RIBERA. An earthly crown, My princess, might more fitly rest on thine. Annicca hath her colors, blue-black hair, And pale, brown flesh, and gray, untroubled eyes; Yet thou more often bring'st her to mind, For all the tawny gold of thy thick locks, Thy rare white face, and brilliant Spanish orbs. Thine is her lisping trick of voice, her laugh, The blithest music still this side of heaven; Thine her free, springing gait, though therewithal A swaying, languid motion all thine own, Recalls Valencia more than Italy. Like and unlike thou art to her, as still My memory loves to hold her, as she first Beamed like the star of morning on my life. Hot, faint, and footsore, I had paced since dawn The sun-baked streets of Naples, seeking work, Not alms, despite the beggar that I looked. Now 't was nigh vespers, and my suit had met With curt refusal, sharp rebuff, and gibes. Praised be the saints! for every drop of gall In that day's brimming cup, I have upheld A poisoned beaker to another's lips. Many a one hath the Ribera taught To fare a vagabond through alien streets; A god unrecognized 'midst churls and clowns, With kindled soul aflame, and body faint Or lack of bread. Domenichino knows, And Gessi, Guido, Annibal Caracci-- MARIA. Dear father, calm yourself. You had begun To tell me how you saw my mother first. RIBERA. True, I forgot it not. Why, I AM calm; The old man now can well be grave and cold, Or laugh at his own youth's indignities, Past a long lifetime back. 'T was vespers' hour, Or nigh it, when I reached her father's door. Kind was his greeting, the first cordial words I heard in Naples; but I took small heed Of speech or toe, for all my sense was rapt In wonder at the angel by his side Who smiled upon me. Large, clear eyes that held The very soul of sunlight in their depths; Low, pure, pale brow, with masses of black hair Flung loosely back, and rippling unconfined In shadowy magnificence below The slim gold girdle o'er the snow-soft gown. Vested and draped about her throat and waist and wrists, A stately 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.