English poem
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!