Qui, de sa grandeur enivre; Decline son nom et ses titres, Et son pouvoir a rien borne. Il me cita tous les registres Ou son nom est enregistre; Bavard de son pouvoir immense, De sa valeur, de ces talents Si salutaires a la France: Il oubliait, passe trois ans, Qu'on ne louait pas sa prudence. "Not satisfied with seeing the Marechal, I saw the guard mounted By these Frenchmen, burning with glory, Who, on four sous a day, Will make of Kings and of Heroes the memory flourish: Slaves crowned by the hands of Victory, Unlucky herds whom the Court Tinkles hither and thither by the sound of fife and drum. A ces Francais brulants de gloire, Dotes de quatre sous par jour, Qui des rois, des heros font fleurir la memoire, Esclaves couronnes des mains de la victoire, Troupeaux malheureux que la cour Dirige au seul bruit du tambour. "That was my fated term. A deserter from our troops got eye on me, recognised me and denounced me. This wretched gallows-bird got eye on me; Such is the lot of all earthly things; And so of our fine mystery The whole secret came to light." Ce malheureux pendard me vit, C'est le sort de toutes les choses; Ainsi de motre pot aux roses Tout le secret se decouvrit. Well; we must take this glimpse, such as it is, into the interior of the young man,--fine buoyant, pungent German spirit, roadways for it very bad, and universal rain-torrents falling, yet with coruscations from a higher quarter;--and you can forget, if need be, the "Literature" of this young Majesty, as you would a staccato on the flute by him! In after months, on new occasion rising, "there was no end to his gibings and bitter pleasantries on the ridiculous reception Broglio had given him at Strasburg," says Valori, [_Memoires,_ i. 88.]--of which this Doggerel itself offers specimen. "Probably the weakest Piece I ever translated?" exclaims one, who has translated several such. Nevertheless there is a straggle of pungent sense in it,--like the outskirts of lightning, seen in that dismally wet weather, which the Royal Party had. Its wit is very copious, but slashy, bantery, and proceeds mainly by exaggeration and turning topsy-turvy; a rather barren species of wit. Of humor, in the fine poetic sense, no vestige. But there is surprising veracity,--truthfulness unimpeachable, if you will read well. What promptitude, too;--what funds for conversation, when needed! This scraggy Piece, which is better than the things people often talk to one another, was evidently written as fast as the pen could go.--"It is done, if such a Hand could have DONE it, in the manner of Bachaumont and La Chapelle," says Voltaire scornfully, in that scandalous VIE PRIVEE;--of which phrase this is the commentary, if readers need one:--