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.
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