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One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapt his colours round his breast;
On 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,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest, who play'd 
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth,
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, Oh earth!