LINESWRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE,AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes,The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove;Throughout its deep recess the warbling birdDiscourses sweetly of its happy lore,Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here;Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it beenFor thee, if in these shades thy days had past,If, well contented with the happy scene,Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tearO’er the sad moral which thy days disclose;There view how restless is our nature here,How strangely hostile to its own repose.[14]Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and fell.THE HERMIT’S EPITAPH.Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife,Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life:The faithless splendour of a court he knew,And all the ardour of the tented field,Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue,And all that listless Luxury can yield.He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet;Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit.To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led,He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss;Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred,Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss:But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r!Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour:Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voiceBade the disconsolate again rejoice:Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet;The calm content, so sought for as his choice,Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat.
Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,A wretched fugitive[14], oppress’d by woes,The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.Ne’er does the trump of war disturb this grove;Throughout its deep recess the warbling birdDiscourses sweetly of its happy lore,Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.Life’s checquer’d scene is softly pictur’d here;Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,And gaudy flow’rs the modest lily hide.Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it beenFor thee, if in these shades thy days had past,If, well contented with the happy scene,Thou ne’er again had fac’d life’s stormy blast!And Pity oft shall shed the gen’rous tearO’er the sad moral which thy days disclose;There view how restless is our nature here,How strangely hostile to its own repose.
[14]Dronningaard is the first private residence in Denmark: it belongs to the wealthy family of the De Conincks. The grounds, which are very extensive, and tastefully laid out, slope down to a noble lake, twelve English miles in circumference, which is skirted with fine woods and romantic country-houses. At the end of a beautiful walk is an elegant marble column, with a tablet, on which is inscribed by Mr. D.C. “This monument is erected in gratitude to a mild and beneficent Government, under whose auspices I enjoy the blessings that surround me.” In another part of the grounds, in a spot of deep seclusion, are the ruins of a Hermitage; and a little further, in a nook, an open grave and tombstone. The story connected with this retired spot deserves to be mentioned:—Time has shed many snows upon the romantic beauties of Dronningaard, since one, who, weary of the pomp of courts and the tumult of camps, in the prime of life, covered with honours and with fortune, sought from its hospitable owner permission to raise a sequestered cell, in which he might pass the remainder of his days in all the austerities and privations of an Anchorite. This singular man had, long previously to the revolution in Holland, distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, when, in an unhappy moment, the love of aggrandizement took possession of his heart, and, marrying under its influence, misery soon followed; and here, in a little wood of tall firs, he raised this simple fabric: moss warmed it within, and the bark of the birch defended it without; a stream of rock-water once flowed in a bed of pebbles before the door, in which the young willow dipped its leaves; and, at a little distance from a bed of wild roses, the labernum gracefully rose, and suspended her yellow flowers; and adjoining was a spot which the Recluse had selected for his grave, of which, like the monks of La Trappe, he dug a small portion every day until he had finished it. He composed his Epitaph in French, and had it inscribed on a stone. If the reader is as much interested as I was in the history of the poor Hermit, he will be pleased with the translation of it, which follows, from the pen of my respected and distinguished friend, William Hayley, Esq. In this solitude he passed several years, when the plan of his life became suddenly reversed by a letter of recall, which he received from his Prince, containing the most flattering expressions of regard. He obeyed the summons, returned to Holland, and at the head of his regiment most gallantly fought and fell.
Here may he rest, who, shunning scenes of strife,Enjoy’d at Dronningaard a Hermit’s life:The faithless splendour of a court he knew,And all the ardour of the tented field,Soft Passion’s idler charm, not less untrue,And all that listless Luxury can yield.He tasted, tender Love! thy chatter sweet;Thy promis’d happiness prov’d mere deceit.To Hymen’s hallow’d fane by Reason led,He deem’d the path he trod the path of bliss;Oh! ever-mourn’d mistake! from int’rest bred,Its dupe was plung’d in misery’s abyss:But Friendship offer’d him, benignant pow’r!Her cheering hand, in trouble’s darkest hour:Beside this shaded stream, her soothing voiceBade the disconsolate again rejoice:Peace in his heart revives, serenely sweet;The calm content, so sought for as his choice,Quits him no more in this belov’d retreat.