Yet what is life to spotless fame?
And thine to latest time shall bloomThe blow that sinks that beauteous frame, Gives all the virtues to the tomb.
Translated from the French of the King of Prussia.
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 shrink,
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 around on aught 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 yields to Death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heav'n, and mounts the wind,
That knows itself at once, 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 joys secure?
Joys only to the just decreed!
The guilty wretch, expiring, goes
Where vengeance endless life bestows,
That endless mis'ry may succeed.
Great God, how awful 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 shiv'red 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 prospects 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 band you seek in vain,
Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn.
But who, that saw their treasure 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 wearied 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 grow,
The cypress mine, funereal green!
Yet in this hour of grief and fears,
When awful 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,
Which 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.
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