O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! The crawling flames, like adders glistening Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. Now from its soul rose a piteous moan, The soul that always loved the just and fair. Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; The horror everywhere did range and swell, The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing. The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; The German army, fighting for its life, Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; And, as they near this place, The imperial eagles see Before them in their flight, Here, in the solemn night, The old Cathedral to the years to be Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace. Of Verhaeren’s school-fellows at Sainte-Barbe, one, Maurice Maeterlinck, is already enjoying a fame which exceeds his deserts and is not likely to endure. Georges Rodenbach, who died in 1898, wrote, like Verhaeren, of Flemish peasants, but he gave them a romantic glamour which has alienated critics who admire naturalistic poetry. Stefan Zweig has little use for him, and Jethro Bithell speaks of his “weary Alexandrines,” and says that his reputation has waned considerably since his death. But Charles C. Clarke, of the Sheffield Scientific School, in the course of an illuminating article on Belgian literature, says that Rodenbach’s poems have considerable vogue in France. From his discussion of Rodenbach I quote this felicitously phrased paragraph: “Morbid and mystic like his prose, Rodenbach’s poetry has a delicacy and a silvery tone that are inimitable. Out of almost nothing it weaves thoughts and calls up memories of wonderfully melancholy beauty. In it water is always stagnant, giving chill reflections of the sky through trees; lights are dim, footsteps noiseless; rooms are repositories of reminders of the past, where silence speaks to the heart through sad aspects. The extent to which Rodenbach uses such notes constitutes his originality. His skill in avoiding every common formula and his delicate choice of metaphors seem really inspiration. No one has imitated his poems of gray tints and muffled sounds, his mourning designs of dull filigree, without falling into monotony and trifling. It is not enough praise for a poet to say of him that he was unapproachable in picturing the accessories of melancholy; but Rodenbach deserves no more, unless it be our gratitude for preserving in literature something of ancient Flanders which battle and flame have destroyed beyond material restoration.”