Classic Poem

Now rise and save your brothers in their need,
Ye Templars, from each tomb in which you sleep.
Muster in ghostly troops when dusk shades creep,
Whate'er your land, with shadowy lance and steed;

And haste, as when at Askalon, your speed
Outstripped the whirling sand; and on the deep
Off Tyre and Rhodes, let phantom galleys sweep
In gathering fleets as thick as sower's seed!

For if the dead rise not to save the quick,
There is no help between the earth and sky
For those whom God and man alike forsake:

The red and yellow flames already lick
Our very feet; and will ye let us die?
Ye Templars in your tombs, awake, awake!