TO BELGIUM

By Richard Le Gallienne

Our tears, our songs, our laurels — what are these

To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss,

Stretched in thine unimagined agonies

On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross.

For such a world as this that thou shouldst die

Is price too vast — yet, Belgium, hadst thou sold

Thyself, O then had fled from out the earth

Honour for ever, and left only Gold.

Nor diest thou — for soon shalt thou awake,

And, lifted high on our victorious shields,

Watch the new sunrise driving for your sons

The hated German shadow from your fields.