 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
246
MONT ST. MICHEL.
Alas! for thy pollutions, wondrous pile,Rare pyramid of Nature and high Art,
Desecrate, and befoul'd in every part
By all that moderns add of mean and vile:
Woe, for thine ancient glories gone to waste!
These sculptur'd cloisters, and that lofty aisle,
This arch'd chivalric hall of sumptuous taste,
Those Norman turrets—(whose unconquer'd strength
Enclose the steep old town of gables strange)—
After a thousand years, all, all at length
Given up to filth and felons!—gaol-birds range
Where erst devoted maids and holy men
Peal'd their full anthem:—O the bitter change!
Heaven's gorgeous house become corruption's den.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |