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!