MARCH. 199
��Stand here upon the sunlit plain
And see how fair it shines ; Untaught I planned its airy towers
And shaped its perfect lines ; For love
All excellence divines.
But while I gaze, a dusky film
Across its splendor falls ; My purples and my gold are dim —
What ails the reeling walls ? What doom
Sends terror through its halls ?
The keen air sweeps adown the hill :
Give me a hand to hold ; I shiver in these breezes chill
That grow so fierce and bold , Yet hearts
May laugh at Winter's cold.
That hand of thine, so fair and strong, I thought could clasp me warm ;
It melts within my burning grasp Like touch of ghostly form ;
I hear No heart-beat through the storm.
Great winds from out the heavens leap ;
No castle-dome appears ; Rain dashes on mine upturned face,
To quench the hope of years : Pour, floods ;
Yet faster flow my tears.
��MARCH.
��BY ALICE ESTELLE FRIESE.
It was a fierce, wild March night. Visions of the cosy parlor, with its One can fancy such scenes quite com- tempting tea-table so daintily arranged, fortably in cheerful, well-lighted, close- and the pretty, charming wife who pre- curtained rooms ; but to breast the sides so gracefully, flit across his brain ; driving storm of sleet and rain outside, but even their alluring promises can- is quite another matter. So thought not blind him as to the discomforts of Mr. Thorpe, a respectable tradesman the present ; and with a gasp of de-
in the thriving, bustling town of L spair he tucks the wreck of an umbrel-
as he hurried on through the darkness, la under his erm, buttons his heavy
and the ever increasing violence of the coat closer around him, and strides on
gale. through the gloom. No one is astir
�� �
