Do
not you?'
'Nay, nor hope to till my wits are clean gone,' was the Goshawk's reply.
'To my mind, 'tis an honest flower, and could I do good service by the
young maiden who there set it, I should be rendering back good service
done; for if that flower has not battled the devil in my nose this night,
and beaten him, my head's a medlar!'
'I scarce know whether as a devout Christian I should listen to that,
friend,' Farina mildly remonstrated. 'Lilies are indeed emblems of the
saints; but then they are not poor flowers of earth, being transfigured,
lustrous unfadingly. Oh, Cross and Passion! with what silver serenity thy
glory enwraps me, gazing on these fair bells! I look on the white sea of
the saints. I am enamoured of fleshly anguish and martyrdom. All beauty
is that worn by wan-smiling faces wherein Hope sits as a crown on Sorrow,
and the pale ebb of mortal life is the twilight of joy everlasting.
Colourless peace! Oh, my beloved! So walkest thou for my soul on the
white sea ever at night, clad in the straight fall of thy spotless virgin
linen; bearing in thy hand the lily, and leaning thy cheek to it, where
the human rose is softened to a milky bloom of red, the espousals of
heaven with earth; over thee, moving with thee, a wreath of sapphire
stars, and the solitude of purity around!'
'Ah!' sighed the Goshawk, dandling his flower-pot; 'the moon gives
strokes as well's the sun.
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