194 NATURAL HISTORY. [CH. XIII. 



" Happy creature ! what below 

 Can more happy live than thou, 

 Seated on thy leafy throne, 

 Summer weaves the verdant crown. 

 Sipping o'er the pearly lawn. 

 The fragrant nectar of the dawn. 

 Little tales thou lov'st to sing, 

 Tales of mirth — an insect king. 

 Thine the treasures of the field. 

 All thy own the seasons yield ; 

 Nature paints thee for the year 

 Songster to the shepherds dear ; 

 Innocent, of placid fame. 

 What of man can boast the same. 

 Thine the loudest voice of praise, 

 Harbinger of fruitful days ; 

 Darling of the tuneful nine, 

 Phoebus is thy sire divine ; 

 Phoebus to thy note has given 

 Music from the spheres of heaven ; 

 Happy most as first of earth 

 All thy hours are peace and mirth, 

 Cares nor pains to thee belong. 

 Thou alone art ever young. 

 Thine the pure immortal vein. 

 Blood nor flesh thy life sustain ; 

 Rich in spirits — health thy feast, 

 Thou art a demi-god at least." 



However agreeable the sound of the cicada may 

 have been to Grecian ears, all have not been dis- 

 posed to find the same enjoyment in their music. 

 In the hotter months of summer, says Dr. Shaw, 

 especially from the mid-day to the middle of the 

 afternoon, the cicada is perpetually stunning our 

 ears with its most excessively shrill and ungrateful 

 noise. It is, in this respect, the most troublesome 

 and impertinent of insects, perching upon a twig, 

 and squalling sometimes two or three hours without 

 ceasing, thereby disturbing the studies or the repose 

 which is frequently indulged in those hot climates at 

 these hours. Those of Africa may be heard half a 

 mile off; and the sound of one in a room will put a 

 whole company to silence. Thunberg asserts that 



