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,[21.B.] Nor niggard of his cheer;[150] the passer by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see.