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,
