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!"