Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 1
The harp that once through Tara's Hall|
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's wall
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.
2. 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.
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