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 she still lives!

-Thomas Moore (1779-1852)