He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O’er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o’er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d;
She faded ’midst Italian flowers—