This Youth, the seal of death has stamped,
No time can wither never,

This Hope, that sorrow might have damped,
Is fresh and strong for ever. *

THE PERSECUTION OF THE TEMPLARS.

THE towe❜ring cliffs of Gavarnie,

Severely closing round

My onward steps, had seemed to me

A nation's natural bound:

The topmost ridge with cloud was bent,

Save where antique Rolànd

Is said the mountain to have rent
With his gigantic hand.

The hazy memo'ry of the Knight
Of Faery suited well

The huge dimensions of that sight,
And touched them with his spell;
I almost saw the armour glance

In every chance sun-ray,

And feathers move and horses prance

Amid the cata'ract-spray.

When swift within me rose the thought

Of some chiválrous forms,

Who bodily here dwelt and fought
With worse than Nature's storms;

* Mr. and Mrs. Patteson were drowned in the year 1831.

Some hunters of these vales and hills
Who stood, themselves, at bay
Against the fierce pursuit that kills

The honour of its prey :-
:-

The Soldier-monks, whose quaint old Church

I left at Luz, time-worn,

Whose records Histo'ry loves to search,

And searches but to mourn :

The Warriors of the sacred Grave,
Who looked to Christ for laws,
And perished for the faith they gave
Their Comrades and the Cause.

They perished, in one fate alike,

The vete'ran and the boy,

Where'er the regal arm could strike

To torture and destroy;

While darkly, down the stream of time,

Devised by evil fame,

Float murmurs of mysterious crime

And tales of secret shame.

How oft when ava'rice, hate, or pride

Assault some noble band,

The outer world, (that scorns the side
It does not understand,)

Echoes each foul derisive word,

Gilds o'er each hideous sight,
And consecrates the wicked sword

With names of holy Right!

Yet, by these lessons, men awake,
To know they cannot bind
Discordant will in one, and make
An aggregate of mind;

For e'en should hearts and hands combine

In one expressive whole,

Still brutal force can burst the line

And dissipate the soul.

For, ever, in our best essays

At close fraternal ties,

An evil narrowness waylays

Our purest sympathies ;

And love, however bright it burn

For what it holds most fond,
Is tainted by its unconcern
For all that lies beyond.

Wider-oh! wider every hour,
While mortal sight is blind,
Vibrates the circle of the power
That sanctifies mankind;
Wider-oh! wider, undulate
Emotions, that impart

To man the grandeur of his fate

The glory of his heart,

And still the earth has many a knight,

By high vocation bound

To conquer in enduring fight

The Spirit's Holy Ground;

And manhood's pride and hopes of youth
Still meet the Templars' doom,—
Crusaders of the' ascended Truth,
Not of the empty Tomb!

THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE.

A STORY OF THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.

THOSE ruins took my thoughts away
To a far eastern land;
Like camels in a herd, they lay
Upon the dull red sand;

I know not that I ever sate
Within a place so desolate.

Unlike the relics that connect
Our hearts with ancient Time,
All moss-besprent and ivy-deckt,

Gracing a lenient clime,

Here all was death and nothing born,

No life but the unfriendly thorn.

"My little guide, whose sunny eyes

And darkly-lucid skin,

Witness, in spite of shrouded skies,

Where southern realms begin;

Come, tell me all you've heard and know

About these mighty things laid low."

The "Beggar's Castle," wayward name,
Was all these fragments bore,
And wherefore legendary fame
Baptised them thus of yore,

He told in words so sweet and true,

I wish that he could tell it you.

A puissant Seigneur, who in wars
And tournays had renown,

With wealth from prudent ancestors
Sloping unbroken down,

Dwelt in these towers, and held in fee
All the broad lands that eye can see.

He never tempered to the poor
Misfortune's bitter blast,

And when before his haughty door
Widow and orphan past,

Injurious words and dogs at bay
Were all the welcome that had they.

The Monk who toiled from place to place,
That God might have his dole,

Was met by scorn and foul grimace,
And oaths that pierced his soul;

'T was well for him to flee and pray,
"They know not what they do and say."

One evening, when both plain and wood Were trackless in the snow,

A Beggar at the portal stood,

Who little seemed to know
That Castle and its evil fame,
As if from distant shores he came.