The Harp that once through
The soul of music shed
Now hangs as mute on
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
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.