FROM THE ANTHOLOGY.
Why will ye tear me, cruel swains, away
From my dear solitude, the dewy spray,
Me the Cicada, who, in sultry hours,
Chaunt to the nymphs who haunt the hills and bowers.
See how the greedy thrush infests your fields,
He rifles all the stores that autumn yields,
Let this destroyer feel the vengeance due,
But why grudge me a leaf and drop of dew.