Then earth and heaven are rolled up like a scroll, and she gazes into heaven. Wonderful indeed is the picture drawn of the heavenly court; but we have already quoted at such length that we fear to tire our readers. Still, we must find room for the following three verses: “Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose _So high that it was dreadful_, flames with flames: No man could number them, no tongue disclose Their secret sacred names. “As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced, They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood And worshipped and rejoiced. “Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love; Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it And knew no end thereof.” We might go on quoting with pleasure and admiration most of these devotional pieces, but enough has been given to show how different a writer is Miss Rossetti in her religious and in her worldly mood. The beauty, grace, pathos, sublimity often, of the one weary us of the other. In the one she warbles or sings, with often a flat and discordant note in her tones that now please and now jar; in the other she is an inspired prophetess or priestess chanting a sublime chant or giving voice to a world’s sorrow and lament. In the latter all affectation of word, or phrase, or rhythm disappears. The subjects sung are too great for such pettiness, and the song soars with them. The same thing is true of her brother, the poet. Religion has inspired his loftiest conceptions, and a religion that is certainly very unlike any but the truth. We trust that the reverence and devotion to the truth which must lie deep in the hearts of this gifted brother and sister may bear their legitimate fruit, and end not in words only, but blossom into deeds which will indeed lead them “From House to Home.” [33] Poems by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876. ECHO TO MARY. Who gently dries grief’s falling tear? Maria. Of fairy flowers which fairest blows? The Rose. What seekest thou, poor plaining dove? My Love. Rejoice, thou morning Dove! Earth’s peerless Rose, without a thorn, Unfolds its bloom this natal morn―― Maria, Rose of Love! What craves the heart of storms the sport? A Port. And what the fevered patient’s quest? Calm Rest. What ray to cheer when shadows slope? Hope. O Mary, Mother blest! Through nights of gloom, through days of fear, Thy love the ray by which to steer, Bright Hope! to Port of Rest.