spread,
He arms for war ... but arms without a dread!
No _giant forms_[39] compose a vain parade,
No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_:
Valour he courts without the pomp of art,
And rises on the service of the heart:
He boasts it all his glory to be just
(A pride beyond the title of _August_!)
Which time secures, the most impartial friend,
And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end!
So when beneath the curs'd _Caesarian_ race
_Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace;
Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest,
To give the weary world the sweets of rest:
No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign,
'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain;
E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke,
For goodness is a band no savage broke!
Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood,
A crime, her victor's clemency withstood:
Not all her honours levell'd with the dust,
Styl'd _Titus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_:
Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose,
A charm! not worlds united can oppose!
Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise!
Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies:
Try to surpass! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!)
_He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XI-283, Nov. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

[Footnote 38: This alludes to the new order instituted by his
Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with
this inscription, For Merit.]

[Footnote 39: This alludes to the king's allowing liberty to
the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]

TRANSLATION OF AN EPISTLE FROM THE
KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indifference would I view
Departing fortune's winged haste,
And at the goddess laugh like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And flatt'rers wordy emptiness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a prince and poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless sheers of fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank me with th' un