Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/275

Rh Maria!—Ah, my Prince, I crave your pardon. When thus I muse, t is but my mind that lives; Each outward sense is dead. I saw you not, I heard nor voice nor footstep. Yonder lines That streak the brightening east warn us away. For all your grace to us, the Spagnoletto Proffers his thanks to John of Austria. My daughter, art thou ready?

I am bound, Illustrious signor, rather unto you And the signora, past all hope of payment. When may I come to tender my poor homage To the Sicilian master?

My lord will jest. Our house is too much honored when he deigns O’erstep the threshold. Let your royal pleasure Alone decide the hour.

To-morrow, then. Or I should say to-day, for dawn is nigh.

And still we trespass. Be it as you will; We are your servants.