XLIX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deemed of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high; Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.
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