In motive power the difference between classic and Christian poetry must needs be very great. But whatever may be said in favour of one as against the other, this at least cannot be controverted, that the history of literature shows no human development so beautiful as the ideal Christian woman of our own day. She is unique, indeed. Men of science tell us that among all the fossilized plants we find none of the lovely family of the rose, and in the same way we should search in vain through the entire human record for anything so beautiful as that kind of Christian lady to whom self-abnegation is not only the first of duties, but the first of joys. Yet, no doubt, the Christian idea must needs be more or less flavoured by each personality through which it is expressed. With regard to Christina Rossetti, while upon herself Christian dogma imposed infinite obligations—obligations which could never be evaded by her without the risk of all the penalties fulminated by all believers—there was in the order of things a sort of ether of universal charity for all others. She would lament, of course, the lapses of every soul, but for these there was a forgiveness which her own lapses could never claim. There was, to be sure, a sweet egotism in this. It was very fascinating, however. This feeling explains what seems somewhat to puzzle the editor, especially in the poem called ‘The End of the First Part,’ written April 18th, 1849, of which he says, “‘Tears for guilt’ is in reference to Christina a very exaggerated phrase”:— THE END OF THE FIRST PART. My happy dream is finished with, My dream in which alone I lived so long. My heart slept—woe is me, it wakeneth; Was weak—I thought it strong. Oh, weary wakening from a life-true dream! Oh pleasant dream from which I wake in pain! I rested all my trust on things that seem, And all my trust is vain. I must pull down my palace that I built, Dig up the pleasure-gardens of my soul; Must change my laughter to sad tears for guilt, My freedom to control. Now all the cherished secrets of my heart, Now all my hidden hopes, are turned to sin. Part of my life is dead, part sick, and part Is all on fire within. The fruitless thought of what I might have been, Haunting me ever, will not let me rest. A cold North wind has withered all my green, My sun is in the West. But, where my palace stood, with the same stone I will uprear a shady hermitage; And there my spirit shall keep house alone, Accomplishing its age. There other garden beds shall lie around, Full of sweet-briar and incense-bearing thyme: There I will sit, and listen for the sound Of the last lingering chime.