Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/40



Yet a trace Surely there lingers of an old Friend of my school-days—

School-friends, true; But now I am no more a boy.

Can it be?

[Cries out suddenly.]

Brand! It is! O joy!

From the first moment I knew you.

Well met! a thousand times well met! Look at me!—Ay, the old Brand yet, Still centred on the things within, Whom never any one could win To join our gambols.

You forget That I was homeless and alone. Yet you at least I loved, I own. You children of the southern land Were fashion'd of another clay Than I, born by a rocky strand In shadow of a barren brae.

Your home is here, I think?