DON JOHN.
I will gainsay you not.
A beauteous soul can shed her proper glory
On mean surroundings. I have likewise dreamed,
Nor am I yet awake. This morn hath been
A feast for mind and eye. Yon shepherd-prince,
Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crown
Your father s brow with a still fresher laurel,
And link in equal fame the Spanish artist
With the Lord’s chosen prophet.
RIBERA.
That may be,
For in the form of that worn wayfarer
I drew myself. So have I slept beneath
The naked heavens, pillowed by a stone,
With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches,
While the thick dews of our Valencian nights
Drenched my rude weeds, and chilled through blood and bone.
Yet to me also were the heavens revealed,
And angels visited my dreams.
DON JOHN.
How strange
That you, dear master, standing on the crown
Of a long life s continuous ascent,
Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.
