The poem
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!
Philip Freneau reminds us in this poem, "On Retirement'" of the ultimate end when our eternity begins. No sense in treasuring the riches, simple as they can be, for they like us, will pass away.