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