XXIII.

On thee! with whom in boyhood I had play’d, At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams; And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid Bare, as to heaven’s, its glowing world of dreams; And by whose side midst warriors I had stood, And in whose helm was brought--oh, earn’d with blood!-- The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Smote on my fever’d brow! Ay, years had pass’d, Severing our paths, brave friend!--and _thus_ we met at last!