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 Front Page arrow Titles (by Subject) arrow ON PEACE CONCLUDED IN 1736. - 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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ON PEACE CONCLUDED IN 1736. - 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).

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

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ON PEACE CONCLUDED IN 1736.

    • Ætna within its cavern dire,
    • Thunder conceals and liquid fire;
    • On earth the fiery torrent pours,
    • And its inhabitants devours,
    • Your steps, afflicted Dryads, turn
    • From dreary plains which always burn;
    • Those caverns where hell seems to breathe
    • In fire and sulphur from beneath;
    • Those gulfs which to Tartarus bend,
    • Their furious floods incessant send.
    • More fierce and terrible the Po
    • Makes its fierce stream its banks o’erflow;
    • Pours through the plain its furious waves,
    • Foams, and with dreadful uproar raves:
    • It spreads destruction through the plain,
    • Fright, terror, death, compose its train;
    • And through Ferrara’s fire conveys
    • The spoils of nations to the seas.
    • This war where elements contend,
    • Which heaven’s expanse with fury rend;
    • These shocks from which all nature quakes,
    • With which earth’s solid basis shakes:
    • Scourges of heaven which oft appear
    • To hang o’er this sad hemisphere;
    • Are all disasters much less dire,
    • Than statesmen who too high aspire;
    • From them less desolation springs,
    • Than from the dangerous feuds of kings.
    • From India’s verge to Gallia’s shore,
    • One family the sun rolls o’er:
    • O’er this love only still should reign,
    • And union amongst all maintain.
    • Mortals, you’re bound by sacred tie,
    • Therefore those cruel arms lay by;
    • Can you advantage gain by fight?
    • Can you in havoc find delight?
    • When you’re sunk in death’s dismal gloom,
    • What bliss expect you in the tomb?
    • Those soldiers well deserve applause,
    • Who combat in their country’s cause;
    • But you for hire your lives expose,
    • You’re paid to combat others’ foes:
    • You die to prop some tyrant’s throne,
    • Some tyrant to your eyes unknown;
    • You are hired assassins to defend
    • Lords, who ill pay you in the end.
    • Such are those greedy birds of prey,
    • Those animals which man obey,
    • Who can their native fierceness tame,
    • And teach them to pursue their game.
    • The sounding horn excites their rage,
    • And makes them ardent to engage;
    • They headlong pour upon the game,
    • Not led by interest, choice, or fame;
    • The victory they strive to gain,
    • Although no prize they can obtain.
    • Italy, climate of delight,
    • How much you suffered by the fight!
    • With desolation covered o’er,
    • You’re Europe’s garden now no more!
    • An army of confederate powers,
    • With greediness your crops devours;
    • Although the cursed, destructive band,
    • Vowed to avenge your injured land:
    • Ravaged and desolate you fight
    • To assert a foreign master’s right.
    • Let kings be armed, yet discords cease,
    • Let them all reign like gods of peace;
    • Let them the thunder bear on high,
    • But never launch it through the sky.
    • The faithful shepherd, who befriends
    • His flock, and with due care attends;
    • By care and diligence obtains
    • The applause of all the neighboring swains:
    • Unpitied may that shepherd die,
    • Who lets his flocks neglected lie,
    • Who can his fleecy care expose,
    • To perish by the wolves, their foes.
    • In that king’s fame, can I take part,
    • Whose frenzy stabs me to the heart:
    • A king, at whose capricious will,
    • My heart’s blood I’m obliged to spill?
    • When I’m by indigence oppressed,
    • Diseased, deprived of needful rest;
    • Say, shall my lot more blessed appear,
    • When I our prince’s glories hear;
    • Shall my distresses all be o’er,
    • If German plains are drenched in gore?
    • Colbert, whose praises we resound,
    • Who planted arts on Gallic ground,
    • France shall revere you as a sage;
    • Posterity in every age
    • Shall own you born the land to bless.
    • And Louvois be applauded less,
    • Louvois, who with ambition dire,
    • Set the Palatinate on fire;
    • And Holland to destroy aspired,
    • Had with his fury fate conspired.
    • Let Louis, even in decline,
    • Still as the greatest monarch shine;
    • But may he wisely fame acquire,
    • Not to the conqueror’s wreath aspire;
    • Louis in peace claims just applause,
    • His subjects all revere his laws;
    • Their happiness from Louis springs—
    • Louis, the greatest, best of kings.