is one written by King Robert of France about the year 1000.  It is beautifully simple and pathetic.  State is laid aside with the crown, pride with the royal robe, and Lazarus at Dives’ gate could not have written out of a lowlier heart.  The kingly brow may bear itself high enough before men, the voice may be commanding and imperious enough, cutting through contradiction as with a sword; but before the Highest all is humbleness and bended knees.  Other compositions there are, scattered through the volume, by great personages, several by Louisa Henrietta, Electress of Brandenburg, and Anton Ulrich, Duke of Brunswick,—­all written two hundred years ago.  These are genuine poems, full of faith and charity, and calm trust in God.  They are all dead now, these noble gentlemen and gentlewomen; their warfare, successful or adverse, has been long closed; but they gleam yet in my fancy, like the white effigies on tombs in dim cathedrals, the marble palms pressed together on the marble breast, the sword by the side of the knight, the psalter by the side of the lady, and flowing around them the scrolls on which are inscribed the texts of resurrection.

This book contains surely one of the most touching of human compositions,—­a song of Luther’s.  The great Reformer’s music resounds to this day in our churches; and one of the rude hymns he wrote has such a step of thunder in it that the father of Frederick the Great, Mr. Carlyle tells us, used to call it “God Almighty’s Grenadier March.”  This one I speak of is of another mood, and is soft as tears.  To appreciate it thoroughly, one must think of the burly, resolute, humourous, and withal tender-hearted man, and of the work he accomplished.  He it was, the Franklin’s kite, led by the highest hand, that went up into the papal thundercloud hanging black over Europe; and the angry fire that broke upon it burned it not, and in roars of boltless thunder the apparition collapsed, and the sun of truth broke through the inky fragments on the nations once again.  He it was who, when advised not to trust himself in Worms, declared, “Although there be as many devils in Worms as there are tiles on the house-tops, I will go.”  He it was who, when brought to bay in the splendid assemblage, said, “It is neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience.  Here stand I—­I cannot do otherwise.  God help me.  Amen.”  The rock cannot move—­the lightnings may splinter it.  Think of these things, and then read Luther’s “Christmas Carol,” with its tender inscription, “Luther—­written for his little son Hans, 1546.”  Coming from another pen, the stanzas were perhaps not much; coming from his, they move one like the finest eloquence.  This song sunk deep into the hearts of the common people, and is still sung from the dome of the Kreuz Kirche in Dresden before daybreak on Christmas morning.