the maiden, nor refused
the touch of the ruby lip; but they loved her too well to sully by one
wronging thought the tender confidence of perfect innocence, or cause
her guileless heart a single pang. For womanhood was holy in their
sight!

Among earth's purest maidens shone a fair Lily, whose virgin leaves had
all grown toward the sky; whose cup of snow had never been filled save
by the dews of heaven; whose tall circlet of golden stamens seemed more
like altar lamps arranged to light a sanctuary, than meant to warm and
brighten the heart of human love. But the devotion of a noble heart is a
holy thing; Genius is full of magic power, and the maiden did not always
remain insensible to the love of Angelo, for he was spiritually
beautiful, and when he moved in the world of his own creation, his face
shone as it were the face of an angel. In ethereal 'fantasies' and
divine 'adagios,' he won the Lily to rest its snowy cup upon his manly
heart. He soothed the earth cares with the heaven tones and beautified
the bitter realities of life by transfiguring them into passionate
longings for the Perfect. Bathed in Music's heavenly dew, and warmed by
the fire of a young heart, the snow petals of the Lily multiplied, the
bud slowly oped, and allowed the perfumed heart to exhale its blessed
odor; and as Love threw his glowing light upon the leaves, they blushed
beneath his glance of 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