SON OF THE PROPHET

SON OF THE PROPHET
J. Fauré
L. C. Elson, French text by J. Chantepie
Oliver Ditson & Co.
Homage to the Ottoman Turks in Istanbul

The Prophet’s son has past [sic] before us,
Brandishing pale Death in his hand;
And fierce as a tempest sweeps o’er us
He passes wildly o’er the land.
Before his horses hoofs see bending
A horde of people and of kings,
Swelling his triumph never ending,
The whole East his glory doth sing.
In Asia’s plains with beauty glowing,
His sceptre rules with mighty sway,
And from the Orient westward going
His bloody flag he doth display;
Turning aside from these fair fountains,
he with the sun doth take his path,
Ne’er have the plains, ne’er have the mountains
Seen such a whirlwind in its wrath,

Great when in Peace,
Strong when in Battle,
He reigns in power superb, divine,
His brow is beaming,
And still the sacred light is streaming
Around the holy crescent’s sign.

Still his victorious strife he wages,
A thousand years his wars have seen,
He views thro’ the lapse of the ages
His many lands from throne serene.
From Nile to far Samartia’s mountains[,]
Tunis to still blooming Babylon,
Danube’s meadows, Euphrates [sic] fountains
All this the Osmanli has won.
In countries where the sun is shining
Stamboul in lofty pow’r behold
Amidst a pleasant land reclining
More fair and mighty than of old.
There reigns the prophet in his glory
Conquering ever in gentle peace

Still do his children chance the story,
Still does his faith and pow’r increase.

Great when in Peace,
Strong when in Battle,
he reigns in power superb, divine,
His brow is beaming,
And still the sacred light is streaming
Around the holy crescent’s sign.

The French text:

Il a passé, Fils du prophète,
Brandissant la mort dans la main,
Fougneux comme un vent de tempête
Qui brise tout sur son chemin.
Il a du pied de sa cavale
Broyé les peuples et les rois,
Et dans sa marche triomphale,
Courbé l’Orient sous ses lois.
Sur l’Asie Aux terres fécondes,
Il s’elance et roule indompté
Et s’en va planter sur trois mondes
Son etendard ensanglante.
Parti de ses rives lointaines
Il suit la marche du soleil
Jamais les monts jamais les plaines
N’avient vu d’ouragan pareil.

Grand dans la paix,
Fort dans la guerre,
Il regne superbe et puissant
Son front s’eclaire
divine symbole du lumière
Des feux brillants du saint croissant.

Après dix siècles de victoire
Après dix siècles de combats,
Du haut de son trône de gloire.
Il contemple au loin ses états.
Du Nil jusqu’a pays Sarmate,

Et de Babylone á Tunis.
Du Danube jusqu’a l’Euphrate,
Tout appartient à l’Osmanlis.
Au pays d’ou nous vient l’aurore,
Stamboul se dresse en sa grandeur
Florissante et plus belle encore
Qu’en ses temps d’antique splendeur
c’est le qu’il veille en sa puissance
Conquerant jusque dans la paix
Il mène en cor son peuple immence
A la conquête du progres.

Grand dans la paix,
Fort dans la guerre,
Il règne superbe et puissant.
Son front s’éclaire
Divin symbole de lumière
Des feux brillants su Saint croissant.

SON OF THE PROPHET