Who trills his carol, loud and clear,
Thinks not how soon his verdant home
The lightning’s breath may sear.
Shall I within my bridegroom’s bower
With braids of budding roses twined,
Look forward to a coming hour
When he may prove unkind?
The bee reigns in his waxen cell,
The chieftain in his stately hold,
To-morrow’s earthquake,—who can tell?