 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
77
Press'd the bright joys of yesterday;
For still, though doom'd no more t'inhale
The mountain air of Pen-y-Vale,
His broad dark-skirting woods o'erhung
Cottage and farm, where careless sung
The labourer, where the gazing steer
Low'd to the mountains, deep and clear.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |