ODE XXXIV 173 



ODE XXXIV 



OH 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 circling 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 dew, 

 And still, when summer's flowery hue 

 Begins to paint the bloomy 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 minstrelsy. 

 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 ; 



