Ay, if you will.
LADY GIOVANNA.
It should be if you can.
(_Reads_.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand
So wild and staggering?
COUNT.
This was penn'd, Madonna,
Close to the grating on a winter morn
In the perpetual twilight of a prison,
When he that made it, having his right hand
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left.
LADY GIOVANNA.
O heavens! the very letters seem to shake
With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well,
Tell me the words--or better--for I see
There goes a musical score along with them,
Repeat them to their music.
COUNT.
You can touch
No chord in me that would not answer you
In music.
LADY GIOVANNA.
That is musically said.
[COUNT _takes guitar_. LADY GIOVANNA _sits listening
with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes
scroll and places it on table at the end of the song_.
COUNT (_sings, playing guitar_).
'Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers,
Dearer than when you made your mountain gay,
Sweeter than any violet of to-day,
Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May,
To me, tho' all your bloom has died away,
You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.
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