The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume I

Narrative, Lyric, and Dramatic

Emma Lazarus

• Verlag: Dover Publications
• Jahr: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780486799889
• Thema: Letteratura
• Thema: Poetesse

New York City–based poet Emma Lazarus (1849–87) is best known for `The New Colossus,` which is inscribed upon the base of the Statue of Liberty. The highly respected writer and intellectual corresponded with Ralph Waldo Emerson and was an advocate for indigent Jewish refugees and a forerunner of the Zionist movement. This two-volume edition of The Poems of Emma Lazarus marks the work's first major reappearance since its last printing in 1900.
Volume I features epochs, sonnets, and naturalist poems. The epochs consist of reflections on youth, regret, grief, longing, and other emotions. Other poems include `On the Proposal to Erect a Monument in England to Lord Byron,` `Agamemnon's Tomb,` `August Moon,` `A Masque of Venice,` and the renowned `The New Colossus.` The collection concludes with `The Spagnoletto: A Play in Five Acts.` Volume II, available separately, features verse with historic Jewish themes as well as translations of eleventh-century Hebrew poetry and works by Heinrich Heine, Petrarch, and Alfred de Musset.

THE SPAGNOLETTO.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA.

JOSEF RIBERA, the Spagnoletto.

LORENZO, noble young Italian artist, pupil of Ribera.

DON TOMMASO MANZANO.

LUCA, servant to Ribera.

A GENTLEMAN.

FIRST LORD.

SECOND LORD.

MARIA-ROSA, daughter to Ribera.

ANNICCA, daughter to Ribera, and wife to Don Tommaso.

FIAMETTA, servant to Maria-Rosa.

ABBESS.

LAY-SISTER.

FIRST LADY.

SECOND LADY.

Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Servants.

SCENE—During the first four acts, in Naples; latter part of the fifth act, in Palermo. Time, about 1655.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Studio of the SPAGNOLETTO. RIBERA at work before his canvas. MARIA seated some little distance behind him; a piece of embroidery is in her hands, but she glances up from it incessantly toward her father with impatient movements.

MARIA.

Father!

(RIBERA, absorbed in his work, makes no reply; she puts by her embroidery, goes toward him and kisses him gently. He starts, looks up at her, and returns her caress.)

RIBERA.

My child!

MARIA.

Already you forget,

Oh, heedless father! Did you not promise me

To lay aside your brush to-day at noon,

And tell me the great secret?

RIBERA.

Ah, ’t is true,

I am to blame. But it is morning yet;

My child, wait still a little.

MARIA.

’T is morning yet!

Nay, it was noon one mortal hour ago.

All patience I have sat till you should turn

And beckon me. The rosy angels breathe

Upon the canvas; I might sit till night,

And, if I spake not, you would never glance

From their celestial faces. Dear my father,

Your brow is moist, and yet your hands are ice;

Your very eyes are tired—pray, rest awhile.

The Spagnoletto need no longer toil

As in the streets of Rome for beggars’ fare;

Now princes bide his pleasure.

RIBERA (throws aside his brush and palette).

Ah, Maria,

Thou speak’st in season. Let me ne’er forget

Those days of degradation, when I starved

Before the gates of palaces. The germs

Stirred then within me of the perfect fruits

Wherewith my hands have since enriched God’s world.

Vengeance I vowed for every moment’s sting—

Vengeance on wealth, rank, station, fortune, genius.

See, while I paint, all else escapes my sense,

Save this bright throng of phantasies that press

Upon my brain, each claiming from my hand

Its immortality. But thou, my child,

Remind’st me of mine oath, my sacred pride,

The eternal hatred lodged within my breast.

Philip of Spain shall wait. I will not deign

To add to-day the final touch of life

Unto this masterpiece.

MARIA.

So! that is well.

Put by the envious brush that separates

Father from daughter. Now you are all mine own.

And now—your secret.

RIBERA.

Mine? ’T is none of mine;

’T is thine, Maria. John of Austria

Desires our presence at his ball to-night.

MARIA.

Prince John?

RIBERA.

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.

MARIA.

Forgive me. Sure, ’t is you Don John desires,

The prince of artists—

RIBERA.

Art! Prate not of art!

Think’st thou I move an artist ’midst his guests?

As such I commune with a loftier race;

Angels and spirits are my ministers.

These do I part aside to grace his halls;

A Spanish gentleman—and so, his peer.

MARIA.

Father, I am not well; my head throbs fast,

Unwonted languor weighs upon my frame.

RIBERA.

Anger me not, Maria. ’T is my will,

Thou shalt obey. Hell, what these ...