Take her, oh! take her to thy gentle breast,
And lull her softly to her evening rest!
To the Tettix.
Thou noisy thing, intoxicate with dew,
Thou desert-babbler, with thy rustic lay,
Who sittest idly, where the green leaves through
On thy cranked limbs bright slants the solar ray,
Whilst from thy little frame with hue of fire,
Comes forth the mimic music of the lyre—
Oh! friendly songster, to the Sylphid Maids