The Ancestor

Glory has cut its noble furrows o'er
This Cavalier's stern face, whose dauntless air
Proclaims he yielded not when the fierce glare
Of war and torrid sun beat on him sore.

In every place the sacred Cross he bore—
Sierras, Terra Firma, Islands fair;
The Andes scaled; then led his pennon where
The Gulf's waves whiten the Floridian shore.

Thy pencils, Claudius, bid his kin behold,
In his bronze mail splendid with foliage scrolled,
In life again their moody, proud grandsire;

His glowering eye still searching as of old,
In the enamel's heaven of lustrous fire,
For dazzling glories of Castile of Gold.