The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

by Thomas Moore

 The harp that once through Tara's halls
      The soul of music shed,
    Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
      As if that soul were fled.
    So sleeps the pride of former days,
      So glory's thrill is o'er,
    And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
      Now feel that pulse no more.

    No more to chiefs and ladies bright
      The harp of Tara swells;
    The chord alone, that breaks at night,
      Its tale of ruin tells.
    Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
      The only throb she gives
    Is when some heart indignant breaks,
      To show that still she lives.