Then in the silent solitude of night An old weird story that she once had heard Tormented her; a story speaking much Of a rock-island on the Norman coast, A mountain peak rising from barren sand, Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns, And beaten by the winds on ev'ry side, With wall'd-in town, and castle on the height, And high above the castle, strangely placed, A grey cathedral with its summit tipp'd By a gold figure of St. Michael crown'd, With burnished wings and flashing sword that shone A beacon in the sunset, seen for miles, As tho' the Archangel floated in the air. The castle and the church a sanctuary And refuge were, to which men often fled For rest or safety, finding what they sought. And as the lady thought about the place, A notion came that she would like to kneel And pray for peace at that far lonely shrine. The longing grew: she rested not nor slept. And should she fly and leave her wretched wealth? And if she fled she never could return; Yet if she stay'd she felt that she should die. So go or stay meant misery for her-- But misery is lessened when we move. Yes, she would go! and then she laugh'd to think Of the wild fury of her harsh old Lord When he should wake one day and find her gone-- Laugh'd! the first time for long and weary months. By Mont St. Michael, on the Norman coast, A restless river, changing oft its course, Flows sullenly; and racehorse-like the tide, Which, going, leaves a wilderness of sand. Comes rushing back, a foam-topp'd, wat'ry wall; And those who, wand'ring, 'scape the quicksand's grip, Are often caught and drown'd ere help can come. But fair the prospect from the Mount when bright The sunshine falls on Avranches far away, A white town straggling o'er a verdant hill; And on the tree-clad country toward the west, On apple orchards, and the fairy bloom Of feath'ry tam'risk bushes on the shore; Whilst high above in silent majesty Of hue and form the floating clouds support The far-extending vault of azure sky Such was the shrine the lady sought, and there In mute appeal for what she lack'd she knelt, Not knowing what she lack'd; but finding peace Steal o'er her soul there as she faintly heard The slow and solemn chanting of the priests, The mild monotony of murmured prayers, And hush of pauses when she seemed to feel The heart she deem'd so hard was melting fast, And listen'd to a voice within her say-- "Love is not vain! Love all things and rejoice!" And found warm tears were stealing down her cheeks.