Busy passing to and fro of citizens. Enter Cornelia and Tiberius, attended by two slaves. The former appears embarrassed, fluttered, and distressed, the latter troubled and concerned.
Cor. Gods! How the people stare upon me, brother!
Alas! They reek not of a woman's heart,
But judge me bold and courting their attention,
I who am hungry for one gaze alone,
Yet can not find. So many days have passed,
No tidings from my love hath reached mine ears,
And rumors that he's dead hath driven me
Close unto madness. All my slaves have sought,
But failed to find him. I am desperate!
Surely the ears of one who loves will hear,
Surely the eyes of one who loves will see,
And learn his fate, whether for good or ill.
He will forgive me for exposing her
He loveth to the gaze of multitudes!
Tib. Ay, but most likely he was called to serve
Rome in the latest skirmish with her foes.
Thy fear it is unfounded.
Cor. Nay, my child,
The skirmishing they say is discontinued,
And all who fought therein returned unto
The camp, save only those who fell beneath
The Sabine spears. My Love hath not been seen,
And I can rest no longer in my house.
[While they speak, the already clouded sky darkens so rapidly that all start and look out across the populated hills. A distant peal of thunder is heard, followed by a second, greater in volume. All press together, then a cry arises: "Way, make way! The sibyl of the vale would speak! She is inspired!" The dense crowd parts and all swing backward in confusion. A flash of lightning breaks the heavy gloom, followed by a muttering of thunder. A few large raindrops fall. The sibyl enters through the multitude, a weird, mad form, with tossing hair and wild, disheveled garments.
Sibyl. Wail, walls of Rome, and weep, ye tender vales
Of sweet Italia!
[A murmur and a swaying. Voices contend for silence.
Oh! day of dole!
Oh, day of perfect woe! Oh, Furies' day
Of fever and of tears! Oh, black despair!
The night of tyranny hath settled o'er
Our city, roof-like shuts her from the air
Of Heaven! And the hollow, brazen dome
Of despotism closes o'er our heads;
Black tyranny and red-hot despotism!
Had I hands long enough and nails as sharp
As Hate, I'd tear in shreds the infernal web!
[Another peal of thunder resounds. She points toward the heavy clouds.
My tongue is laden with the vast commands
Of Jove, to-day. But Rome is deaf and mad.
The gods cry out upon this tyranny,
The heavens in thunder clap their wrathful hands!
Yet Rome, the Rome of Romulus, the Rome
Of Numa and the martial kings of old,
Is deaf—is deaf and mad! Oh! woe, woe, woe!
[With a prolonged, shrill wail of despair she vanishes amid the crowd. Great agitation now displayed by the majority of citizens. Enter a runner.
Run. Ye men of Rome, I bear ill news with me!
The Cit. What is't? Out with it! Dally not at all!
Run. Sicinius, our leader, he is dead!