conscious dead,
What will't avail that _I was_ great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chants my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease, and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure
To what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, nor fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth
By which is measur'd human worth.
_Voltaire_, within his private cell,
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all _his_ peaceful mind,
Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page,
In silent solitude resigned
To the mild virtues of a sage;
But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Bruein
By flames a house I hir'd was lost
Last year; and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground;
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes:
The gipsy knows her power and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And great thy wisdom Vander Bruein.

_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.

ODE TO DEATH
By Frederick II, King of Prussia.
From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.

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 fantastick dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd