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THE FIRST BALL.
Ay, wreath the tresses o'er thy brow,
The pearls amid thine hair,
And gaze until that young cheek grow
A thousand times more fair.
With sunny smiles and blushes bright,
The Parthian arrows, which to-night
Must the young beauty wear;
Clasp the last ruby of her zone,
And now go forth, thou lovely one!
And, glad as fair, it is thy first,
Ah! that the charm hath made.
Thou hast not seen the bubble burst,
Nor watch'd the flower fade;
And little dream'st an hour will be,
When festal scene shall seem to thee
A silence and a shade.
Thou know'st not, pleasure has the wing,
As well as song, of bird in spring.
