Deeply affected by the formidable struggle which had been going on for nearly a quarter of a century, and persuaded that Christ would put all his enemies under his feet, Calvin gave utterance to this thought in a _Song of Victory_ (_Epinicion_). It is the only poem of his that we possess, and it contains some fine lines. ‘Yes,’ sang Calvin, ‘the victory will be Christ’s, and the year which announces to us the day of triumph is now beginning. Let pious tongues break the thankless silence and cause their joy to burst forth. His enemies will say, What madness is this? Are they triumphing over a nation which is not yet subdued, are they seizing the crown before they have routed the army? True, impiety sits haughtily on a lofty throne. There still exists one who by a nod bends to his will the most powerful monarchs, his mouth vomiting deadly poison and his hands stained with innocent blood. But for Christ death is life and the cross a victory. The breath of his mouth is the weapon with which he fights, and already for five _lustra_ he has brandished his sword with a vigorous hand, not without smiting. The pope, leader of the sacrilegious army, wounded at last, groans under the unlooked-for plagues which have just fallen upon him, and the profane multitude is trembling for terror. If it be a great thing to conquer one’s enemies by force, what must it be to overthrow them by a mere sign? Christ casts them down without breaking his own repose: he scatters them while he keeps silence. We are a pitiful band, few in number, without apparel, without arms, sheep in the presence of ravening wolves. But the victory of Christ our king is for that very reason all the more marvellous. Let his head then be crowned with the laurel of victory, let him be seated on the chariot drawn by four coursers abreast, that his glory may shine forth before all.
Que tous ses ennemis qui lui ont fait la guerre Aillent après, captifs, baissant le front en terre:
Eck still flushed with his Bacchic orgies, the incompetent Cochlæus, Nausea with his wordy productions, Pelargus with his mouth teeming with insolence—these are not chief men, but the shameless multitude have set them for standard-bearers in the fight. Let them learn then to bow their necks under an unaccustomed yoke. And you, O sacred poets, celebrate in magnificent song the glorious victory of Jesus Christ, and let all the multitude around him shout _Io Pæan!_‘[45]