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.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): The Harp that once through Tara's Halls.

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice

And the light of a pleasant eye.

Nathaniel P Willis (1817-1867): Saturday Afternoon.

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

Robert Burns (1759-1796): Sweet Sensibility.