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 chaster 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 power,

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.

* * *

Vain would life’s pilgrim, lingering on his way,

Snatch the short respite of a summer’s day;

Pale Sorrow, bending o’er his sad repose,

Still finds a tear in ev’ry shelt’ring rose:

Still breaks his dream, and leads th’unwilling slave

To weep, and wander to a distant grave.

E’en he, whose steps since life’s ungenial morn

Have found no path unfretted with rude thorn,

From all he lov’d must turn his looks away,

Far, far from thee, fair Dronningaard, must stray,

Must leave the Eden of his fancy’s dreams,

Its twilight groves and long-resounding streams;

Streams, where the tears of fond regret have ran,

And back return to sorrow and to man!