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XIV.
There the Scriptorium spread it's gloom,
To dead and living, like one tomb;
The living there like dead might show,
So mutely sat they, ranged in row;
Scarce seen to move, from hour to hour,
Copying the written folio rare,
Or tracing bird, or curious flower,
Round blessed Mary in her bower,
In splendid gold and colours fair,
On missal leaf, with painful care,
Or portraiture of Donor good,
That, closely kept and seldom viewed,
Still fresh and glorious should be
For century following century.
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