Our tears, our songs, our laurels—what are these
To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss,
Stretched in thine unimagined agonies
On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross.

For such a world as this that thou shouldst die
Is price too vast—yet, Belgium, hadst thou sold
Thyself, O then had fled from out the earth
Honour for ever, and left only Gold.

Nor diest thou—for soon shalt thou awake,
And, lifted high on our victorious shields,
Watch the new sunrise driving for your sons
The hated German shadow from your fields.

“British colonists resident in London volunteer, and not even silk hats are doffed before training begins”

—New York Times