XII.
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Beati, beati, mortui!_From the convent on the sea,One mile off, or scarce so nigh,Swells the dirge as clear and highAs if that, over brake and lea,Bodily the wind did carryThe great altar of Saint Mary,And the fifty tapers burning o'er it,And the lady Abbess dead before it,And the chanting nuns whom yesterweekHer voice did charge and bless,--Chanting steady, chanting meek,Chanting with a solemn breath,Because that they are thinking lessUpon the dead than upon death._Beati, beati, mortui!_Now the vision in the soundWheeleth on the wind around;Now it sweepeth back, away--The uplands will not let it stayTo dark the western sun:_Mortui!_--away at last,--Or ere the page's blush is past!And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.
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