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!”