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!