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' unconscious 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.