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His haggard eye glared wildly on the crowd— But there were none to save him, and he died. His wealth was forfeit to the state; his son, Young Garcia, exiled from his native land: His only daughter, sunk in poverty, Languished and pined. A convent's walls, methinks, Had proved a safe asylum. Charity Left her not quite uncomforted? I sought Her humble dwelling, in a borrowed name, And, like a guardian genius, supplied Her father's tender cares. From her fair cheek The rose had fled; but the rich pallidness, The ivory brightness of her delicate Pale brow, contrasted with the beaming eye, Dark as the sable, silken, curls that waved Around her polished temples, seemed, indeed,