poetic feeling did not so much learn to express itself in fit
words, that take captive every ear, as in fit actions,
wherein, truly under still more impressive manifestations, the
spirit of spheral melody resides and still audibly addresses
us. In his written poems, we find little save that strength of
on 'whose words,' it has been said, 'were half-battles'3-
little of that still harmony and blending softness of union
which is the last perfection of strength - less of it than even
his conduct manifested. With words he had not learned to make
music - it was by deeds of love or heroic valor that he spoke
freely. Nevertheless, though in imperfect articulation, the
same voice, if we listen well, is to be heard also in his
writings, in his poems. The one entitled _Ein' Feste Burg_,
universally regarded as the best, jars upon our ears; yet
there is something in it like the sound of Alpine avalanches,
or the first murmur of earthquakes, in the very vastness of
which dissonance a higher unison is revealed to us. Luther
wrote this song in times of blackest threatenings, which,
however, could in no sense become a time of despair. In these
tones, rugged and broken as they are, do we hear the accents
of that summoned man, who answered his friends' warning not to
enter Worms, in this wise: - 'Were there as many devils in Worms
as these tile roofs, I would on'; of him who, alone in that
assemblage before all emperors and principalities and powers,
spoke forth these final and forever memorable words, - 'It is
neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. Till
such time as either by proofs from holy Scripture, or by fair
reason or argument, I have been confuted and convicted, I
cannot and will not recant. Here I stand - I cannot do
otherwise - God be my help, Amen.' It is evident enough that to