Yclept him Julio; but they were few:
And others named him as a nameless one,--
A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none
But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,
That fed the wildest of all curses--madness!

But he was, what _none_ knew, of lordly line,
That fought in the far land of Palestine,
Where, under banners of the cross, they fell,
Smote by the armies of the infidel.
And Julio was the last; alone, alone!
A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone
Into the world, to murmur and to die,
Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

And few they were that bade him to their board;
His fortunes now were over, and the sword
Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd--left
To moulder in its sheath--a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain
Have been a warrior; but his very brain
Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death,
And to be stricken with a want of breath!--
To be the food of worms--inanimate,
And cold as winter,--and as desolate!
And then to waste away, and be no more
Than the dark dust!--The thought was like a sore
That gather'd in his heart; and he would say,--
"A curse be on their laurels!" and decay