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,