Poems by Sir John Carr Part 15

And when, alone, at eve you rove, Where arm in arm we oft have mov'd, Each Zephyr in the well-known grove Shall whisper that we once have lov'd.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE,

AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.

Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!

Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound, A wretched fugitive[A], 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 bird Discourses 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 been For 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 tear O'er the sad moral which thy days disclose; There view how restless is our nature here, How strangely hostile to its own repose.

[Footnote A: 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 n.o.ble lake, twelve English miles in circ.u.mference, 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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.s 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 at 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 pa.s.sed 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 Pa.s.sion'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 voice Bade 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.]

LINES TO MISS E. ATKINSON,

ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN IRISH PEBBLE.

Oft does the lucid pebble shine, Just cover'd by the murm'ring sea; Thus precious, thus conceal'd, it shews, Fair maid! thy mind and modesty.

If searching eyes the stone discern, Quick will the hand of Art remove Each ruder part, till, brilliant grown, It seals the fond record of love.

And here the sweet connexion ends, Eliza! 'twixt the gem and thee; For thou wast polish'd from the first, By Nature's hand, more happily!

THE WATER-NYMPH OF THE ROCK.

[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]

_ORIGINAL_.

La nymphe qui donne de cette eau Au plus creux de rocher se cache, Suivez un example si beau: Donnez sans vouloir qu'on le sache.

_TRANSLATION_.

The nymph, to whom this stream you owe, Conceals herself in caves of stone: Like her your benefits bestow; Give, without wishing to be known.

LINES

UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT

_Singing some equisite Airs_

IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.

In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; She charms the list'ning nightingale, And seems th' enchantress of the plain.

Bless'd be those lips, to music dear; Sweet songstress! never may they move But with such sounds, to soothe the ear, And melt the yielding heart to love.

May sorrow never bid them pour From the torn heart one suff'ring sigh; But be thy life a fragrant flow'r, Blooming beneath a cloudless sky!

IMPROMPTU TO MADAME C----

WRITTEN AT PARIS,

Upon her appearing equally modestly and elegantly dressed, amidst the Semi-Nakedness of the Rest of the Female Fashionables.

Whilst, in a dress that one might swear The whole was made of woven air, Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway Over the giddy and the gay (Who think, by showing all their charms, Lovers will fly into their arms), In thee shall Wit and Virtue find A friend more genial to their mind; And Modesty shall gain in thee A surer, chaster, victory.

SONNET