Yes, blessed beyond the wealth of kings.
Calm joy is seated in the breast
Of the rapt poet as he sings,
And all that Truth or Hope can bring
Of Beauty, gilds the muse’s wing.
And, Bloomfield, thine were blissful days,
(If flowers of bliss may thrive on earth);
Thine were the glory and the praise
Of genius linked with modest worth;
To wisdom wed, remote from strife,