“The blood which has ceased in the veins to run
Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,
This blood—a score of years ago—
Belonged to a noble hidalgo,
With a great estate and a greater name,
And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,
And a little child—his only heir—
Soft as the dew in the morning air,
And as opening roses fresh and fair.
“And it was this noble hidalgo