nor can they beForgotten 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 drinksThe morning sunlight.

MARIA (above at the window).Ah, how sweet this airKisses my sleepless lids and burning temples.I am not weary, though I found no rest.My spirit leaps within me; a new gloryBlesses the dear, familiar scene--ripe orchard,The same--yet oh, how different! Even I thoughtSoft 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 dewHangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomedSince yester-eve. Why should I court reposeAnd dull forgetfulness, while the large earthWakes no lesser joy than mine?

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

LORENZO.Good-day, sweet mistress.May the blithe spirit of this auspicious mornBecome the genius of thy days to come,Whereof be none less beautiful than this.Why art thou silent? Does not love inspireJoyous expression, be it but a sigh,A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry?Thou hast not granted me the promised pledgeFor which I hunger still. I would confirmWith 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 shyBut 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 nameFamiliarly as no man, save my fatherOr my own brother, dares.

LORENZO.Ah, now I seeYour jest. You will not seem so lightly wonWithout a wooing? You will feign disdain,Only to make more sweet your rich concession?Too late--I heard it all. "A new light shinesOn 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 meWith rude impatience, ere I have found timeTo con a gentle answer. Pardon meIf any phrase or word or glance of mineHath bred or nourished in your heart a hopeThat you might win my love. It cannot be.

LORENZO.A word, a glance! Why, the whole frozen statueWarmed into life. Surely it was not you.You must have bribed some angel with false prayersTo 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.

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

MARIA.Where have you flown, bright dreams? Has that rude handSufficed 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 guessThe bitter sweetness, the delicious pain!A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weakAnd 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 theirsWho suffer without hope! Even I, who holdSo many dear assurances, who hearStill 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 heavenAnd holy mother, for my strength is naught!

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 hateNo whit more cruel. (To Maria.) Lady!

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

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

MARIA.Rise, sir, forgiven. I, too, have been to blame,Although less deeply than you deemed. ForbearTo bind your life. I feel myself unworthyOf that high station where your thoughts enthrone me.Yet I dare call myself your friend.

LORENZO.Thanks, thanks!Be blessed, and farewell.

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 firstIn your own chamber, where the lattice, oped,Let in the morning splendor and smellsOf 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 watchedAll 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 waitExpectant of the hour when you fulfilYour woman's destiny. You have full freedom;Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank theeFor thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus,Withholding naught from him whose heart reflectsOnly thine image. Thou art still my pride,Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,Thy bearing equal in disdainful graceTo 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 delightIn the world's envy;--something more than these,Far deeper, sweeter--What have I said? My brainIs dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feelThe 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.