Oh, Jupiter! it is a work of art!

Sweet nurse, thou wilt amaze my father when He catches sight of thee. [_Seizes a mirror._ Come, view thyself.

'Tis not ill-done, for I have marked the style.

Shake not thy head at me, I prithee now.

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 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 G.o.ds 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 not, my Virginia; I regret Those vague emotions which are doubtless false Deceiving dreams, sent me by Mercury, Who oft delights in filling mortal minds With gray forebodings, as thou art aware.

Quick! Kiss me, child, and dry those silly tears.

Lo! now methinks I hear thy father's step.

_Virg._ (_joyously_). Father! mine own dear father!

(_Voice of Virginius without._) Little one!

No welcome at the door?

[_Virginia runs to the curtained doorway, through which her father enters, and flings her arms in tearful ecstasy around his neck._

_Virginius._ What! tears, dear heart?

_Virg._ But smiles will clear them soon. I feared for thee-- Most foolishly, yet ne'ertheless, I feared.

_Virginius._ Most foolishly, indeed, my dark-haired Psyche, Thou pure-embodied soul, my spirit's light.

Look up, dear child, and kiss thy father fond.

He's wearied and he needs his heart's restorer.

[_The two come forward, he in his shining armor, she nestling birdlike in the shelter of his arm._

My daughter, I have seen Icilius.

_Virg._ Ah! Father!

_Virginius_ (_mockingly_). "Ah! Father!" Ay, I saw him. Me he held Firmly, besieging me with queries, all Concerning thee. How had Virginia fared While he was absent?--the presumptious boy!

Couldst thou fare otherwise than well with me?

And then with eager eyes he questioned as To thy remarks, thy thoughts concerning him, Thy att.i.tude to things in general.

Where did Virginia spend her days? In school?

Was she by chance affrighted at the state Of Rome since he had left her? Like unto A feverish flame, he reached on every side, Hungry for news of his Virginia.

_Virg._ (_dreamily_). My Love! My Love! Mine own Icilius!

Oh! gentle G.o.ds, my happiness exceeds My worth. But yet, amen! So let it be. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III--A GARDEN OVERGROWN WITH ROSES.

_Enter Virginia and Icilius. Twilight deepening into night._

_Icilius._ This is an eve of witchery, an hour Alluring, swelled with love and weighted down With dreams.

_Virg._ A time when all our best ideals Are perfected. Reality is dead, Deep-buried in her grave, and Heaven and Earth, Swayed by the wand of sweet Imagination, Languish beneath the velvet robes of Night.

_Icilius_. And 'tis a night more fair than when Dian Cast l.u.s.tre on the young, unwitting face Of that deep-slumbering boy, Endymion.

_Virg._ Oh! happy boy! a G.o.ddess kissed thy hair, Mused o'er thy brows, and sighed above thy lips.

_Icilius_. Thrice happy man, who treasures human love, And humbly may accept that precious gift, A mortal maiden's heart, nor sigh for more.

There is no more, nor anything so fair, As such a dear possession. Happy he, Who can, though but one instant, close and warm, Hold woman's form, or kiss the starry light Into her eyes, the blood into her cheeks!

And such a man, Virginia, am I.

_Virg._ (_shyly_). Not once in life, dear Love, but many times.

_Icilius._ Not once, not twice, not thrice, but many times.

_Virg._ What might lies in the warmth of kisses given!

Like wine they strengthen, quicken, stimulate, Like flame they warm, like moonlight satisfy.

Like stars uplift above the common world.

Dear Love, I am a weak and fearful child And need my wine, my flame, my moon and stars, To fit me for the years that lie ahead.

_Icilius._ Thou lookest pale, in need of stimulant--