I. The White-Rose Garland At Her Feet, The Crown Of Laurel At Her Head, Her Noble Life On Earth Complete, Lay Her In The Last Low Bed For The Slumber Calm And Deep: 'He Giveth His Belov'D Sleep.' Ii. Soldiers Find Their Fittest Grave In The Field Whereon They Died; So Her Spirit Pure And Brave Leaves The Clay It Glorified To The Land For Which She Fought With Such Grand Impassioned Thought. Iii. Keats And Shelley Sleep At Rome, She In Well-Loved Tuscan Earth; Finding All Their Death'S Long Home Far From Their Old Home Of Birth. Italy, You Hold In Trust Very Sacred English Dust. Iv. Therefore This One Prayer I Breathe, That You Yet May Worthy Prove Of The Heirlooms They Bequeath Who Have Loved You With Such Love: Fairest Land While Land Of Slaves Yields Their Free Souls No Fit Graves.