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TO THE KING OF PRUSSIA. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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TO THE KING OF PRUSSIA. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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TO THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

I.

You scoffers, who sit in the critical chair;
You witlings malignant, who no man can spare;
Who, proud and loquacious, your ignorance display,
And monarchs presume in the balance to weigh;
Who in language pedantic, erroneous and vain,
That a scholar can ne’er be a hero maintain;
Ye caitiffs, on heroes and poets severe,
Ye censors of kings, to Silesia repair.
Near Neisse see a hundred battalions defeated;
Behold there the chief you so rudely have treated.
’Tis he, ’tis the man, who, with genius profound,
The circle of art and science went round;
Who could the recesses of nature pervade,
And bigots confound, whose religion’s their trade;
Who, in small things as happy as great, knows to please
At a feast by politeness, and freedom, and ease;
Who knows all things, in all things alike can succeed,
Shines in sports and in fields, and rides Pegasus steed.
Turenne, nor Gustavus, nor Sweden’s famed king,
E’er tasted, ’tis true, of famed Helicon’s spring.
But these heroes untinctured with learned lore,
Were ne’er for that cause deemed illustrious the more.
So common a greatness brave Frederick declines,
By turns like Achilles and Homer he shines;
The Austrians and dunces alike he confounds,
And in sarcasms as much as in projects abounds;
Fills Vienna with dread, Rome’s encroachments restrains,
And like a true hero speaks, writes, fights, and reigns.
Oh, prince famed for courage, in talents so bright,
No longer by daring fill my soul with affright;
And with all your wisdom and knowledge reflect,
Cannon balls have for persons but little respect;
And that, forced from a tube by explosion, base lead
May sweep at a stroke the most famed hero’s head,
When, its weight still increased by so rapid a course,
It every moment increases in force.
What becomes then that spirit, that volatile flame,
Sprung from organs of sense and a perishing frame,
That being which vainly would its nature explore,
Which like fire awhile blazes, and then is no more?
Then some surgeon accursed, one of Atropos’ train,
Might dissect the remains of the brave monarch slain;
Behold, might he say, the brain where was found
Such store of ideas, so much science profound;
That noble heart’s fibres might display to the sight,
Which in life all great qualities once did unite;
He might cut—but such images dire must not stain
My page, which his praises alone should contain.
You deities just, noble Frederick defend,
The bliss of mankind does on Frederick depend.
Live, prince, both in peace and in war to do more
Than the princes of Europe could e’er do before;
For I’ll prophesy boldly, in time ’twill appear,
That a star half so bright ne’er lighted the sphere.
But when you by conquest on conquest obtained,
Increase of your glory and empire have gained,
Forget not the bard, who dared once in weak lays
Your great deeds to presage, and your virtues to praise;
Recollect that, in spite of your sovereign command.
His friend you have signed yourself under your hand.
Farewell, victor, deep versed in the statesman’s famed art,
Thirty kingdoms subdued are outweighed by a heart.

II.

From the German chief of such fame and renown,
The brightest of monarchs that e’er wore a crown,
For these three months past, a most tedious long time,
I have not heard once or in prose or in rhyme:
My muse is oppressed with a lethargy deep,
But the din of fierce war will soon rouse her from sleep;
Surprised she will hear the loud accents of fame,
Amidst stern alarms, your valor proclaim,
With a voice so sonorous, it cannot be drowned
By the thunder of cannons and the trumpet’s shrill sound.
This rambling goddess I see through the air,
With post-haste from Berlin to Paris repair,
And Frederick and Louis’s glory resound
From the north to the south, and the whole world around;
Those names, which the hand of true glory has traced
In letters of fire, which can ne’er be effaced:
Names which, while united in friendship remain,
In concord and peace can all Europe maintain.
What happy bard then shall the heavenly muse,
To sing the great deeds of these famed heroes, choose?
What poet shall strive in his well-polished lays,
The worth of these two mighty monarchs to praise?
You who bear, like Achilles, the lance and the lyre,
You only can sing your achievements with fire;
Whose soul genius warms whenever you write;
Who with ardor compose, as with ardor you fight;
And write both in verse and in elegant prose,
With the same ease you take the strong towns of your foes.
In happily copying Horace, you shine
With his gayety, wit, and his graces divine;
But your muse, in some points that come home to man’s breast,
Must ever to his be superior confessed.
The emperor protected the bard in past days,
The emperor’s self to protect is your praise.
Son of Mars and Calliope, favorite of fame,
Who adds a new lustre to either great name,
Europe’s peace by your conquering arm maintain,
And do not to sport with the muses disdain;
And when your victorious legions shall place
The throne of the Cæsars on an unshaken base;
When the harassed Hungarians, secure from alarms,
Their vineyards shall prune, unmolested by arms;
When all nations shall drink the rich wines of Tokay,
And the peacemakers sing with hearts jovial and gay;
Great Frederick to Berlin with speed shall repair,
And the joy of his triumphs his true subjects shall share;
And by a new opera, of his own writing,
Himself shall exhibit his achievements in fighting.
Each author your merit will loudly proclaim,
For though we still envy each rival his fame,
That bard with applause must by all men be read,
By whom an armed host of ten myriads is led.
But by merit like yours no such aid is required,
Were you, like Homer, poor, you’d, like him, be admired.
Excuse me then if, by your goodness excited,
I oft write you letters in such terms indited,
As show that in you ’tis the wit I address,
Not the monarch whom all men a hero confess.
The North, whilst your squadrons to battle you led,
In you saw a warrior that filled them with dread;
But I see in you, whom I have long time known,
The most amiable king that e’er sat on a throne.