Not the Prussian, the forsworn, <br />By whose fury overborne, <br />Martyred Belgium, you lie <br />Bruised with all injury. <br />Through your peace red paths he clove, <br />Burning, slaying, making spoil <br />Of your shining treasure-trove, <br />Ancient wisdom, beauty, toil; <br />Drenching hearth and shrine and sod <br />With the blood that cries to God. <br />Futile all that savage force. <br />Time in his aeonian course <br />Still shall clarion your fame. <br />Yours the triumph;his the shame. <br />On your honor he made war, <br />But his guns have battered down <br />Only forts. Inheritor <br />Of unparalleled renown, <br />Belgium, your name shall be <br />Brighter than Thermopylæ. <br />None could scorn you, had you said: <br />'Hopeless are the odds, and dread <br />Will the fiery vengeance fall <br />On our homes. In vain we call <br />For help that still delays. We yield.' <br />But unflinching from your fate, <br />Up you flung your slender shield, <br />Bore the onset, held the gate <br />For the priceless hour, and saved <br />Liberty, yourself enslaved. <br />No; thrust down to serfdom, still <br />Your unmasterable will, <br />Your high fortitude and faith <br />Outwear exile, anguish, death. <br />On his strip of coast your king <br />Holds your glorious flag unfurled; <br />Your great priest, unfaltering, <br />Peals the truth across the world. <br />With your neck beneath the sword, <br />You are victor, you are lord.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-conqueror-4/
