Favour’d cicada! thou, whose transient days
The ambrosial tears of balmy morn sustain!
Contented on thy native woods to gaze,
No thought aspiring fills thy breast with pain.
As Ceres’ Herald, comes thy artless song
With welcome sounds the peasant’s ear to greet,
And while thou rov’st the yellow meads among
No sportsman proud dare rifle thy retreat.
Thou scorn’st the peasant’s riches to destroy
To prey on others’ wealth ne’er gave thee joy
Benignant, vocal, unoffending fly!
Blissful thou liv’st while summer-suns appear
Peaceful thou die’st, ere wintry storms be near,
A death so tranquil, scarcely is to die!