“A lifeless land, a loveless land, Without lair or nest on either hand Only scorpions jerked in the sand, Black as black iron, or dusty pale From point to point sheer rock was manned By scorpions in mail. “A land of neither life nor death, Where no man buildeth or fashioneth, Where none draws living or dying breath; No man cometh or goeth there, No man doeth, seeketh, saith, In the stagnant air.” So far for the general run of Miss Rossetti’s poems. It will be seen that they are nothing very wonderful, in whatever light we view them. They are not nearly so great as her brother’s; indeed, they will not stand comparison with them at all. The style is too varied, the pieces are too short and fugitive to be stamped with any marked originality or individuality, with the exception, perhaps, of the “Goblin Market.” But there is a certain class of her poems examination of which we have reserved for the last. Miss Rossetti has set up a little devotional shrine here and there throughout the volume, where we find her on her knees, with a strong faith, a deep sense of spiritual needs, a feeling of the real littleness of the life passing around us, of the true greatness of what is to come after, a sense of the presence of the living God before whom she bows down her soul into the dust; and here she is another woman. As she sinks her poetry rises, and gushes up out of her heart to heaven in strains sad, sweet, tender, and musical that a saint might envy. What in the wide realm of English poetry is more beautiful or more Catholic than this? THE THREE ENEMIES. _The Flesh._ “Sweet, thou art pale.” “More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bare his Father’s wrath for me.” “Sweet, thou art sad.” “Beneath a rod More heavy, Christ for my sake trod The wine-press of the wrath of God.” “Sweet, thou art weary.” “Not so Christ; Whose mighty love of me sufficed For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.” “Sweet, thou art footsore.” “If I bleed, His feet have bled; yea, in my need His Heart once bled for mine indeed.” _The World._ “Sweet, thou art young.” “So He was young Who for my sake in silence hung Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.” “Look, thou art fair.” “He was more fair Than men, Who deigned for me to wear A visage marred beyond compare.” “And thou hast riches.” “Daily bread: All else is His; Who living, dead, For me lacked where to lay His Head.” “And life is sweet.” “It was not so To Him, Whose Cup did overflow With mine unutterable woe.” _The Devil._ “Thou drinkest deep.” “When Christ would sup He drained the dregs from out my cup. So how should I be lifted up?”