Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared with thee!
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine;
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill.
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee:
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with easy juice;
The country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!