The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay
Shrouded in slumber’s mantle, as within
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then,
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole
Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart transfix’d
The monarch of the solitudes? I woke,
And saw thy javelin crimson’d with his blood,
Thou, my deliverer! and my heart e’en then
Call’d thee its brother.
Seb. For that gift of life