_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 sate Both thirst and hunger, pray refresh yourself. _Raphael_. Dear mother, it is rest to hear thee speak. 'Tis not my hale young limbs that are forespent, But an outwearied spirit, seeking peace, Hath found it in thy voice. Speak on, speak on. What of this holy saint? how chanced the tree To save his life?