AFTER THE BALL.

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,

The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;

The music is hushed, the revellers gone,

The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,—

Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,

O'ershadow the house —‘ tis after the ball.

Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,

Where sits a girl in her “first season's bloom;”

Look at her closely, is she not fair,

With exquisite features, rich silken hair

And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes

Of one in the world's ways still unwise.

The wreath late carefully placed on her brow

She has flung on a distant foot-stool now;

The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,

Lie crushed and withering at her feet;

Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall —

She seems so weary after the ball!

Ah, more than weary! How still and white,

With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight:

A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair,

One which it never before did wear,

And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears,

Telling of secret misgivings and fears.

Say, what is it all? Why, some April care,

Or some childish trifle, baseless as air;

For the griefs that call forth girlhood's tears

Would but win a smile in maturer years,

When the heart has learned,‘ mid pain and strife,

Far sterner lessons from the book of life.

Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween,

Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene,

Communing with volume or friend at will,

Or in innocent slumber, calm and still;

Thou would'st not feel so heart-weary of all

As thou to night thou feelest, “after the ball!”