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Addressed to a FRIEND.


The work is done, the fabric is compleat;
Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower,
Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat,

Must toil for many a league and many an hour.
Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.


Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride,
Its columns clustered strength and lofty state,
How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptur'd side,

What intersecting arches graced its gate;
Its tower how high, its massy walls how strong,
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.



Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, But little store of charity, I ween,

The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;

And often there the mendicant was seen Hopeless to turn him from the convent door, For this so costly work still kept the brethren-poor.


Now all is perfect, and from every side
They flock to view the fabric, young and old.
Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride,

When on the sabbath day his eyes behold
The multitudes that crowd his chapel floor,
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more.


So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, Since sainted for a life of holy deeds; He paus'd the new-rear'd convent to survey, And, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds, Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.

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