Excerpt: ... dear home, farewell Though the chains they bind be all of flowers, Where no hidden thorn may be, Still the free heart sighs 'neath its fragrant bonds, And pines for its liberty. And sweet, sad thoughts of the joy now gone, In the slave girl's heart shall dwell, As she mournfully sings to her sighing harp, Native land, native land, farewell Con. 'Tis a plaintive song. Is it thine own lot thou art mourning? If so, thou art a slave no longer. Ione. Nay, my lord. It was one my Lady Irene loved, and thus I thought would please thee. Con. Then never sing it more,