Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’
‘A soul that's lost, as mine is lost, Little brother!’
(O mother, Mary mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between hell and heaven!)”
One is tempted to say of Mr. Rosetti as was said of his patron Dante, “Lo, he that strolls to hell and back at will.” We speak advisedly of his “patron Dante,” for his devotion to his great namesake is of the intensest kind. Almost the longest poem in the volume is “Dante at Verona,” in which every conceivable detail in the poet's painful exile at that court is dwelt upon with a solicitude that reminds one of an early Christian sponging up a martyr's blood. To appreciate the poem thoroughly, one ought to share with Mr. Rosetti in the intimacy of the great Florentine. There are, however, many exquisite bits of description in it that must come home to every one. Surely the Gran Cane's jester will live for ever:
“There was a jester, a foul lout
Whom the court loved for graceless arts;
Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts
Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout
In folly's horny tympanum