The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed...
Called Temair in Gaelic,
the Hill of Tara was once the seat of power
for the Celtic high kings of ancient Ireland
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 for high 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
It's 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.
An Irish folk song based on a poem
by Thomas Moore
The Harp Of Tara
Antoine Auguste Ernest Hebert