Owen Seaman

To Belgium in Exile

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears,
 Weeping your beauty marred and torn,
Your children tossed upon the spears,
 Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn,
Where Spring has no renewing spell,
And Love no language save a long Farewell!

Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl,
 Whose price—for so in God we trust
Who saw them fall in that blind swirl
 Of ravening flame and reeking dust—
The spoiler with his life shall pay,
When Justice at the last demands her Day.

O tried and proved, whose record stands
 Lettered in blood too deep to fade,
Take courage! Never in our hands
 Shall the avenging sword be stayed
Till you are healed of all your pain,
And come with Honour to your own again.