ODE ON DEATH.

WRITTEN IN FRENCH BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

TRANSLATED BY THE SAME.

WHAT does the sad presaging 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 farewel! Life and Light! and thou blest Sun serene. 

Earth, o'er me rolls 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 sleep, there stand
 Ten thousand Deaths in arms; before, behind,
 They press me round; and every wind
 Wafts the contagion from each distant land,
 And all the Elements conspire to arm the dreadful band;

Within, without, above, below,
 By turns they sink, or rend my feeble frame,
 Now chill, now urge the vital flame,
 Till Nature's tortur'd stream forgets to flow,
 And Art itself but proves a still more dangerous foe. 

Dust to its Dust will soon return
 This mortal part, proud Tyrant of the Mind,
 Nor leave of all its pomp behind,
 But horrid lessons human Pride should learn,
 Foul Worms, and Blood, and Stench that sill the Royal Urn. 

Recede, ye base and servile train,
 I cannot be the mighty thing ye say;
 The wretched object of a day,
 Which slatter'd Fancy would exalt in vain,
 I know what I must be, and what I am disdain. 

But warm'd with Heaven's eternal flame,
 Shall that which lives, which thinks, the Mind
 Be fleeting as the empty wind? 
Or say, can Death its active efforts tame,
 O God, who first inspir'd this animated frame? 

No: for the Mind above the grave
 Unfetter'd springs, and searching Nature's stores
 It knows itself, and thee adores,
 Secure, O God, whose word its being gave,
 That what created first has certain power to save;

While thus of Death dispels the cloud,
 Can sensual joy life's narrow view confine? 
True Virtue feels the hope divine
 Of bliss sincere: not so the guilty crowd;
 Thy arm for ever blasts the wicked and the proud. 

Great God! and is eternal pain
 Or joy of Heaven reserv'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 sensual, and the vain. 

Yet fast to earth is Nature bound:
 Back on its wonted objects turns the Mind,
 And lags the slave 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 swift decay,
 How do ye stop my destin'd way? 
And force me back the paths of sense to try? 
Ye point the sting 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 wish to Nature's bounds confin'd? 
Is there a scheme forgot, or toil for this resign'd? 

See Mortals still acquire, assume,
 As if more vigilant they Death could shun,
 To honours fly, to combats run,
 And he whose footsteps tremble o'er the tomb
 Builds up new plans of life, and sudden meets his doom. 

Rush on, ye madding train,
 A thousand rocks, a thousand storms despise,
 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
 Repress each greatly daring Sin;
 Go: bid with want the plunder'd Orphan pine,
 And with polluted hands disturb each sacred Shrine;

Proceed: but soon your views are past;
 Accurst; at once ye droop, and are no more:
 Who would not think, to see your store,
 That all the projects your Ambition cast
 Beyond the grave were stretch'd, and would for ever last? 

Ye mighty Leaders, mighty Kings,
 With flames, and blood, whose battles mark your way;
 Do Monarchs hope eternal sway? 
In vain each distant clime its tribute brings,
 Sprung from the dust ye mix with long-forgotten things. 

Himself the Victor cannot save;
 If but to die is yours, how short is Glory's sum? 
In vain ye fought and overcome,
 Nor aught avail the spoils Ambition gave
 To hang with conquer'd crowns the putrid Monarch's grave. 

On Nature's theatre display'd
 All is the sport of Death; the change I fear;
 New objects rise, then disappear;
 Around my brows the cypress casts a shade;
 I scorn the sweets of life, and all its roses fade. 

Yet 'midst this sage, but painful lore,
 While awful truths their sacred light reveal,
 What means this latent wish I feel? 
Is then my bosom's Lord itself no more? 
Wretch! that I drag new chains more ponderous than before. 

Rules then the mind, this Lord supreme? 
Which every weak, and vain allurement draws
 To Pleasure'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 submit to sense,
 And incoherent parts commence
 That fill the stage of Folly, Shame, and Woe;
 Nor from the hook escap'd again the bait we know. 

Voltaire, in this eternal round
 How swift our active spirits urge their way! 
By both extremes deceiv'd we stray,
 Now caught by sense, now lost in thought profound,
 And in the mutual change our happiness is found.