Soulac

A strange square house, all battered, used to stand

Upon the Gascon coast, where sparse pines keep

A doubtful footing, as the salt winds sweep

The restless hillocks of ill-bladed sand.

A house? it was the bell-loft, Norman-plann'd,

Of long-lost Soulac's minster, buried deep

In sand, which Ocean never ceased to heap

In its eternal battle with the land.

All else was gone: fit image of the fate

That overtakes the rich and stately pile

Which, arch on arch, life's early dreams create.

The real slowly clogs it, nave and aisle,

Transept and apse; and we are glad, if late,

Some humble vestige shelters us awhile.