 | Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces |  |
72
ANACR. εις τεττιγα.
Μακαριζομεν σε, τεττιξ, &c.
Cicala, we pronounce thee blestFor that, on topmost shrubs at rest,
When thou has quaff'd a little dew,
Thou singest as a king may do:
For thine is each and every thing
Thou viewest in the meads of spring,
Or what the other seasons bring.
Thou art the friend of those that till,
For working none the least of ill.
We men revere thee far and wide,
Sweet prophet of the summer-tide!
The Muses love thee. Phœbus loves
73
Thou art not worn away by age,
Earth-born, a songster, and a sage;
A pangless and a bloodless frame,—
Thou art a god, or much the same.
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