On Retirement

A hermit's house beside a stream

With forests planted round,

Whatever it to you may seem

More real happiness I deem

Than if I were a monarch crowned.

A cottage I could call my own

Remote from domes of care;

A little garden, walled with stone,

The wall with ivy overgrown,

A limpid fountain near,

Would more substantial joys afford,

More real bliss impart

Than all the wealth that misers hoard,

Than vanquished worlds, or worlds restored—

Mere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride,

How little can your wants supply!—

'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide—

You act as if you only had

To triumph—not to die!