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.
Interpretation
This quote reflects on the loss of glory and the fading of past passions.
Charles Lamb's quote poetically illustrates the idea that once-vibrant vitality and pride can diminish over time, leaving behind a sense of silence and loss. It evokes the image of a once-celebrated harp, symbolizing the spirit of music and joy, now rendered mute, paralleling how former achievements and passions may become distant memories, leaving the heart devoid of the thrill it once experienced.
In practice
During a nostalgic gathering, one might quote this to reflect on past achievements.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So dark when I roam in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.
The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate in another, is perhaps cowardice.
Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I 've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower But 't was the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die.
May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear; not a feather to tickle the intellect.
Productiveness is your acceptance of morality, your recognition of the fact that you choose to live.
Word is murder of a thing, not only in the elementary sense of implying its absence - by naming a thing, we treat it as absent, as dead, although it is still present - but above all in the sense of its radical dissection: the word 'quarters' the thing, it tears it out of the embedment in its concrete context, it treats its component parts as entities with an autonomous existence: we speak about color, form, shape, etc., as if they possessed self-sufficient being.
You dwell in whitened castles with deep and poisoned moats and cannot hear the curses which fill your children's throats.
Moral responsibility is what is lacking in a man when he demands it of a woman.
People's personalities, like buildings, have various facades, some pleasant to view, some not.
One way to define spiritual life is getting so tired and fed up with yourself you go on to something better, which is following Jesus.
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