Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/239

Rh So ! that is well. Put by the envious brush that separates Father from daughter. Now you are all mine own. And now your secret. Mine ? T is none of mine ; T is thine, Maria. John of Austria Desires our presence at his ball to-night. Prince John ? Ay, girl, Prince John. I looked to see A haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyes And burn upon thy cheek. But what is this ? Timid and pale, thou droop st thy head abashed As a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts. Forgive me. Sure, t is you Don John desires, The prince of artists

Art ! Prate not of art ! Think st thou I move an artist midst his guests ?