 | The New Medusa, and other poems |  |
SOULAC.
A lone square house, all time-stained, used to standUpon the French west coast, where sparse pines keep
Their footing ill, while battling sea winds sweep
The hillocks of untilled and restless sand.
A house? it was the belfry, Norman-planned
Of long-lost Soulac's minster, buried deep
In sand, which Ocean never ceased to heap
For centuries, encroaching on the land.
All else was gone. Oh is not such the fate
That overtakes the rich and stately pile
Which, arch on arch, our youthful hopes create?
The Real slowly clogs it, nave and aisle;
The arches crash; and we are glad if, late,
Some humble vestige shelters us awhile.
| The New Medusa, and other poems | |