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