Bleeding and torn, ravished with sword and flame,
By that blasphemer prince, who with the name
Of God upon his lips betrayed the state
He falsely swore to hold inviolate,
Made mad by pride and reckless of the rod,
Shaking his mailed fist in the face of God.
But not in vain her martyrdom. Louvain,
Like the brave maid of France shall rise again;
Above her clotted hair a crown shall shine,
From her dark ashes rise a hallowed shrine
Where pilgrims from far lands shall heal their pain,
Shrived by the sacred sorrow of Louvain.
_Harper’s Weekly_ _Oliver Herford_