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 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.

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 Passion'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.]

_ORIGINA