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Albert the good, the brave, the great, thy land
Lies at thy feet, a crushed and morient rose
Trampled and desecrated by thy foes.
One day a greater Belgium will be born,
But what of this dead Belgium wracked and torn?
What of this rose flung out upon the sand ? . . .
Behold I Afar where sk>' and waters meet A white-robed Figure walketh on the sea. (Peace goes before Him and her face is sweet.) As once He trod the waves of Galilee He comes again — the tumult sinks to rest, The stormy waters shine beneath His feet. He sees the dead rose lying in the sand, He lifts the dead rose in His holy hand And lays it at His breast.
O broken rose of Belgium, thou art blest !
— Annie Vivanti Chartres.
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