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 dress’d,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
"And one—o’er her the myrtle showers,
Its leaves by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers—