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Robert Laurence Binyon - Louvain To Dom Bruno Destrée, O.S.B.
Work rating: Low

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.
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