At a like age, and thro' the same decay 21
Of sinking nature, you resign'd your breath;
Your lives as diff'rent as your closing day,
Who would not wish to die the woman's death?
No cheering hopes of happier state consol❜d
The Prussian Monarch, and no mercy beam'd
Conviction on his spirit, to unfold
And ward the vengeance of his God blasphem'd;
The boasted lore of philosophic pride,
When wanted most, how little it achieves !
All his regrets, to earthly views apply'd,
Prove his attachment to the life he leaves,
A realm enlarg'd by violence and fraud,
And half a cent'ry spent in war's alarms, Each injur'd neighbour or subdu'd or aw'd,
And thinn'd for generations by his arms;
The thousands to the field of slaughter led,
And Poland's wailings mix'd with deadly hate ;-
All rise to make us loathe his dying bed,
And fear the dangers of a sceptic's fate.
Whoe'er admires the patriot and the brave,
Who cheer'd his Poles with freedom's parting gleam, Would rather muse o'er Kosciusko's grave, 22
Where roars the dashing of some Alpine stream:
Than visit where the proudly sculptur'd stone
Appears still breathing, and inspires with gloom;
Where Friendship and Ambition, all alone,
Convers'd of chivalry at Fred'ric's tomb.
Tho' at the midnight hour, there monarchs stood,
Heav'n look'd with vengeance on the impious oath
Sworn o'er the conq'ror's ashes, and with blood
And desolation scourg'd the realms of both :
The Prussian fled from Jena's fatal field,
And lurid flames from Moscow's walls arose, 'Till both confess'd at Leipsic, as they kneel'd, The God of Armies had dispers'd their foes.
But, oh! Dear Woman, what a pleasing scene
Of comfort smiles around thy drooping head!
A soul rejecting ev'ry thought terrene,
And fix'd on Him, who suffer'd and who bled,
Those heav'nly pleasures, that shall never fade,
Thou see'st already with that clearer ken,
Which, while their eyes are darken'd with the shade
Terrestial, is deny'd in health to men. 23
Thy sleep had follow'd on a restless night,
And not a sigh disturb'd thy failing breath,
For 'twas ev'n doubtful to the ear and sight,
How long sleep lasted ere it clos'd in death, 24
So few thy foibles, and so pure thy ways,
In all the duties God and nature gave,
That life, protracted to a length of days,
Was like a preparation for the grave.
Hence, from the prospect of thy bright career,
With mingled scorn and pity I look down
Upon the hero's madness, who could dare
To lose so much for conquests and a crown,
Oh! may I then avoid this dang'rous shoal,
That would ingulph me in its moving sand;
And let me sail on steady to the goal,
Where rest is certain, in the promis'd land,
For, while I stay in life's contracted span,
Frown'd on by fortune, and unknown to fame,
Let me, since God reveals himself to man,
Make Christian faith and goodness all my aim.
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