1 HE TKMl'I.AItS IX CÏI'liCS. Nailed to the Cross is every egoist soul, Nor guerdon craves for martyr's services. Only a bower of roses, far away, Mist-veiled springs from tbo dust of green decay. Then pause nnd contemplate tho picture fair Of times whose virtues are for ever gone ; Uright fields Elysian are dispersed in nir, Tho infant from tho mother's breast has flown, liis shield is bright with wisdom's chilling glare ; Hut blind his inner eye is as a stone— For darkness, tomb-like night, beclouds our way When glows no more within the heavenly ray. 'Twos flickering faintly in tho Templar band,— They aro but shadows of their old renown ! Taken from them is now tho Holy Land. World-wanderers aro they scattered up and down ; Only a pious few maintain their stand. The Order's doomed beneath death's deepening frown, Nor aro they hostile hosts that deal the blow, Their own unworthincss must lay them low. At Philip's beck the gathering storms draw near, With rolling thunders, but they will not mind. E'en now the Vatican's fell fires burn clear, And only Molay sees, the rest arc blind. Ah ! 'gainst their foes a bulwark they might rear, Could they, degenerate! needful courage find ; They dare not—therefore now the engulphing wave Must whelm them in fate's dark abysmal grave. Now whilst they draw their faintest breath, their last, Their strength already to the grave brought low, Above them float tho spirits of the past, Like lightning flashes in dark night that show. Still fain would some brave hearts the last die cast, But, overborne, they like the rest must go, For God the Temple Order called from strife, That it through Death might be new-born to Life !