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!"