The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls

The harp that once thro' 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 seldom wakes;
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.