Page:Irish Melodies.djvu/34



harp that once, through halls, The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on walls As if that soul were fled.— So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, Arid hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of 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 shew that still she lives!