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.
_Thomas Moore._
[Illustration: TOM MOORE]
* * * * *
_23_
ma'am
dis suade'
re spect'a ble
shuf' fled
dan' ger ous
grate' ful
wist' ful ly
mit' tens
outstretched'
res' cue
un daunt' ed
an' ti qua ted