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Thou, for joy and pleasure born,
Sipp'st the honey'd dew of morn.
Happier than the sceptred king,
Mid the boughs we hear thee sing.
All the season's varied store,
All thy little eyes explore,
Fruits that tempt, and flowers that shine,
Happy insect! all are thine.
Injuring nothing, blamed by none,
Farmers love thee—pretty one!
All rejoice thy voice to hear
Singing blithe when summer's near.
Thee the tuneful Muses love,
Sweetly chirping in the grove;
Thee the great Apollo bless'd
With a voice above the rest.
Thou from wasting age art free,
Time has naught to do with thee.
Skilful creature, child of song,
Though to earth thou dost belong,^[1]
Free from Nature's woes and pains,
Free from flesh, or blood-fill'd veins,^[2]
Happy thing! thou seem'st to me
Almost a little god to be!

very different species of locust from that so common in our fields and meadows. Indeed, its habit of settling on trees is of itself a sufficient distinction. I am not aware that it has any proper English name, though by some writers it is called the cicada, or cicala.

1. The ancient Athenians compared themselves to these insects, either on account of their skill in music, or because, like them, they were descended from the earth. They likewise wore golden ornaments in their hair, resembling grasshoppers. The Chinese ladies still wear fastened to their heads by springs small golden figures of a bird, the wings of which flutter with the slightest motion.
2. Homer represents the gods as being free from blood; and, speaking of Venus being wounded, he says,
   "From the clear vein a stream immortal flow'd,
   Such stream as issues from a wounded god;