tice succoured me;
From on high she cast down her eyes;
And when she perceived the contending parties,
She lifted up her hand to weigh
The right of each side,
And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.

The King of Prussia employs himself in times of peace in the following
manner: He rises at five; on business till seven; dresses, and
receives letters and petitions till nine; from nine to eleven with his
ministers; then on the parade, to exercise the guards; dines at half
an hour after twelve with some of his officers; at half an hour after
one he retires till five; then somebody reads to him till seven; then
the concert; at nine come the men of genius; they sup half an hour
after, and converse till eleven; then the king retires, and at twelve
goes to bed.--He is a statesman, soldier, author, and musician;
indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs
everything; very frugal; without farce of state; the idle officers of
the court have the usual titles; but no pay for the drones, tho' they
are mostly officers.

THE THIRD PSALM PARAPHRASED, ALLUDING
TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Look down, O God! regard my cry!
On thee my hopes depend:
I'm close beset, without ally;
Be thou my shield and friend.
Confed'rate kings and princes league,
On ev'ry side attack
To perpetrate the black intrigue
But thou canst drive them back,
Long did I fear their wink and nod;
In close cabals they cry'd,
_There is no help for him in God_;
His kingdom we'll divide.
Amid their army's dreadful glare
Thou gav'st me inward might,
Teaching my arm the art of war,
My fingers how to fight.
Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest,
Expert in war's alarms,
Calmly I lay me down to rest
In thy protecting arms.
Nor will I fear their empty boasts,
Tho' thousands thousands join;
Since thou art stil'd _the God of hosts_,
And victory is thine.
Arise, O God, and plead my cause,
O! save me by thy pow'r;
If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws,
Guide this important hour!
'Tis done!--they shudder with dismay;
My troops maintain their ground:
Lo! their embattl'd lines give way,
And we are victors crown'd!
Success, ye kings, is not your gift;
To heav'n it does belong:
The race not