similar connection) it becomes sole tyrant of his desires—all this is most powerfully displayed. It is indeed an Othello-like passion Mr. Rossetti has depicted, and has no touch of jealousy.
Ballad poetry requires lyric finish, narrative power and dramatic insight. The dialogue and burden should be fluent and fervent. "Eden Bower" is strong, serious and perfect, but "Sister Helen" is the one great ballad of the century. Its imperial theme cut out of some shapeless chronicle into modern, not mediaeval form, is the old, old sad story of beauty and love, betrayal and sorrow, revenge and death. Its weird sorcery makes the blood run cold. Its blacker shades resemble the bolder lines in the "Ancient Mariner," but the human passion in it is stronger. Its marvellous characterisation is beyond admiration. The dying suppliant, his white-haired father, the innocent child made the tongue of relentless revenge, and finally the betrayed sorceress, unforgiving and unforgiven.
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)
It is worthy of mention that while the burden in " Troy Town" and in "Eden Bower" is sometimes heavy and lacking in variety of application, the burden in "Sister Helen" is throughout sustained with matchless point and power. Even the trying ordeal of oral reading will never be found to render it irksome or deficient in significance. The ballad, like the song, should catch the note of some simple emotion, and like the narrative poem it should at once carry with it the flood of incident and trace the growth and development of feeling. Unlike either, however, the ballad is not limited to single characterisation. It has dramatic breadth. "Sister Helen" has a simple theme. A lady deserted by her lover revenges herself by aid of sorcery: she burns his waxen effigy three days over a fire, during which he dies in torment. Around this simple scheme the poet has gathered unequalled lyric, narrative and dramatic excellencies. Every thought is clothed in imperishable speech. The passion of the ballad is not complex but simple, as the passion of a ballad should be, and sad. Like great slow waves rolling in a wintry sea, its billows of feeling rise and fall. The picture is perfect in silver and red and black. The child plays in the balcony without, and within she, herself, Helen, prays the prayer
