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!