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.