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!

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