Sunday Evening Art Gallery Blog — Harps

The Harp that once through Tara’s halls

  The soul of music shed,

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Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls

  As if that soul were fled.

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So sleeps the pride of former days,

  So glory’s thrill is o’er,

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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.

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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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Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

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