LXVII.

I started as from sleep;--yes!--he had spoken-- A breeze had troubled memory’s hidden source! At once the torpor of my soul was broken-- Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. There are soft breathings in the southern wind, That so your ice-chains, O ye streams! unbind, And free the foaming swiftness of your course! I burst from those that held me back, and fell Even on his neck, and cried--“Friend! brother! fare thee well!”