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ravage the soil they formerly cultivated. The towns are inhabited only by old men, women, and 

 children-— perhaps here and there a warrior, by wounds or loss of blood rendered unfit for service, 

 left at his door; his little children hang around, ask an history of every wound, and grow them- 

 selves soldiers before they find strength for the field. But this were nothing, did we not feel the 

 alternate insolence of either army, as it happens to advance or retreat in pursuing the operations 

 of the campaigns. It is impossible to express the confusion which even those who call them- 

 selves our friends create. Even those from whom we might expect redress, oppress us with new 

 calamities. From your high station, therefore, it is that we expect relief. To you, even women 

 and children may complain, whose humanity stoops to the meanest petition, and whose power 

 is capable of repressing the greatest injustice. 



CHARLOTTE-SOPHIA, 



Princess of Mecklenburgh-Strditz. 



The same just and benevolent Sentiments, which do honour to both the head and heart, 



to suit this work, are here clothed in a poetic dress. 



TO FREDERICK THE GREAT, KING OF PRUSSIA. 



While conquest seats you on the throne of fame, 



And martial deeds immortalize your name, 



On burnish'd arms, while glory brightly beams, 



And fields victorious fill the monarch's dreams; 



Trembling I view whence all that glory springs 



Which crowns the awful brows of hero-kings; 



Shock'd I behold the source whence dart those rays 



Which shine on victors, and round conqu'rors blaze; 



And fondly anxious, praises to bestow, 



Reluctant swell the stream of general woe; 



For e'en those laurels which your brows entwine, 



Your triumphs crown, and bid your conquests shine, 



Meant as immortal trophies to adorn, 



Were from my country's bleeding bowels torn. 



While, in what's truly brave, and greatly bold, 



You outstrip heroes dignify'd of old; 



My native Mecklenburgh, a prey to arms, 



In desolation finds her ruin'd charms : 



No more her plains their plenteous verdure yield, 



No longer Ceres decks the golden field; 



Through all her bounds dark scenes of horror rise, 



Despair's loud yell, and Sorrow's frantic cries. 



