Tara was a place of greater, and yet more modern, celebrity. It was situated in the plain of Bregia, which extended between the Boyne,
[Illustration: _The Stone of Destiny, Tara_]
the Liffey, and the sea, and was preëminent above all other edifices as having been the residence of Irish kings for upwards of a thousand years.
A contributor to the "Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy," writing in 1830, has described Tara as it appeared to him on a recent visit:
"Only when one finds himself at the base of the venerable mount does it present an attitude of much interest. At the left are the gloomy remains of the church of Screen and the once noble mansion and demesne of Lord Tara, back of which are the remains of several old stone edifices and of a particularly narrow bridge which still spans a weedy rivulet. Passing through the villages and by the church, one identifies some large rocks as having exercised the strength or yielded to the sword of Fin MacComhal (Fingal). Here one finds himself on the summit of Tara; and if he goes there with none of that wild enthusiasm which requires towers and battlements and draw-bridges and bower-windows, and donjon-keeps, to gratify it, he will feel most awfully the unalterable royalty of the prospect it commands.
"When the natural advantages of the scene have obtained their due homage, let the visitor look for vestiges of the past, and there he will not be disappointed; for the place seemeth to bear the shew of an ancient and famous monument."
All of which observations are sufficiently noncommittal to be undisputed; and unless one is an arrant idol-breaker,--and we haven't many in these days,--he will be quite willing to accept the description as being sufficiently explicit to permit of his putting himself in the same place, and making the same observations.
The site is assuredly authentic, and the link of history which binds its past with the present is something more than a suggestion; though by no means need we seek or envy the emotions which inspired Moore's verses:
"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.