Poem by Philip Morin Freneau

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! 

1. Eutaw Springs
2. On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin
3. Death's Epitaph
4. The Vernal Age
5. To a Honey Bee

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