like one
    That knew not his own purpose—­The red sun
    Rose early over incense of bright mist,
    That girdled a pure sky of amethyst. 
    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 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.

    At last, he became 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!