ODE ON DEATH.

WRITTEN IN FRENCH BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING

OF PRUSSIA.

TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.

W

HAT does the fad prefaging mean?

Few days, few years, perhaps few moments urge

My footsteps to the dreary verge,

Where fate the curtain drops to close the scene: Then farewell! Life and Light! and thou blest Sun ferene.

Earth, o'er me roll thy mighty bed;
The world recedes; I view the grave profound:

Of life I touch the utmost bound;

And rush to mix a victim with the dead,

Where Fate embraces all, and none can backward tread.

While yet I wake or fleep, there stand
Ten thousand Deaths in arms; before, behind,

They prefs me round; and every wind

Wafts the contagion from each distant land,

And all the Elements confpire to arm the dreadful band;

4

Within

Within, without, above, below,

By turns they fink, or rend my feeble frame,
Now chill, now urge the vital flame,

Till Nature's tortur'd ftream forgets to flow,
And Art itself but proves a still more dangerous foe.

Duft to its Duft will foon return

This mortal part, proud Tyrant of the Mind,
Nor leave of all its pomp behind,

But horrid leffons human Pride should learn,
Foul Worms, and Blood, and Stench that fill the Royal Urn.

Recede, ye base and servile train,
I cannot be the mighty thing ye say ;
The wretched object of a day,

Which flatter'd Fancy would exalt in vain,
I know what I must be, and what I am difdain.

But, warm'd with Heaven's eternal flame,. Shall that which lives, which thinks, the Mind Be fleeting as the empty wind?

Or fay, can Death its active efforts tame, O God, who first infpir'd this animated frame?

No: for the Mind above the grave

Unfetter'd springs, and fearching Nature's stores
It knows itself, and Thee adores,

Secure, O God, whofe word its being gave,
That what created firft has certain power to fave;

While this of Death difpels the cloud,
Can fenfual joy life's narrow view confine?
True Virtue feels the hope divine

Of blifs fincere: not fo the guilty croud;
Thy arm for ever blaits the wicked and the proud.

Great God! and is eternal pain
Or joy of Heaven referv'd for me in store?
Thy breath but wafts to either shore ;
Scarce can the tortur'd mind the thought sustain;
I fly forbidden joys, the fenfual, and the vain.

Yet faft to earth is Nature bound:
Back on its wonted objects turns the Mind,
And lags the flave of life behind :

While Reason's efforts are too painful found
To rend the rooted oak that loves its native ground.

Objects of every jealous eye,

Ye dreams of mortal good, that fwift decay,

How do ye stop my deftin'd way,

And force me back the paths of sense to try? Ye point the fting of Death, and more than once I die.

Scenes of astonishment the world how blind!

Is Death depriv'd of all his mighty power?
Do none expect the fatal hour?

Is there a wifh to Nature's bounds confin'd?
Is there a scheme forgot, or toil for this refign'd?

See

See Mortals still acquire, affume,

As if more vigilant they Death could shun,

To honours fly, to combats run,

And he, whofe footsteps tremble o'er the tomb,

Builds

up new plans of life, and fudden meets his doom.

Rufh on, ye madding train,

A thousand rocks, a thousand storms defpife,
To reach the good ye idolize;

Go, of accumulated wealth be vain :

Go, ravage other worlds, if other worlds remain.

Let neither law, nor power divine,

Nor Nature's anxious Monitor within
Reprefs each greatly daring Sin;

Go: bid with want the plunder'd Orphan pine,
And with polluted hands disturb each facred fhrine;

Proceed but foon your views are past ; Accurft, at once ye droop, and are no more:

Who would not think,

to fee your flore,

That all the projects your Ambition caft

Beyond the grave were stretch'd, and would for ever last ?

Ye mighty Leaders, mighty Kings,

With flames, and blood, whofe battles mark your way; Do Monarchs hope eternal sway?

In vain each distant clime its tribute brings;

Sprung from the duft, ye mix with long-forgotten things.

2

Himfelf

Himself the Victor cannot fave;

If but to die is yours, how fhort is Glory's fum

In vain ye fought and overcome,

Nor aught avail the fpoils Ambition gave,

To hang with conquer'd crowns the putrid Monarch's grave.

On Nature's theatre display'd

All is the fport of Death; the change I fear;
New objects rife, then disappear;

Around my brows the cyprefs cafts a fhade;
I scorn the sweets of life, and all its roses fade.

Yet 'midst this fage, but painful lore, While awful truths their facred light reveal, What means this latent with I feel!

Is then my bofom's Lord itself no more? Wretch! that I drag new chains more ponderous than before.

Rules then the mind, this Lord fupreme? Which every weak and vain allurement draws

To Pleafure's throne, and tyrant laws. Quick we return in life from what we seem

To what we are, and wake from calm Reflection's dream.

As wandering Fancy leads we go;

By turns we reason, or fubmit to sense,

And incoherent parts commence

That fill the ftage of Folly, Shame, and Woe;

Nor from the hook efcap'd again the bait we know.

Voltaire,