Poem by Thomas Osborne Davis

The Lost Path

AIR--Grádh mo chroidhe.

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--
Oh! little have I served my land,
  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.

1. The Boatman of Kinsale
2. The Green above the Red
3. O'Connell's Statue
4. We Must Not Fail
5. The Sack of Baltimore

Elinor Wylie The Lost Path ("The garden’s full of scented wallflowers")

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