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POETRY.
409
Translation of a French Ode in Lloyd's Evening-Post.
SOUBISE and Lorrain in dispute
Concerning their hapless mischance:
To the gen'ral of Austria thus said
The doughty commander of France.
Concerning their hapless mischance:
To the gen'ral of Austria thus said
The doughty commander of France.
'That you always are vanquish'd, dear Charles,
'Surprises me not, by my troth:
'For Frederic, you knew, entre nousy
'Is more than a match for us both.
'Surprises me not, by my troth:
'For Frederic, you knew, entre nousy
'Is more than a match for us both.
'But at Breslau how came you to leave
'So many brave men in disgrace?
'Mai foi! I'd have led them all off,
'If I had been there in your place.'
'So many brave men in disgrace?
'Mai foi! I'd have led them all off,
'If I had been there in your place.'
"True, answer'd Lorrain, I agree,
"This you, with your Frenchmen, had done;
"And mine too had got clear away,
If they, like the French, could have run."
"This you, with your Frenchmen, had done;
"And mine too had got clear away,
If they, like the French, could have run."
Ode on Death, Translated from the French of the King of Prussia, by Dr. Hawkesworth.
YET a few years, or days perhaps.
Or moments pass in silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the fun these eyes shall view;
Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew.
And life's fantastic dream be o'er.
Or moments pass in silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the fun 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.
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.
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 consign'd.
Once call'd from dust by Pow'r divine;
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold—
Hence, dreadful spectre! to behold
Thy afpest, is to make it mine.
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 afpest, is to make it mine.
