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ADDRESSED TO THE COUNTESS PRAZZINNI , A NOBLE ROMAN LADY , WHO SPEAKS THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE LIKE A NATIVE , AND WHO SANG TO THE AUTHOR AT A MASQUED BALL DURING THE CARNIVAL , THE BALLAD OP HOME " SWEET HOME " .
AH ! Lady , sing of home no more , Its strains awaken thoughts long past , Scenes I may ne ' er revisit more , Visions too happy long to last . Sing not of home—it bids arise The young , the good , the early dead ,
Again I gaze on love-lit eyes , Whose light and spirit long have fled . Sing not of home—it is a spell , To melt the long time frozen tear , To waken such regrets as dwell Around the young hearts' tuneless bier .
Sing not of home—the words recall Hopes buried in a distant grave , Brings back to wounded memory all Time hath bereft , or love ere gave . Home ! in this gay Italian scene
, Strangely it falls upon the ear , A sound like something that hath heen Of mournful music floating near . You say my heart is cold—why wake , The strings of a neglected lute ?
Should they respond , too sure they break , I live but while its chords are mute . Calm does not always prove content , But like the frost on Etna ' s brow ; Too oft it ludes the fires unspent , That rage beneath the chilling snow .
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
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ADDRESSED TO THE COUNTESS PRAZZINNI , A NOBLE ROMAN LADY , WHO SPEAKS THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE LIKE A NATIVE , AND WHO SANG TO THE AUTHOR AT A MASQUED BALL DURING THE CARNIVAL , THE BALLAD OP HOME " SWEET HOME " .
AH ! Lady , sing of home no more , Its strains awaken thoughts long past , Scenes I may ne ' er revisit more , Visions too happy long to last . Sing not of home—it bids arise The young , the good , the early dead ,
Again I gaze on love-lit eyes , Whose light and spirit long have fled . Sing not of home—it is a spell , To melt the long time frozen tear , To waken such regrets as dwell Around the young hearts' tuneless bier .
Sing not of home—the words recall Hopes buried in a distant grave , Brings back to wounded memory all Time hath bereft , or love ere gave . Home ! in this gay Italian scene
, Strangely it falls upon the ear , A sound like something that hath heen Of mournful music floating near . You say my heart is cold—why wake , The strings of a neglected lute ?
Should they respond , too sure they break , I live but while its chords are mute . Calm does not always prove content , But like the frost on Etna ' s brow ; Too oft it ludes the fires unspent , That rage beneath the chilling snow .