"And were this world all devils o'er, And watching to devour us, We lay it not to heart so sore, Not they can overpower us. And let the Prince of Ill Look grim as e'er he will, He harms us not a whit; For why? His doom is writ, A word shall quickly slay him." There is now but little question that Martin Luther not only wrote the words but the music of the grand old hymn, the first and third stanzas of which, taken from Carlyle's free and rugged translation, are given above. Sleidan, a contemporary historian, indeed says that "Luther made a tune for it singularly suited to the words and adapted to stir the heart." The date of its composition is a matter of controversy; but it is clear that it must have been either in 1529 or 1530, and most writers agree that it was just before the Diet at Augsburg, where it was sung. Niederer, in a work published at Nuremberg, 1759, fixes the date as 1530, and finds it in Preussen's psalm-book, printed in 1537. Winterfeld observes it for the first time in the "Gesangbuch" of the composer Walther, a friend of Luther. Its usual title is, "Der XLVI. Psalm: Deus noster Refugium et virtus, pp. D., Martin Luther." It matters little, however, the exact year in which the sturdy old Reformer wrote the hymn which has stirred the human heart more than any other. It is indissolubly connected with his name, and every line of it is a reflex of his indomitable and God-fearing nature. Heine and Carlyle have paid it noble tributes. The German poet says:-- "The hymn which he composed on his way to Worms,[8] and which he and his companions chanted as they entered that city, is a regular war-song. The old cathedral trembled when it heard these novel sounds. The very rooks flew from their nests in the towers. That hymn, the Marseillaise of the Reformation, has preserved to this day its potent spell over German hearts." Carlyle still more forcibly says:-- "With words he had now 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.'"