Ode to Count Bruhl

Slave to thy fortune! cast aside
The gaudy pageants of thy pride;
Assum'd in evil hour.
Tho flatt'ring, 'tis a dangerous thing
To lord it o'er an easy king,
And weild the sword of power.

With his magnificence, we see
Thy sov'reign's cares transferr'd to thee,
Unhappy as thou'rt great.
Suspicion poisons thy delights;
Thy restless days, and sleepless nights,
Betray the wretch in state.

Leave thy proud halls where columns rise,
In lofty grandeur to the skies,
The envy of the age;
Where, serv'd in regal pomp, thy fears
Whisper sedition in thine ears,
And faction's desperate rage.

A tempest hovering o'er thine head,
An injur'd people's hate thy dread,
How irksome is thy fate!
Then learn, tho, greater than a king,
The mob's loud Io's round thee ring,
The emptiness of state.

Insipid is the life, and vain,
The same dull forms run o'er again,
Without one leisure hour.
Ev'n vanity, in its retreat,
Finds ease and freedom oft as sweet
As opulence and power.

In sylvan scenes, where nature smiles,
And pure simplicity beguiles,
With charms best form'd to please;
Ev'n wealth forgets its anxious cares,
And pow'r the burthen that it bears,
To set our hearts at ease.

Already, see, the spring is fled;
The raging dog-star rears his head;
And fierce the noon-tide ray,
Repose invites; accept the prize;
Enjoy the summer ere it flies,
And live at ease to-day.

Beneath the cool refreshing shade,
Stretch'd out, the shepherd swain is laid,
And tends his flocks at ease:
The zephyrs scarce are heard to sigh;
The drooping jasmines, fading, die,
Late broken by the breeze.

While thus all nature's charm'd to rest,
Say, wherefore, Bruhl, thy lab'ring breast
Forebodes thy country's fate?
Prussia thou seest before thine eyes,
With num'rous nations, his allies,
Thund'ring at Dresden's gate.

Wak'd at the dreadful voice of war,
Thy fears already bring from far
An host of savage foes;
Turk, Tartar, ravaging the soil,
From where Sarmatian peasants toil,
To where Euphrates flows.

The gods, for reasons just and wise,
'Twixt future scenes and mortal eyes,
The darkest veil have thrown;
To shew presumptuous man how vain
His art the knowledge e'er to gain,
Of what heaven keeps unknown.

Then let us grateful homage pay,
Enjoy the blessings of to-day,
And leave to-morrow's cares.
Let us, submitting to their power,
Employ, content, the present hour:
Futurity is theirs.

Most impotent the vain pretence
To wrest the hand of providence,
By human art or force:
Man's single arm as well might guide,
Or stop the Rhine's majestic tide,
Uncertain in its course:

Now smoothly doth its current flow,
Its wonted tribute to bestow,
By rolling to the main;
Now, swelling from the mountain floods
It bursts its banks, roots up the woods,
And deluges the plain.

If cloudy prove to-morrow's dawns,
Or darts its beams across the lawn
The golden orb of day;
What is it to the virtuous mind,
If howls the loud tempestuous wind,
Or radiant sun-beams play?

With clouds the future's overcast,
Nor fate itself can change the past,
Recalling former days;
While time, in haste, and wing'd for flight,
Before he's even out of sight,
The present doth eraze.

Inconstant fortune, light as air,
Involves us now in black despair,
Now sooths with flattering smiles;
In disappointments takes delight,
And mocking us in cruel spite,
All human-kind beguiles.

On me her favours thrown away,
She showers them lavish down, to-day;
And why no mortal knows.
To-morrow, stript at her command,
Those favours, with as lavish hand,
On others she bestows.

Yet think not fortune's wild caprice,
O Bruhl! shall e'er destroy my peace,
Or fill my heart with spleen.
I use, with gratitude, as mine,
Her gifts; which yet I can resign
Without the least chagrin.

By nobler sentiments inspir'd,
By nobler views to virtue fir'd,
Ev'n poverty I'd wed,
Did she, a portion for a king,
Integrity and honour bring,
To crown her nuptial bed.