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