fire—­and thus the pale flower grew into a fragrant Rose, around which one faithful Bulbul ever sang.  Sheltered in the close folds of the perfumed leaves, what chill could reach the heart of Angelo?  His Rose cradled his genius in her heart, while he poured for her the golden flow of the tones, coloring them with the hues of Love, and filling them with the joys of Purity and Peace.  Alike in their susceptibility to tenderness and beauty are the woman and the artist; and she who would find full sympathy and comprehension must seek it in his heart!

Time passed on with Anselm, the Saint; Angelo, the Musician; Zophiel, the Poet; Jemschid, the Painter.  But the artists grew not old, for Beauty keeps green the heart of her worshippers; and Art, immortal though she be, is indigenous, and, happy in her natal soil, exhausts not the heart of her children.  Anselm, however, seemed already old, with his pure heart sick—­sick for the Evil possessing the earth.  Alas! holiness is an exotic here, soon exhausting the soil of clay in which it pines, and ever sighing to win its transplantation to its native clime.

  ’The Lethe of Nature
    Can’t trance him again,
  Whose soul sees the Perfect
    His eyes seek in vain.’

* * * * *

It was midnight, and Anselm, worn with fasts and pale with vigils, knelt at his devotions in his lonely cell.  Lo! a majestic form of fearful but perfect beauty stood beside him.  The Angel was clad in linen, white as snow, and his voice startled the soul like the sound of the last trumpet.

’Gird up thy loins like a man, for the darksome doors of Death stand open before thee, and this night thy Lord requires thy spirit!’ said the mighty messenger.

Anselm trembled.  He feared to stand before the All-seeing Eye, whose dread majesty subdued his soul.

’Behold!  He putteth no trust in His saints, and the heavens are not pure in His sight,’ he murmured.  But he hesitated not to obey, and giving his hand to the Angel, said: 

‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!’

His earnest lips still thrilling with a prayer for mercy, together they departed ‘for that bourne from which no traveller returns.’  Between the imperfections of the created and the perfections of the Creator, what can fill the infinite abyss?  Infinite Love alone!

* * * * *

The artist-brothers had never separated.  Music, Poetry, and Painting spring from the triune existence of man, represent his life in its triune being, and thus move harmoniously together.

They had made their home the happiest spot on earth.

It was evening, and the Poet seemed lost in revery as he gazed on the dying light.  His hand rested tenderly on the shoulder of a dark but brilliant woman, who loved him with the strength of a fervid soul.

‘Sibyl,’ said he softly to his young wife, ’were I now to leave thee, how many of my lines would remain written on thy heart?’