Louvain To Dom Bruno Destrée, O.S.B.

I It was the very heart of Peace that thrilled In the deep minster--bell's wide--throbbing sound When over old roofs evening seemed to build Security this world has never found. Your cloister looked from Caesar's rampart, high O'er the fair city: clustered orchard--trees Married their murmur with the dreaming sky. It was the house of lore and living peace. And there we talked of youth's delightful years In Italy, in England. Now, O Friend, I know not if I speak to living ears Or if upon you too is come the end. Peace is on Louvain; dead peace of spilt blood Upon the mounded ashes where she stood. II But from that blood, those ashes there arose Not hoped--for terror cowering as it ran, But divine anger flaming upon those Defamers of the very name of man, Abortions of their blind hyena--creed, Who for ``protection'' of their battle--host Against the unarmed of them they had made to bleed, Whose hearts they had tortured to the utter--most Without a cause, past pardon, fired and tore The towers of fame and beauty, while they shot And butchered the defenceless in the door. But History shall hang them high, to rot Unburied, in the face of times unborn, Mankind's abomination and last scorn.