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The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the lov'd 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,— The last of that bright band.

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