One by Lamartine is known to almost every French child.
Grillon solitaire, Ici comme moi, Voix qui sors de terre, Ah! reveille-toi! J'attise la flamme, C'est pour t'egayer; Mais il manque une ame, Une ame au foyer.
Grillon solitaire, Voix qui sors de terre, Ah! reveille-toi Pour moi.
Quand j'etais petite Comme ce berceau, Et que Marguerite Filait son fuseau, Quand le vent d'automne Faisait tout gemir, Ton cri monotone M'aidait a dormir.
Grillon solitaire, Voix qui sors de terre, Ah! reveille-toi Pour moi.
Seize fois l'annee A compte mes jours; Dans la cheminee Tu niches toujours.
Je t'ecoute encore Aux froides saisons.
Souvenir sonore Des vieilles maisons.
Grillon solitaire, Voix qui sors de terre, Ah! reveille-toi Pour moi.
It is a young girl who thus addresses the cricket of the hearth, the house cricket.

It is very common in country houses in Europe.

This is what she says: "Little solitary cricket, all alone here just like myself, little voice that comes up out of the ground, ah, awake for my sake! I am stirring up the fires, that is just to make you comfortable; but there lacks a presence by the hearth; a soul to keep me company.
"When I was a very little girl, as little as that cradle in the corner of the room, then, while Margaret our servant sat there spinning, and while the autumn wind made everything moan outside, your monotonous cry used to help me to fall asleep.
"Solitary cricket, voice that issues from the ground, awaken, for my sake.
"Now I am sixteen years of age and you are still nestling in the chimneys as of old.

I can hear you still in the cold season,--like a sound--memory,--a sonorous memory of old houses.
"Solitary cricket, voice that issues from the ground, awaken, O awaken for my sake." I do not think this pretty little song needs any explanation; I would only call your attention to the natural truth of the fancy and the feeling.
Sitting alone by the fire in the night, the maiden wants to hear the cricket sing, because it makes her think of her childhood, and she finds happiness in remembering it.
So far as mere art goes, the poem of Gautier on the cricket is very much finer than the poem of Lamartine, though not so natural and pleasing.

But as Gautier was the greatest master of French verse in the nineteenth century, not excepting Victor Hugo, I think that one example of his poetry on insects may be of interest.