ODE TO THE CICADA.
I.
Cicada lov'd, whose little limbs are spread
On yonder soft luxuriant bed;
Who hopp'st the lawns along,
Chaunting an idle song:
Whether, amid full-blown flowers,
Blythe thou sipp'st refreshing showers—
Drunk with heaven's fragrant tears;
Or where green waters glide,
Thou lovest to reside
In the moist grass of shady plains;
Or modulating dulcet strains
Thy emulative throat
Outvies the shepherd's note,
Whilst all the village round thy accents hears.
II.
Or when the sun darts down its scorching ray
To vex the rustic's weary way;
By a sweet murmuring rill,
Thou gratest, shrieking shrill:
Or if the deities of heaven
Nectarian sweets to thee have giv'n
With ministerial rains;
And bounteously bestrew
Thy bed with pearly dew—
Assist my song; while skill'd in rhymes
Thy poet thro' all future times
To last, a temple rears;
And thro' the listening spheres
Still more and more thy fame immortal honour gains.
