The bird beneath his leafy dome
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?
May both in ruin fold.


* * * * *




The Gatherer.

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles." SHAKSPEARE.


CATS _(again.)_


Charles James Fox walking up Bond-street from one of the club-houses