No cost of make, or wealth of hue I spared from base to dome; Where lordly monarchs choose to bide They rear a kingly home; And so This rose like silver foam. 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. One can fancy such scenes quite comfortably in cheerful, well-lighted, close-curtained rooms; but to breast the driving storm of sleet and rain outside, is quite another matter. So thought Mr. Thorpe, a respectable tradesman in the thriving, bustling town of L—— as he hurried on through the darkness, and the ever increasing violence of the gale.