Formerly belonging to the Templars
On the dark heights that overlook the Rhine,
Flinging long shadows on the watery plains,
Crown'd with gray towers, and girdled by the
How little of the warlike past remains!
The castle walls are shatter'd, and wild flowers
Usurp the crimson banner's former sign.
Where are the haughty Templars and their powers?
Their forts are perish'd—but not so their shrine.
Like Memory veil'd, Tradition sits and tells
Her twilight histories of the olden time.
How few the records of those craggy dells
But what recall some sorrow or some crime.
Of Europe's childhood was the feudal age,
When the world's sceptre was the sword; and power,
Unfit for human weakness, wrong, and rage,
Knew not that curb which waits a wiser hoar.
Ill suited empire with a human hand;
Authority needs rule, restraint, and awe;
Order and peace spread gradual through the land.
And force submits to a diviner law.
A few great minds appear, and by their light
The many find their way; truth after truth
Rise starlike on the depths of moral night,
Though even now is knowledge in its youth.
Still as those ancient heights, which only bore
The iron harvest of the sword and spear,
Are now with purple vineyards cover' d o'er,
While corn-fields fill the fertile valleys near.
Our moral progress has a glorious scope,
Much has the past by thought and labour done;
Knowledge and Peace pursue the steps of Hope,
Whose noblest victories are yet unwon.