300
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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!
