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XX.
They triumph’d, and less bloody rites were kept
Within the quiet of the convent cell;
The well-fed inmates patter’d prayer, and slept,
And sinn’d, and lik’d their easy penance well.
Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell,
Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay,
Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell;
And cowl’d and barefoot beggars swarm’d the way,
All in their convent weeds, of black, and white and grey.
XXI.
Oh, sweetly the returning muses’ strain
Swell’d over that fam’d stream, whose gentle tide
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain,
Sweet, as when winter storms have ceas’d to chide,
And all the new leav’d woods, resounding wide,
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air.
Lo! to the smiling Arno’s classick side
The emulous nations of the west repair,
And kindle their quench’d urns, and drink fresh spirit there.
