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
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,