As if that soul was fled,

So sleeps the pride of former days

So glory’s trill 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 hearts indignant breaks

To show that she still lives.