rout—­
  The walk is laid down with fresh gravel—­
    Papa is laid up with the gout: 
  And Jane has gone on with her easels,
    And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
  And Fanny is sick of the measles,—­
    And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball.

  You’ll meet all your Beauties;—­the Lily,
    And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
  And Lucy, who made me so silly
    At Dawlish, by taking your arm—­
  Miss Manners, who always abused you,
    For talking so much about Hock—­
  And her sister who often amused you,
    By raving of rebels and Rock;
  And something which surely would answer,
    A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal—­
  So, though you were seldom a dancer,
    You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

  But out on the world!—­from the flowers
    It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
  It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
    It makes an old age of our youth: 
  And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
    Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
  Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
    Grows harder by sullen degrees—­
  Time treads o’er the grave of Affection;
    Sweet honey is turned into gall. 
  Perhaps you have no recollection
    That ever you danced at our Ball.

  You once could be pleased with our ballads—­
    To-day you have critical ears: 
  You once could be charmed with our salads—­
    Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers—­
  You trifled and flirted with many—–­
    You’ve forgotten the when and the how—­
  There was one you liked better than any—­
    Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now. 
  But of those you remember most newly,
    Of those who delight or enthrall,
  None love you a quarter so truly
    As some you will find at our Ball.

  They tell me you’ve many who flatter,
    Because of your wit and your song—­
  They tell me (and what does it matter?)
    You like to be praised by the throng—­
  They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel,
    They tell me you’re loved by a Blue—­
  They tell me you’re sadly immoral,
    Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! 
  But to me you are still what I found you
    Before you grew clever and tall—­
  And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you—­
    And you’ll come—­won’t you come?—­to our Ball!

London Magazine.

* * * * *

PARTY.

Two dogs cannot worry one another in the streets without instantly forming each his party among the crowd; much more then does the principle apply to higher contests.

* * * * *

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

* * * * *

MOLIERE.