Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/290

276 Dear master, blame him not. I came attended By one page only. Here I blush to claim Such honor as depends on outward pomp. No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch Of our Sicilian artists. Be it mine To press with reverent lips my master’s hand.

Your Highness is too gracious ; if you glance Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works Shall best proclaim me and my poor deserts. Luca, uplift yon hangings. DON JOHN (seating himself). Sir, you may sit.

Curse his swollen arrogance ! Doth he imagine I waited leave of him ? (LucA uncovers the picture.) Oh, wonderful ! You have bettered here your best. Why, sir, he breathes! Will not those locked lids ope ? that nerveless hand Regain the iron strength of sinew mated With such heroic frame ? You have conspired