much that, as Mr. Rossetti truly observes, he is driven to frenzy by the real or fancied resemblance between the laugh of the harlot and that of his mistress. "Observe also," continues the bard, "that these are but seven lines in a poem of five hundred, not one other of which could be classed with them." Observe, I say in turn, that the whole poem is morbid and unwholesome, and must be drunk in as a whole to leave its full bad flavour. It positively reeks of murder, madness, and morbid lust, and whatever merit it possesses lies in the intensity of its ugly thoughts, from the first moment when the Italian began his courtship in this extraordinary fashion—
"What I knew I told
Of Venus and of Cupid,—strange old tales!"
—till, blinded with lustful rage, he confesses having murdered her, and tells his dreams:—
"She wrung her hair out in my dream
To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it.
I heard the blood between her fingers hiss!"
In justice we should observe that a madman is speaking; but this madman has Mr. Rossetti's gift, for here is the sort of conceit with which he delights the priest:—
"She had a mouth
Made to bring death to life,—the underlip
Suck'd in, as if it strove to kiss itself."
With the Della Cruscan, the attempt to seem subtle and striking becomes a positive mania. What would be said of a poet who wrote thus?—
Her nose inclined to heaven,
As if it tried to turn up at itself!
