INSECT MINSTRELS. 353 



Anacreon's Ode to the Cicada is thus translated 

 by Thomas Moore : 



" thou, of all creation blest, 

 Sweet insect that delight'st to rest 

 Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, 

 To drink the dew that morning drops, 

 And chirp thy song with such a glee 

 That happiest kings may envy thee ! 

 Whatever decks the velvet field, 

 "Whate'er the passing seasons yield, 

 Whatever buds, whatever blows, 

 For thee it buds, for thee it grows. 

 Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, 

 To him thy friendly notes are dear, 

 For thou art mild as matin dews, 

 And ever when the summer hues 

 Begin to paint the gloomy plain, 

 We hear thy sweet prophetic strain ; 

 Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, 

 And bless the notes, and thee revere. 

 The Muses love thy shrilly tone, 

 Apollo calls thee all his own : 

 ' Twas he who gave that voice to thee, 

 ' Tis he who tunes thy minstrels} 7 . 

 Unworn by age's dim decline, 

 The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. 

 Melodious insect ! child of earth ! 

 In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth ; 

 Exempt from every weak decay 

 That withers vulgar frames away ; 

 With not a drop of blood to stain 

 The current of thy purer vein ; 

 So blessed a life is passed by thee, 

 Thou seem'st a little deity." 



Fig. 120. MOLE CRICKET. 



23 



