Belgium

O race that Cæsar knew, That won stern Roman praise, What land not envies you The laurel of these days? You build your cities rich Around each towered hall, -- Without, the statued niche, Within, the pictured wall. Your ship-thronged wharves, your marts With gorgeious Venice vied, Peace and her famous arts Were yours: though tide on tide Of Europe's battle scourged Black fields and reddened soil, From blood and smoke emerged Peace and her fruitful toil. Yet when the challenge rang, "The War-Lord comes; give room!" Fearless to arms you sprang Agains the odds of doom. Like your own Damien Who sought that leper's isle To die a simple man For men with tranquil smile, So strong in faith you dared Defy the giant, scorn Ignobly to be spared, Though trampled, spoiled, and torn, And in your faith arose And smote, and smote again, Till those astonished foes Reeled from their mounds of slain, The faith that the free soul, Untaught by force to quail, Through fire and dirge and dole Prevails, and shall prevail. Still for your frontier stands The host that knew no dread, Your little, stubborn land's Nameless, immortal dead.

Laurence Binyon

Not with her ruined silver spires, Not with her cities shamed and rent, Perish the imperishable fires That shape the homestead from the tent. Wherever men are staunch and free, There shall she keep her fearless state, And homeless, to great nations be The home of all that makes them great.

Edith Wharton

Champion of human honor, let us lave Your feet and bind your wounds on bended knee. Though coward hands have nailed you to the tree And shed your innocent blood and dug your grave, Rejoice and live! Your oriflamme shall wave -- While man has power to perish and be free -- A golden flame of holiest Liberty, Proud as the dawn and as the sunset brave. Belgium, where dwelleth reverence for right Enthroned above all ideals; where your fate And your supernal patience and your might Most sacred grow in human estimate, You shine a star above this stormy night Little no more, but infinitely great.

Eden Phillpotts

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears, Weeping your beauty marred and torn, Your children tossed upon the spears, Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, Where Spring has no renewing spell, And Love no language save a long Farewell! Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, Whose price -- for so in God we trust Who saw them fall in that blind swirl Of ravening flame and reeking dust -- The spoiler with his life shall pay, When Justice at the last demands her Day. O tried and proved, whose record stands Lettered in blood too deep to fade, Take courage! Never in our hands Shall the avenging sword be stayed Till you are healed of all your pain, And come with Honour to your own again.

Owen Seamen May 19, 1915

Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day, A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . This is not Paris. You have lost your way. You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan -- Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met. Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. You have no word to break: no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton