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
Came over them; the deeds that they had done
Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon
Was Julio forgotten, and his line--
No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!
Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!
But loved not death: his purpose was between
Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there,
Like a wild bird that floated far and fair
Betwixt the sun and sea!
He went, and came,
And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same,--
A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night
Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight
Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind
Play with his raven tresses, or would bind
Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing:
And peasant girls would find him sauntering,
To gaze upon their features, as they met,
In laughter, under some green arboret.
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