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VALERIA.

Will they? Where is my little Georgian maid,

Whose grandsire, tho' a brave and sov'reign prince,
Was piece-meal torn by a ferocious mob?

LUCIA.

She told a wonderful surcharged tale,

Perhaps to move your pity: heed it not.

VALERIA.

Ah! whereunto do all these turmoils tend—

The wild contention of these fearful times?
Each day comes bearing on its weight of ills,
With a to-morrow shadow'd at its back
More fearful than itself.——A dark progression—
And the dark end of all, what will it be?

LUCIA.

Let not such gloomy thoughts your mind o'ercast;

Our noble emperor has on his side
The dark and potent powers.

VALERIA.

What is thy meaning?

LUCIA.

A rarely-gifted man, come from afar,

Who sees strange visions rise before his sight
Of things to come, hath solemnly pronounc'd it,