LOUVAIN

A shrine, where saints and scholars met

And held aloft the torch of truth,

Lies smouldering‘ neath fair Brabant's skies,

A ruined heap — war's prize in sooth!

The Pilates of Teutonic blood

That fired the brand and flung the bomb

Now wash their hands of evil deed,

While all the world stands ghast and dumb.

Is this your culture, sons of Kant,

And ye who kneel‘ round Goethe's throne?

To carry in your knapsacks death?

To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?

What‘ vails it now your mighty guns

If God be mightier in the sky?

What‘ vail your cities, walls and towers

If half your progress be a lie?

The smoking altars, ruined arch

Of ancient church and Gothic fane

Have felt the death stings of your shells,

And speak in pity thro’ Louvain.

Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,

Forget your “World-Power's” cursed plan

And sign in peace and not in blood

Dread Sinai's pact‘ twixt God and Man.