Lastly, of all the great themes with which Miss Rossetti deals, she is, above all writers, the singer of Death. Whether as the eternal home-coming, or the quiet relief after the intolerable restlessness of the world, or as the deep reality in which the fretful vanities of life are merged, it is always in view, as the dark majestic portal to which the weary road winds at last. True, in one of the earliest and most beautiful of all her lyrics, the sense of dissatisfied loneliness is carried on beyond the gate of Death. AT HOME. When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house; I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat. Said one: "To-morrow we shall be Plod, plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide, We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one; "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet." "To-morrow," said they, strong with hope. And dwelt upon the pleasant way. "To-morrow," cried they one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away. "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the tablecloth; I all-forgotten shivered, sad To stay and yet to part how loth. I passed from the familiar room, I, who from love had passed away. Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day. But, if we can but read into it the hallowing radiance of a tremulous hope, the poem, which as Ellen Alleyne she contributed to the Germ in the days of her unregenerate energies, may be her requiem now: DREAM LAND. Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep Awake her not. Led by a single star. She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn. For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore; Rest, rest, at the heart's core Till time shall cease. Sleep that no pain shall wake; Night that no morn shall break Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. 1895.