The Conqueror

Not the Prussian, the forsworn, By whose fury overborne, Martyred Belgium, you lie Bruised with all injury. Through your peace red paths he clove, Burning, slaying, making spoil Of your shining treasure-trove, Ancient wisdom, beauty, toil; Drenching hearth and shrine and sod With the blood that cries to God. Futile all that savage force. Time in his aeonian course Still shall clarion your fame. Yours the triumph;his the shame. On your honor he made war, But his guns have battered down Only forts. Inheritor Of unparalleled renown, Belgium, your name shall be Brighter than Thermopylæ. None could scorn you, had you said: 'Hopeless are the odds, and dread Will the fiery vengeance fall On our homes. In vain we call For help that still delays. We yield.' But unflinching from your fate, Up you flung your slender shield, Bore the onset, held the gate For the priceless hour, and saved Liberty, yourself enslaved. No; thrust down to serfdom, still Your unmasterable will, Your high fortitude and faith Outwear exile, anguish, death. On his strip of coast your king Holds your glorious flag unfurled; Your great priest, unfaltering, Peals the truth across the world. With your neck beneath the sword, You are victor, you are lord.