Puslapio vaizdai
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Nous y trouverons leur poussière
Et la trace de leurs vertus. (bis)
Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre
Que de partager leur cercueil,
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil
De les venger ou de les suivre.
Aux armes, citoyens (etc.).

Amour sacré de la patrie,

Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs.
Liberté, liberté chérie,

Combats avec tes défenseurs. (bis)
Sous nos drapeaux que la victoire
Accoure à tes mâles accents!
Que tes ennemis expirants

Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!
Aux armes, citoyens (etc.).

The Marseillaise is often sung in England, but seldom beyond the first verse, excepting in French. The English free very free- rendering, that is sometimes used, begins thus:

Ye sons of France, awake to glory!

Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While liberty and peace lie bleeding?

To arms to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe!

March on march on! all hearts resolved

On victory or death!

Outside France the Marseillaise is, however, almost exclusively monopolised by Socialist or other exponents

of popular discontent. In France, of course, it is the official anthem, which is played even in the presence of Tsars. But if ever there was a hymn that helped men, the Marseillaise is that hymn. It helped millions to conquer and to die; and so, although it can hardly be regarded as an ordinary hymn, it is such an extraordinary one as to well deserve a place in this collection.

15-LUTHER'S HYMN.

A BATTLE hymn, indeed, is this famous hymn which Heinrich Heine rightly describes as "the Marseillaise Hymn of the Reformation." Luther composed it for the Diet of Spires, when, on April 20, 1529, the German princes made their formal protest against the revocation of their liberties, and so became known as Protestants. In the life-and-death struggle that followed, it was as a clarion summoning all faithful souls to do battle, without fear, against the insulting foe. Luther sang it to the lute every day. It was the spiritual and national tonic of Germany, administered in those dolorous times as doctors administer quinine to sojourners in fever-haunted marshes. Every one sang it, old and young, children in the street, soldiers on the battlefield. The more heavily hit they were, the more tenaciously did they cherish the song that assured them of ultimate victory. When Melancthon and his friends, after Luther's death, were sent into banishment, they were marvellously cheered as they entered Weimar on hearing a girl sing Luther's hymn in the street. "Sing on, dear daughter mine," said Melancthon; "thou knowest not what comfort thou bringest to our heart." Nearly a hundred years later, before the great victory which he gained over the Catholic forces at Leipsic, Gustavus Adolphus asked his warriors to sing Luther's hymn, and after the victory he thanked God that He had made good the promise, "The field He will maintain it." It was sung at the Battle of Lützen. It was sung also many a time and oft during the Franco-German war. In fact, whenever the depths of the German heart are

really stirred, the sonorous strains of Luther's hymn instinctively burst forth. M. Vicomte de Vogue, one of the most brilliant of contemporary writers, in his criticism of M. Zola's "Débâcle," pays a splendid tribute to the element in the German character which finds its most articulate expression in Luther's noble psalm. M. de Vogue says that M. Zola, in his work, entirely fails to explain in what the superiority of the German army consisted. What was there in these men? Why did they conquer France? Only he who knows the answer, and dares to give it, will be able to write the book about the war.

"He who is so well up in all the points of the battlefield of Sedan must surely know what was to be seen and heard there on the evening of Sept. 1, 1870. It was a picture to tempt his pen, those innumerable lines of fires starring all the valley of the Meuse, those grave and solemn chants sent out into the night by hundreds of thousands of voices. No orgy, no disorder, no relaxation of discipline; the men mounting guard under arms till the inexorable task was done; the hymns to the God of victory and the distant home, they seemed like an army of priests coming from the sacrifice. This one picture, painted as the novelist knows how to paint in his best days, would have shown us what virtues, wanting in our own camp, had kept fortune in the service of the other."

Of English versions there have been many. That of Thomas Carlyle is generally regarded as the best.

ASURE stronghold our God is He.

A trusty shield and weapon;

Our help He'll be, and set us free
From every ill can happen.
That old malicious foe

Intends us deadly woe;

Armed with might from Hell,
And deepest craft as well,
On earth is not his fellow.

Through our own force we nothing can,
Straight were we lost for ever;
But for us fights the proper Man,
By God sent to deliver.

Ask ye who this may be?
Christ Jesus named is He.
Of Sabaoth the Lord;
Sole God to be adored;

'Tis He must win the battle.

And were the world with devils filled,
All eager to devour us,

Our souls to fear should little yield,
They cannot overpower us.

Their dreaded Prince no more
Can harm us as of yore;

Look grim as e'er he may,
Doomed is his ancient sway;

A word can overthrow him.

God's word for all their craft and force
One moment will not linger:
But spite of Hell shall have its course
'Tis written by His finger.

And though they take our life,
Goods, honour, children, wife;
Yet is there profit small:

These things shall vanish all;
The city of God remaineth.

The following is given in Julian's Dictionary of Hymnology as the earliest High German Text now accessible to us. It is that of 1531:

IN' feste burg ist unser Gott,

EIN

ein gute wehr und waffen. Er hilfft unns frey aus aller not

die uns ytzt hat betroffen,
Der alt böse feind

mit ernst ers ytzt meint,
gros macht und viel list
sein grausam rüstung ist,
auf erd ist nicht seins gleichen.

Mit unser macht ist nichts gethan,
wir sind gar bald verloren ;
Es streit fur uns der rechte man,
den Gott hat selbs erkoren.
Fragstu, wer der ist?

er heist Jhesu Christ
der Herr Zebaoth,

und ist kein ander Gott,

das felt mus er behalten.

Und wenn die welt vol Teuffell wehr
und wolt uns gar vorschlingen
So fürchten wir uns nicht zu sehr
es sol uns doch gelingen.

Der Fürst dieser welt,
wie sawr er sich stellt.
thut er unns doch nicht,
das macht, er ist gericht,

ein wörtlin kan yhn fellen.

Das wort sie sollen lassen stahn
und kein danck dazu haben,
Er ist bey unns wol auff dem plan
mit seinem geist und gaben.
Nemen sie den leib,

gut, eher, kindt unnd weib
las faren dahin,

sie habens kein gewin,

das reich mus uns doch bleiben.

TUNE "WORMS," ALSO CALLED "EIN' FESTE BURG."

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