,
and was obliged to leave the field to the enemy. My uniform was torn by
the cannon-balls, two horses were shot underneath me, but death shunned
me; I seemed to bear a charmed life; I could not die! From an army
of forty-eight thousand men, there now remains three thousand. The
consequences of this battle will be more fearful than the battle itself.
It is a terrible misfortune, and I will not survive it. There is no
one to whom I can look for help. I cannot survive my country's ruin.
Farewell!"

"And now," said the king, when he had sealed and directed his letter,
"now I am ready; my worldly affairs are settled. I am at the end of my
sufferings, and dare claim that last, deep rest granted by Nature to
us all. I have worked enough, suffered enough; and if, after a life of
stormy disasters, I seek my grave, no one can say it was cowardly not
to live--for all the weight of life rolled upon me, forced me to the
ground, and the grave opened beneath my feet. I continued to hope,
when overwhelmed with defeat at every point. Every morning brought new
clouds, new sorrows. I bore it courageously, trusting that misfortune
would soon weary, the storms blow over, and a clear, cloudless sky
envelop me. I deceived myself greatly; my sorrows increased. And now,
the worst has happened; my country is lost! Who dares say I should
survive this loss? To die at the proper time is also a duty. The Romans
felt this, and acted upon it. I am a true scholar of the old masters,
and wish to prove myself worthy of them. When all is lost, the liberty
to die should not be denied. The world has nothing more to do with me,
and I laugh at her weak, unjust laws. Like Tiberius, will I live and
die! Farewell, then, thou false existence; farewell, weak man! Ah!
there are so many fools--so few men amongst you; I have found so many
faithless friends, so many traitors, so few honest men! In the hour of
misfortune they all deserted me! But, no!" said he; "one remained true.
D'Argens never deceived me, and I had almost forgotten to take leave of
him. Well, death must wait for me, while I write to D'Argens!"

A heavenly inspiration now beamed on his countenance; his eyes shone
like stars. The holy muse had descended to comfort the despairing hero,
to whisper loving and precious words to him. Thus standing at death's
portals, Frederick wrote his most beautiful poem, called "Ami le sort
en est jete'." A great wail of woe burst from his soul. The sorrows, the
grie