-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!

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 woe!
But there came one--and a most lovely one
As ever to the warm light of the sun
Threw back her tresses,--a fair sister girl,
With a brow changing between snow and pearl,
And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew
Of tears,--like Heaven's own melancholy blue,--
So beautiful, so tender; and her form
Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,
Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow--
Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow
Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright
In her own self,--a mystery of light!
With feelings tender as a star's own hue,
Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;