He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, but 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 fanned;

She faded 'midst Italian flowers,—