WRITTEN 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 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.
[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.