by Robert Laurence Binyon
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.
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.
Last updated January 14, 2019