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.]

ORIGINAL.

La nymphe qui donne de cette eau
Au plus creux de rocher se cache,
Suivez un example si beau: 
Donnez sans vouloir qu’on le sache.

TRANSLATION.

The nymph, to whom this stream you owe,
  Conceals herself in caves of stone: 
Like her your benefits bestow;
  Give, without wishing to be known.

LINES

UPON MADEMOISELLE DELPHINE SAULOT

Singing some equisite Airs

IN THE GARDENS OF MOUSSEAU, NEAR PARIS.

In Mousseau’s sweet Arcadian dale
  Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;
She charms the list’ning nightingale,
  And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.

Bless’d be those lips, to music dear;
  Sweet songstress! never may they move
But with such sounds, to soothe the ear,
  And melt the yielding heart to love.

May sorrow never bid them pour
  From the torn heart one suff’ring sigh;
But be thy life a fragrant flow’r,
  Blooming beneath a cloudless sky!