A SCENE IN LA GIRONDE, 1832.
Grey in the silver dawn, Of the frost-bound winter's day, The Church of Our Lady of Arcachon Looks out toward the bay.
Silent and cold she stands, With her white face to the shore, The great pine wood behind her spread, And the long blue sea before.
There is no wind abroad,— Only a moan from the surge, Where the billows of foam, in large white heaps, Lie out on the basin's verge.
Forty barefooted men
Come over the frost-rim'd sand— Pilgrims of love to Our Lady's shrine—
Each man with cross in hand; Out of the churning tide, Out of the wave-broken ship, When she struck the point of the Sant de Grave, Beside the whirlpool's lip.
And all night long they prayed, While her quiv'ring timbers strained, And the low black rocks looked hungrily thro', Each time the water drained.
Strange sight it is to see, From sunless dawn to noon, Those forty bareheaded, barefoot men March over hollow and dune.
The foam sheets in the bay, 'The fisher's boat on the wave, Bring thought of another lake far away, And One who woke to save.
Ala! for those wandering hearts,
For their faith so fond and dim, That yearns to Our Lady of Arcachon,
41,
Ancrhath no thought for Him ! C. F. A.
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