THE LOST PATH.

By Thomas Osborne Davis

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.

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 —

Oh! little have I served my land,

No laurels press my brow,

I have no woman's heart or hand,

Nor minstrel honours now.

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.