ODE to DEATH. Translated from the FRENCH of the King of PRUSSIA. Frederick II, King of Prussia John Hawkesworth Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.005 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. V. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 138-143. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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ODE to DEATH . Translated from the FRENCH of the King of PRUSSIA . By Dr. HAWKSWORTH . YET a few years , or days perhaps , Or moments pass 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 fantastic 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 flatt'ring 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 consign'd , Once call'd from dust by pow'r 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 heav'n , and mounts the wind , That knows at once itself and God ? Great Cause of all , above , below , Who knows thee must for ever know , Immortal and divine ! Thy image on my soul imprest , Of endless being is the test , And bids Eternity be mine ! Transporting thought ! — but am I sure That endless life will joy secure ? Joy's only to the just decreed ! The guilty wretch expiring , goes Where vengeance endless life bestows , That endless mis'ry may succeed . Great God , how aweful is the scene ! A breath , a transient breath between ; And can I jest , and laugh , and play ! To earth , alas ! too firmly bound , Trees deeply rooted in the ground , Are shiver'd when they're torn away . Vain joys , which envy'd greatness gains , How do ye bind with silken chains , Which ask Herculean strength to break ! How with new terrors have ye arm'd The pow'r whose slightest glance alarm'd ? How many deaths of one ye make ! Yet , dumb with wonder , I behold Man's thoughtless race in error bold , Forget or scorn the laws of death ; With these no projects coincide , Nor vows , nor toils , nor hopes , they guide , Each thinks he draws immortal breath . Each blind to fate's approaching hour , Intrigues , or fights , for wealth , or pow'r , And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke : And he who tott'ring scarce sustains A century's age , plans future gains , And feels an unexpected stroke . Go on , unbridled desp'rate band , Scorn rocks , gulphs , winds , search sea and land , And spoil new worlds wherever found . Seize , haste to seize the glitt'ring prize , And sighs , and tears , and pray'rs despise , Nor spare the temple's holy ground . They go , succeed , but look again , The desp'rate hand you seek in vain , Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn . But who that saw their treasures swell , That heard th' insatiate vow rebel , Would e'er have thought them mortal born ? See the world's victor mount his car , Blood marks his progress wide and far , Sure he shall reign while ages fly ; No , vanish'd like a morning cloud , The hero was but just allow'd To fight , to conquer , and to die . And is it true , I ask with dread , That nations heap'd on nations bled Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel , With trophies to adorn the spot , Where his pale corse was left to rot , And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal ? Yes , Fortune weary'd with her play , Her toy , this hero , casts away , And scarce the form of man is seen : Awe chills my breast , my eyes o'erflow , Around my brows no roses glow , The cypress mine , funereal green ! Yet in this hour of grief and fears , When aweful Truth unveil'd appears , Some pow'r unknown usurps my breast ; Back to the world my thoughts are led , My feet in Folly's lab'rynth tread , And fancy dreams that life is blest . How weak an empress is the mind , Whom Pleasure's flow'ry wreaths can bind , And captive to her altars lead ! Weak Reason yields to Phrenzy's rage , And all the world is Folly's stage , And all that act are fools indeed . And yet this strange , this sudden flight , From gloomy cares to gay delight , This fickleness , so light and vain , In life's delusive transient dream , Where men nor things are what they seem , Is all the real good we gain .