Come, view thyself. 'Tis not ill-done, for I have marked the style. Shake not thy head at me, I prithee now.[18] I only sport with thee. Look not so grave. Camilla. Sweet one, because thou art so gay to-day, I fear to-morrow thou wilt be in tears. Excess of spirits bears excess of grief. Thou'rt young and fair as Hero; but to her Misfortune came and loss and heavy woe! Virg. Now, thou remindest me of Wisdom's owl— Croak not so somberly. Thou who art one Whose heart is ever genial with mirth, Wrong'st Nature to cast shadows over youth. Camilla (drawing Virginia to her tenderly). My little love, I would not seem to sigh; Ever have I despised a sorry face, A gloomy or foreboding disposition. Thou hast most aptly said that I to-day Belie my character. Forgive! Forget! Virg. (pouting). Forget, thou croaking raven of despair? Thou dost expect too much. I may forgive, But not forget. What ailest thee to-day? Art thou not ill or weary with thy tasks? We'll make thy labor lighter, and thy cares As to the household now shall rest on me. Camilla. Not so, sweet child. There is no need for that. I am not ill nor weary, nay, nor sad, But fearful and in dread of hidden woe. What may the morrow bring to thee, my babe, Or to thy father, or thy lover? What, I can not see, but only feel and dread. Virg. Camilla! Something surely ails thee now. Oh! I am mystified and overcome By thy prophetic words, thy drear address, And I would probe thy meaning deeply, lest[19] A vision should have warned thee of a flood Of coming tribulation. Gentle nurse, Hast visited of late the oracle? Speak! Speak to me! Speak to Virginia! Say! Tell me, nor torture me upon the rack Of fear and dread prolonged. Camilla (slowly). If it were aught That I might put to thee or e'en myself In syllables, I'd speak. But syllables Are clumsy things. Words are inanimate, Dull, helpless weapons, powerless unless The thoughts are present skillfully to wield The blades. Then cut and thrust they mightily, Ready to wound, or e'en with menace kill. I know not what I fear. I know not why Nor wherefore. Has the gift of second-sight Been by the gods this day on me bestowed? [A pause. I seem to see great sorrow brought about By shameless wrong; I seem to see a cloud, Laden with anguish which may soon descend In burning drops on Rome, where'er I turn. Who are the victims I can not discover, But when I close mine eyes from out the black That blinds them, lo! a knife like lightning sent By Jove flashes upon me—and is gone! Virg. (sobbing). Alas! My joy is fled and all is gloom. Sure 'tis some peril scowling o'er my father. Mayhap e'en now he lieth in the camp, Struck down by men who envy him his fame! Oh! horrid thought! most dread, most cruel thought! Camilla (arousing herself with effort). Nay, weep
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