_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.
Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin Says wise Professor Vander Brüin By flames a house I hir'd was lost Last year; and I must pay the cost. This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground; And my best Flanders mare was drown'd. A slave I am to Clara's eyes: The gipsy knows her power and flies. Fire, water, woman, are my ruin: And great thy wisdom Vander Brüin.
_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.
ODE TO DEATH By Frederick II, King of Prussia. From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.
Yet a few years or days perhaps, Or moments pass with silent lapse, And time to me shall be no more; No more the sun these eyes shall view, Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew, And life's fantastick dream be o'er.
Alas! I touch the dreadful brink, From nature's verge impell'd I sink, And endless darkness wraps me round! Yes, Death, is ever at my hand, Fast by my bed he takes his stand, And constant at my board is found.
Earth, air and fire, and water join Against this fleeting life of mine, And where for succour can I fly? If art with flattering wiles pretend To shield me like a guardian friend, By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.
I see this tyrant of the mind, This idol Flesh to dust consigned, Once call'd from dust by power divine: Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold-- Hence dreadful spectre! to behold Thy aspect, is to make it mine.
And can I then with guilty pride, Which fear nor shame can quell or hide, This flesh still pamper and adorn? Thus viewing what I soon shall be, Can what I am demand the knee, Or look on aught around with scorn?
But then this spark that warms, that guides, That lives, that thinks, what fate betides? Can this be dust, a kneaded clod! This yield to death! the soul, the mind, That measures heaven, and mounts the wind, That knows at once itself and God?
Great Cause of all, above, below, Who knows thee must forever know, Immortal and divine! Thy image on my soul imprest, Of endless being is the test, And bids Eternity be mine.
Transporting thought!--but I am sure That endless life will joy secure? Joys only to the just decreed! The guilty wretch expiring goes, Where vengeance endless life bestows, That endless mis'ry may succeed.