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He sought his child, but half her bloom Was withering in tomb.

Albeit not with those who fled, Yet was not with the dead. There is a lofty castle stands On the verge of Grenada's lands; It has a dungeon, and a chain, And there the young knight must remain. Day after day,—or rather night,— Can morning come without its light? Pass'd on without a sound or sight. The only thing that he could feel, Was the same weight of fettering steel,— The only sound that he could hear Was when his own voice mock'd his ear,—