 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
37
THE LOST PATH.
I
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.
II
I hoped to right my native isle,I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name—
36
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.
III
But fancy has a magic power,It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;
Oh! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |