And who was he? A monk. And those who knew, 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 dishonor’d—left To moulder in its sheath—a hated gift! Ay! it was so; and Julio would 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 Grottos 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. At last he became a monk, and, on his knees, Said holy prayers, and with wild penances Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim That, like a shadow, loiter’d over him, Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed With none of the mad thoughts that were at first The poison of his quiet; but he grew To love the world and its wild laughter too, As he had known before: and wish’d again To join the very mirth he hated then. He durst not break the vow—he durst not be The one he would—and his heart’s harmony Became a tide of sorrow. Even so, He felt hope die—in madness and in wo!