With aw still reflecting whence all grandeur springs; And only dependent on thee, King of Kings!

The mate of his vet'rans in each n.o.ble feat; The first in the charge, and the last in retreat, A statesman and monarch, yet true to his word; A soldier with honour, more bright than his sword.

Whom pow'r ne'er corrupted; whom learning adorns: Who, ev'n in idea, court-turpitude scorns: --Yet why should we wonder, that _this_ he disdains; When the blood of good _George_ flows rich in his veins?

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-551, Aug. 1758, Phila.

[Footnote 36: The founder and first legislator of the German nation, to whom after his deification the fourth day of our week was consecrated, now contracted from Wodon's day to Wednesday.]

[Footnote 37: The brave a.s.sertor of his country's liberty against the Roman invasions, who cut to pieces three legions commanded by _Quintilius Varus_ in the reign of _Augustus Caesar_.]

MR. VOLTAIRE'S LETTER TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Translated.

Kind Prince! whom the admiring world must own By truth and nature form'd to grace a throne: Whose dawn of empire like the solar ray, Chears half the _North_ with hopes of lasting day; Receive the homage which the Muses send, Their fav'rite thou! their guardian! and their friend!

ARE you enthron'd?... And does your goodness deign To own your poet, and regard his strain?

O blissful moment! dear auspicious grace!

Does FRED'RICK'S smile my wand'ring steps embrace?

Does his great soul possess'd of wisdom's balm, (Ever benevolent, and ever calm!) Leave all the dignity of state behind, To meet the humble lover of mankind?

And can your hand the royal gift impart To style me friend of your _distinguish'd_ heart?

Fame says of old, that _Phoebus_ heavenly bright, O'er the wide world who spreads the living light, So _Jove_ ordain'd ... his splendid carr resign'd, To live below and humanize mankind: No more his brows their wonted rays reveal'd, A shepherd's form the exil'd G.o.d conceal'd; In _Phrygian_ wilds to an unletter'd race, He sung with such divinely-pleasing grace, The savage nation in their softened hearts, Receiv'd the love of virtue and of arts!

The rudest b.r.e.a.s.t.s the strong persuasion felt, Were taught to think, to reason, and to melt!

Themselves to know, the social tye to own, And learn they were not made to live alone!

Then every useful science sprung to birth, And peaceful labour blest the smiling earth: Men now united lost their antient rage, Nature rejoic'd and blest her _golden age_; An _age_ by heav'n design'd for man no more, Unless a FREDERICK shall _that_ age restore!

It chanc'd as thro' the wood _Apollo_ stray'd, Ere gathering numbers peopled half the shade; As near the cooling stream he pa.s.s'd the day And wak'd the golden lyre to wisdom's lay!

Attentive to the sound a _stranger swain_, His reed attun'd to imitate the strain; The G.o.d well-pleas'd the rustic genius spy'd, Approv'd his aim, and deign'd to be his guide!

Aided his trembling hands to touch the string, Whisper'd the words, and shew'd him how to sing!

The swain improving blest the care bestow'd, Nor in the _master_ yet perceiv'd the _G.o.d_: Nor knew the immortal flame his bosom fir'd, But like a shepherd lov'd him, and admir'd!

In me, _great prince_, the image stands renew'd, I feel myself with kindred warmth indu'd; As to thy praise I tune the conscious lyre, I ask whence draws my breast the n.o.ble fire?

Tell what inspires me, happy people tell?

Beneath my Fred'rick's orient sway who dwell: From rapid _Rhine_ to silver-streaming _Meine_, The peaceful subjects of his placid reign?

Or ye on _Prussia's_ amber yielding sh.o.r.e, Who bless his name, and hail his guardian power!

Yes ... let consenting lands his virtues raise, And fame with all her tongues repeat his praise!

Whose scepter shall _Astrea's_ rule restore, And bid dejected MERIT[38] sigh no more.

As once directed by the voice of fame To _wisdom's King_ the _southern princess_ came; At FREDERICK'S call ... see ravish'd to obey, The sons of learning take their chearful way; To hear _that_ sense which still attention draws; And bless _that_ goodness which directs his laws; Close by his throne _Philosophy_ shall smile, To view her prince approve her children's toil!

While _Science_ joys to see his kind regards Inspire the muse, his bounty still rewards; Not distant far, calm _Charity_ shall stand, Stretching to _Piety_ her social hand: _Justice_ shall banish _arbitrary might_, And _Commerce_ chearful _Plenty_ shall invite: But _Goodness_ chief ... in form angelic drest, (Such as she lives in FREDERICK'S royal breast!) Beneath her wings shall bid the worthy find A shelter from the storms that vex mankind; The friend of truth, by fraud or malice hurl'd Through all the mazes of a faithless world.

Whom envy persecutes and bigots hate, Shall here enjoy an undisturb'd retreat; With HIM, who scorns the empty pride or blood, But shares his grandeur with the _wise_ and _good_!

What tho' his prudence guards the chance of war, His mildness eyes the mischief from afar!

What tho' his arms might _Caesar's_ laurels find, The peaceful olive suits his greater mind: Yet safe in all events the storm he views, In peace or war ... the darling of the Muse!

In either state, alike insur'd success, Since all his aim is to defend and bless!

Yet while impending clouds their darkness spread, He arms for war ... but arms without a dread!

No _giant forms_[39] compose a vain parade, No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_: Valour he courts without the pomp of art, And rises on the service of the heart: He boasts it all his glory to be just (A pride beyond the t.i.tle of _August_!) Which time secures, the most impartial friend, And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end!

So when beneath the curs'd _Caesarian_ race _Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace; Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest, To give the weary world the sweets of rest: No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign, 'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain; E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke, For goodness is a band no savage broke!

Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood, A crime, her victor's clemency withstood: Not all her honours levell'd with the dust, Styl'd _t.i.tus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_: Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose, A charm! not worlds united can oppose!

Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise!

Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies: Try to surpa.s.s! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!) _He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XI-283, Nov. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

[Footnote 38: This alludes to the new order inst.i.tuted by his Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with this inscription, For Merit.]

[Footnote 39: This alludes to the king's allowing liberty to the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]

TRANSLATION OF AN EPISTLE FROM THE KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire, believe me, were I now In private life's calm station plac'd, Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow, With cold indifference would I view Departing fortune's winged haste, And at the G.o.ddess laugh like you.

Th' insipid farce of tedious state, Imperial duty's real weight, The faithless courtier's supple bow, The fickle mult.i.tude's caress, And flatt'rers wordy emptiness, By long experience well I know; And, tho' a prince and poet born, Vain blandishments of glory scorn.

For when the ruthless sheers of fate Have cut my life's precarious thread, And rank me with th' unconscious dead, What will't avail that _I was_ great, Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame In mem'ry's temple chants my name?

One blissful moment whilst we live Weighs more than ages of renown; What then do potentates receive Of good peculiarly their own?

Sweet ease, and unaffected joy, Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure, The regal throne and palace fly, And, born for liberty, prefer Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure To what we monarchs buy so dear, The th.o.r.n.y pomp of scepter'd care.

My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend On fickle fortune's casual flight, For, whether she's my foe or friend, In calm repose I'll pa.s.s the night; And ne'er by watchful homage own I court her smile, nor fear her frown.

But from our stations we derive Unerring precepts how to live, And certain deeds each rank calls forth By which is measur'd human worth.

_Voltaire_, within his private cell, In realms where ancient honesty Is patrimonial property, And sacred freedom loves to dwell, May give up all _his_ peaceful mind, Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page, In silent solitude resigned To the mild virtues of a sage; But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing, Must be to face the tempest's rage, In thought, in life, in death a king.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin Says wise Professor Vander Bruin By flames a house I hir'd was lost Last year; and I must pay the cost.

This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground; And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.

A slave I am to Clara's eyes: The gipsy knows her power and flies.

Fire, water, woman, are my ruin: And great thy wisdom Vander Bruin.

_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.

ODE TO DEATH By Frederick II, King of Prussia.

From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.

Yet a few years or days perhaps, Or moments pa.s.s with silent lapse, And time to me shall be no more; No more the sun these eyes shall view, Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew, And life's fantastick dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink, From nature's verge impell'd I sink, And endless darkness wraps me round!

Yes, Death, is ever at my hand, Fast by my bed he takes his stand, And constant at my board is found.

Earth, air and fire, and water join Against this fleeting life of mine, And where for succour can I fly?

If art with flattering wiles pretend To shield me like a guardian friend, By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.

I see this tyrant of the mind, This idol Flesh to dust consigned, Once call'd from dust by power divine: Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold-- Hence dreadful spectre! to behold Thy aspect, is to make it mine.

And can I then with guilty pride, Which fear nor shame can quell or hide, This flesh still pamper and adorn?

Thus viewing what I soon shall be, Can what I am demand the knee, Or look on aught around with scorn?

But then this spark that warms, that guides, That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?

Can this be dust, a kneaded clod!

This yield to death! the soul, the mind, That measures heaven, and mounts the wind, That knows at once itself and G.o.d?

Great Cause of all, above, below, Who knows thee must forever know, Immortal and divine!

Thy image on my soul imprest, Of endless being is the test, And bids Eternity be mine.