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 crown'd.

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 vanquish'd 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 vanquish — not to die!