Yet, considered he lightly the guilt of a death-bed selfishness
That strove to take with him, for gain, the gold no longer his;
So he died in a false peace, and dying robbed his kindred;
The cunning friar at his side having cheated both the living and the dead.
Charity sitteth on a fair hill-top, blessing far and near,
But her garments drop ambrosia, chiefly, on the violets around her:
She gladdeneth indeed the map-like scene, stretching to the verge of the horizon,
For her angel face is lustrous and beloved, even as the moon in heaven:
But the light of that beatific vision gloweth in serener concentration
The nearer to her heart, and nearer to her home,—that hill-top where she sitteth: