Poems

by Sir John Carr

’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d,
Selina, with the gentlest sigh,
Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d,
For you alone, my love! I’ll die.”
Unthinking youth! I thought her true,
And, when the trees grew white with snow,
The wint’ry wind with music blew,
So did her love upon me grow.
The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store,
When lo! in much ungentle strain,
She bade me think of her no more,
She bade me never love again.
Then did my heart at once reply,
“If you are false, who can be true?
There’s nothing here deserves a sigh,
Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”
Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene
That giddy pleasure may prepare,
A pensive thought shall intervene,
And touch your wand’ring heart with care.
And when, alone, at eve you rove,
Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d,
Each Zephyr in the well-known grove
Shall whisper that we once have lov’d.

LINES

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.

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!