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THE 
 
 POETICAL 
 
 LANGUAGE OE FLOWERS; 
 
 OR THE 
 
 PILGRIMAGE OF LOYE. 
 
 BY THOMAS Ml HER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “PICTURES OF COUNTRY LIFE,” “RURAL SKETCHES,” ETC. 
 
 EDITED BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH. 
 
 “ A book 
 
 In which thou wilt find many a lovely saying 
 About the leaves and flowers—about the playing 
 Of nymphs in woods and fountains—and the shade 
 Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid.”— Keats. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 J. C. RIKER, FULTON STREET. 
 
 M.DCCC.XLVIII. 
 

 
 
 
 \MU-L-T 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AMERICAN PREFACE. 
 
 Not the least pleasing indication amongst us, is that 
 far-spread and growing fondness for works of elegant taste 
 and literature, which argues a tendency to the refined and 
 elevating in our people, and will not fail to counteract 
 much of that sordid, hardening character likely to be en 
 gendered by the money-getting spirit which is the re¬ 
 proach of the age, not a characteristic of our country, as has 
 too often been insinuated, and might be most easily dis¬ 
 proved. Foreigners have remarked upon the prevalence of 
 the poetic faculty in every grade of society throughout the 
 land; and Carlyle has recently been at pains to indulge his 
 spleen against poetry, by a letter of advice to a young 
 friend of his residing in one of our cities, in which he begs 
 him to refrain from making verses till driven thereto by 
 some great and irresistible need—which things are in proof 
 of the tendency of which we speak. Were other authority 
 needed, we might cite the constant and increasing demand 
 for works of a character akin to the one we here present to 
 the American public. 
 
IV 
 
 AMERICAN PREFACE. 
 
 We see nothing in this state of things to regret; on the 
 contrary, we behold in it an element of conservatism, a 
 tendency to order and harmony needful in a republic, and 
 which may serve to allay the fluctuations and tumults inci¬ 
 dent to institutions like our own. Excellent as are high 
 principles of action, it is well known that they are most fre¬ 
 quently held as a sort of corps de reserve , not lightly to be 
 called into service ; and men who would be too indifferent to 
 think and reflect, may be so trained as instinctively to re¬ 
 coil from what might be held repugnant to good taste. 
 This may seem to be a lower view of the subject, but reflec¬ 
 tion will show it to be based upon the higher. 
 
 Let us then deal gently, considerately, with this tenden¬ 
 cy to the beautiful. The needs of life are so urgent among 
 us, the claims of society so heavy, that there is little hazard 
 of abuse by any general outbreaks of a visionary spirit, or 
 any extensive ineffectiveness of character, while its good to 
 the heart and life is beyond calculation. 
 
 Let, then, our youth sing, if they will,—and our maidens, 
 like the sweet Perdita and the gentle Ophelia, give flowers 
 to be “ worn with a difference,”—the Rue still held as u herb 
 of grace ” by the common people ; Shenstone’s 
 
 “Pun-provoking Thyme;” 
 
 the Hazel, sacred to enchantment. Let them try love au 
 guries with the petals of the Rose, or the down of the Dan¬ 
 delion, as they did long before Goethe had made the test, 
 full of pathos and beauty, by the fate of the simple Mar- 
 
AMERICAN PREFACE. 
 
 v 
 
 gery. Let the Trefoil indicate the cross, or be suspended 
 over the lintel, to point out the destined of fate ; for these 
 things have been done for hundreds of years : harmless and 
 sweet fantasies liko these redeem this dull, work-day world. 
 Let them still give “ Rosemary for Remembrance n and 
 “ Pansies for Thought”— 
 
 “ Daffodils 
 
 That come before the swallow does, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty; Violets dim, 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 
 
 Or Cytherea’s breath; pale Primroses, 
 
 That die unwedded.” 
 
 Here Shakspeare has given us a whole vocabulary of sweet¬ 
 ness ; Daffodils, which he would have christened Trustful¬ 
 ness, as trembling into life and loveliness despite the bleak¬ 
 ness of March—Violets, modesty or reserve, making the 
 regal Juno, with azure-veined, large, drooping lids, the per¬ 
 fection of imagery, by which her resplendent charms are soft¬ 
 ened to the most exquisite grace—■“ pale Primroses ” should 
 be forsaken: “ Violets dim”—we have never found a tuft 
 of our wild Violets, without a sense of the fine perception of 
 Shakspeare in the use of the phrase “ dim.” The Violet is 
 found rather by its fragrance than show, choosing, as it 
 does, some sheltered nook by mossy stone, or south hill-side, 
 where its deep blue so blends itself with clustering leaves 
 of green, that dim is the very word to express its loveliness, 
 and to indicate the surprise which its freshness of beauty 
 creates, so like a dark eye humid with light beneath the 
 veined lid. 
 
AMERICAN PREFACE. 
 
 vi 
 
 - | 
 
 Thus we have an English vocabulary, which the great 
 poet undoubtedly found current amongst his people, whether 
 or not borrowed and brought home by Crusaders and adven¬ 
 turers from the East, where lovers have little other alpha¬ 
 bet save that furnished by Flora ; and it is one most beau¬ 
 tifully apposite. Time has gradually increased the mate¬ 
 rials, by donations from every soil, till now the Language 
 of Flowers may be considered as reduced to a science, in 
 which form, color, position, and time, are all and each to be 
 studied, in order rightly to interpret the mysteries of the 
 bouquet. 
 
 Where the tendency of literature is in a vein of too much 
 intensity, as in our country, a work, calm, fresh and genial 
 as is this of the “ gentle basket-maker,” cannot fail to be 
 right welcome to the finest spirits of our country. It has all 
 the clearness and healthfulness of a thorough English mind, 
 and, as such, is worthy of a most cordial greeting. 
 
 Brooklyn, L. I.. May, 1847. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 All the books which have hitherto treated on the Lan¬ 
 guage of the Flowers, are, with the exception of a few slight 
 alterations and additions, mere translations from the French 
 work of Aime Martin; nor am I aware of any production 
 in the English language on this subject which professes to 
 be original, saving the present. If flowers, the most beau¬ 
 tiful objects in nature, are to be converted into the messen¬ 
 gers of friendship and love, and are capable of conveying 
 beautiful and poetical meanings, it is surely worth while 
 to attempt tracing a resemblance between the flower and 
 the emblem it represents, which shall, at least, have some 
 show of reason in it. This task I have attempted, taking 
 for my guides no less authorities than Chaucer, Spenser, 
 Shakspeare, and Milton ; whatever meanings they have at¬ 
 tributed to the flowers I have retained, and also endeavored, 
 like them, to find in either the name or the nature of the 
 flower, some resemblance to the thought it is intended to 
 express, and so, by adding here and there a blossom to the 
 
ENGLISH PREFACE. 
 
 viii 
 
 beautiful wreath they left unfinished, I trust that I have 
 done something towards the completion of a work which 
 shall be worthy of the name of England’s Language of 
 Flowers. 
 
 In the legends which illustrate each sentiment, or group 
 of flowers, I have attempted to create a new interest, by 
 linking them with human affections and fanciful narratives, 
 whose origin may either be traced in the old heathen writers, 
 or found amid the lighter lore of a later day. Not that I 
 have fettered myself to any given rules, or chained my fancy 
 to any circumscribed space ; for I will not yet believe that 
 there is 
 
 “ So small a range 
 
 In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly, 
 
 As she was wont of old,” 
 
 but that she can, as in former days, spread out her free 
 wings when she listeth, and 
 
 “ Show us all 
 
 From the clear space of ether to the small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding.” 
 
 For I have more faith in the love of my country for the old 
 fanciful literature, than many have: to me England has ever 
 been an island “ full of sweet sounds, that give delight and 
 hurt notand I think a nation so rich in poetry as ours, 
 
 i. 
 
ENGLISH PREFACE. ix 
 
 should not be without its own Language of Flowers. Bet¬ 
 ter believe in the messages the bees brought from the flow¬ 
 ers on Mount Hymettus, when they settled upon the lips of 
 Plato, and foretold that their slept the eloquence which 
 would one day charm the world ; or endeavor to trace fan¬ 
 ciful letters in the wavy lines and mazy forms which they 
 sometimes assume, as they streak the green hill-side, than 
 find in them no meaning at all—that the blossoms still send 
 tidings abroad, which when once whispered into the ears, 
 settle down noiselessly into the hearts of all who believe in 
 the poetry, and beauty, and love of the flowers. 
 
 Although my Index of the emblematic meanings of the 
 flowers varies considerably from that which is appended to 
 the French work before referred to, still I doubt not that it 
 will be found more accurate, and that the reasons I have 
 given for adopting the emblems attached to the flowers are 
 clearer and more comprehensive than any that have hither¬ 
 to appeared. In every floral index which I have seen, the 
 Meadow-sweet, or Queen of the Meadows, is made the em¬ 
 blem of Uselessness : a sweeter flower does not blow—it is 
 only equalled by the blossoms of the Hawthorn in perfume, 
 and I think I have with good reason changed its significa¬ 
 tion to Neglected Beauty. Again, the Anemone, or Wind¬ 
 flower of the Greeks, has been selected as the emblem of 
 Forsaken Love: I have, in honor of Milton, chosen the 
 
ENGLISH PREFACE. 
 
 x 
 
 Primrose; for the Bard of Paradise has beautifully 
 said,— 
 
 “ The rathe Primrose that forsaken dies 
 
 and we seldom see one bud alone on the root. So have I 
 gone on through all my fanciful or poetical illustrations: 
 either following the old poets, or gathering from the very 
 nature of the flower some quality that represents the senti¬ 
 ment I have attached to it. The subject has never before 
 been taken up in the old poetical spirit: there are signs of 
 a timid step and trembling hand, which betray a want of 
 confidence in the task, as if it had not been a labor of love. 
 I have proceeded without fear, and have adapted many “ an 
 old-world story ” to the meanings of the flowers, which, I 
 trust, will give pleasure to all my readers. 
 
 THOMAS MILLER. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 AMERICAN PREFACE ... 
 
 ENGLISH PREFACE - - 
 
 TIME AND THE FLOWERS 
 
 LOVE AND THE FLOWERS 
 
 THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY 
 
 FLOWERS OF LOVE - 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT - 
 
 OLD SAXON FLOWERS - 
 
 HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED 
 
 THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY AND OF LOVE 
 
 FLOWERS OF THOUGHT - 
 
 PANSIES. 
 
 THE DAISY OF THE DALE 
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 7 
 
 13 
 
 17 
 
 29 
 
 41 
 
 43 
 
 57 
 
 75 
 
 S9 
 
 93 
 
 102 
 
 105 
 
 119 
 
 121 
 
Xll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE QUEEN OF MAY. 131 
 
 HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE ... 144 
 
 CUPID AND PSYCHE. 147 
 
 THE VALE OF ARCADIA. 158 
 
 ELLEN NEVILLE. 161 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 172 
 
 TIME AND THE FLOWERS .... 175 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY. 188 
 
 INDEX OF THE POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOW¬ 
 ERS . 193 
 
 FLOWERS AND THEIR EMBLEMATIC SIGNIFI¬ 
 CATIONS - .... 209 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Said Time, “ I cannot bear the flowers, 
 They spoil the look of old decay ; 
 
 They cover all my ruined towers, 
 
 My fallen shrines and abbeys gray : 
 
 I’ll cut them down—why should they grow ? 
 
 I marvel Death upon his graves 
 Allows so many buds to blow! 
 
 O’er all my works the Wall-flower waves ! 
 His scythe he sharpened as he spoke, 
 
 And deeper frowned at every stroke. 
 
14 TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 In vain did Beauty him entreat 
 
 To spare the flowers, as on the ground 
 She weeping knelt, and clasped his feet: 
 
 He only turned his head half round, 
 
 And sternly bade her go her way. 
 
 Said Time, “Were all the world to plead, 
 They should not live another day ; 
 
 No, not if Death did intercede ! ”•— 
 
 He took his scythe, and at one sweep 
 The flowers became a withered heap. 
 
 Time came again, and so did Spring, 
 
 The spot once more with flowers was strown, 
 He scarce could see a ruined thing. 
 
 So tall and thick the buds had grown. 
 
 “ Oh, oh ! ” said Time, “ I must upturn, 
 
 Dig deep, and cover in like Death; 
 
 I’ll not leave one behind to mourn, 
 
 Or sweeten more the breeze’s breath ; 
 
 Full fathom five I’ll lay them low, 
 
 Then leave them if they can to grow ! ” 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Summer met Time in that same place, 
 
 It looked more lovely than of old, 
 
 For there had sprung another race 
 
 Of flowers from out the upturned mould, 
 
 That had been buried long ago. 
 
 “ How’s this ?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes, 
 “ I have laid many a city low, 
 
 But never more saw turret rise.”— 
 
 Love at that moment chanced to pass, 
 
 He touched Time’s arm, and shook his glass. 
 
 “ Old man,” said Love, “ the flowers are mine; 
 
 Leave them alone, and go thy way— 
 Destruction is the work of thine, 
 
 ’T is mine to beautify decay. 
 
 Is’t not enough that thou hast power 
 To lay both youth and beauty low, 
 
 But thou must seek to crush the flower 
 Which scarce a day sees in full blow ? 
 
 I’ve seen thee smile on them for hours! 
 
 “ ’T is true, ” said Time, and spared the flowers. 
 
# 
 
THE POETICAL 
 
 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 
 
 LOVE AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Upon a bed of roses Love reclined, 
 
 The heart-dyed flowers across his mouth were thrown, 
 
 And both their sweets were in one breath combined, 
 
 As if they from the self-same bud had blown; 
 
 You could not tell, so sweetly were they blended, 
 
 Where swelled Love’s crimson lip, nor where the rose-bloom 
 ended. 
 
 It was in that age when the golden mornings of 
 
 the early world were unclouded by the smoke of 
 
 cities; when the odors from thousands of untrodden 
 
 flowers mingled with, the aroma of old forests, and 
 
 the gentlest wind that ever tried its wings, flapped 
 
 its way through vast realms of sleeping fragrance 
 
 — that Love first set out to discover the long-lost 
 
 Language of the Flowers. For there had been 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 rumors in the olden world, that, before the winged 
 lovers of Earth’s first daughters left their watch 
 beside the star-beaconed battlements of Heaven, and 
 gave up all their glory for the heart of woman, 
 
 ! the buds and blossoms held sweet converse to¬ 
 gether ; and that many a time when the night¬ 
 ingale ushered in the twilight with her song, voices 
 from the flowers had made low response, among 
 the glades and rose-girded pastures, in the Garden 
 of Paradise. Even on Olympus, Love had heard 
 that an immortal language never could die ; that, 
 although silent, it still slept somewhere among the 
 flowers ; and many a time, while resting on some 
 fragrant bed, he had been awakened by low whisper¬ 
 ings, and disturbed by the heavy beating of his heart, 
 which ever seemed urging him onward to commence 
 his holy mission, and discover that language which 
 had been lost ever since the day when Eve went weep¬ 
 ing from beneath the angel-guarded gates of Eden. 
 
 Love arose, and shook the rounded dew in loosened 
 pearls from the feathery silver of his wings, and soared 
 far away, over many a hill and valley, alighting 
 when weary, and kneeling lowly, with attentive ear 
 and bowed head beside the blossoms ; but as yet he 
 
love and the flowers. 19 
 
 had only learned what the bees said when they hung 
 murmuring over the honeyed bells, and what words 
 the butterflies whispered as they alighted upon the 
 flowers with subsiding wings. Onward wandered 
 Love for many a day;—although he caught the faint 
 breathing of the blossoms, yet the meaning of their 
 lowest words was still to him a mystery. At last, 
 v eary and sad at heart, he sat down and wept upon 
 a bed of Roses. The Rose was his mother’s favorite 
 flower; it had ever been sacred to Venus, and he 
 heaid a sound as of low sighing among its leaves; 
 and when he laid down, he felt the drooping petals 
 falling upon his lips and around his neck, as if to * 
 catch the tears that fell; and then it was that Love 
 fust kissed the Rose and blessed it unawares ; for 
 the sweetness and beauty of the flower sank into his 
 heart. And, whilst folded upon his lips, she told 
 him, that ages ago Jove selected her for the Q,ueen 
 of Flowers and the Goddess of Beauty; that nothing 
 human had ever surpassed her charms : and that 
 when every image of poetry was exhausted, none 
 could equal her own ; that from the first creation 
 of flowers, she had been named “the ornament of 
 the eaith, the princess of plants, the eye of the flower, 
 
20 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the blush of beauty, the breath of love and that 
 even when her leaves withered, to mark her immor¬ 
 tal origin, she gave not up her breath, but still lived 
 in a spirit of invisible fragrance ; that she never 
 knew old age, but sank to sleep in perfume, in the 
 full perfection of her beauty, for she was the fairest 
 daughter that was born of the Mother of Lo.ve. So 
 Love found his sweet and long-lost sister in the Rose, 
 and she first spoke to him in the old language of the 
 flowers, giving him a new lesson every day, until not 
 a bell bowed,, nor a bud expanded, nor a blossom 
 opened its beautiful lips, without Love knowing every 
 ^ word it whispered. 
 
 For days did Love linger with his sweet sister, 
 the Rose, before he again set out on his pilgrimage; 
 but his journey was now no longer lonely, he found 
 a companion in every flower by the way-side, and 
 held converse with every bud that dwelt within its 
 green homestead of leaves. The Honeysuckle told 
 him how, in the olden age, she was the emblem of 
 Devoted Affection; that she twined over rural and 
 primeval huts, when love alone was counted happi- 
 
 * Fragment, attributed to Sappho. 
 
LOVE AND THE FLOWERS. 21 
 
 ness, and the only wealth man coveted was the pos¬ 
 session of a true heart—one that loved for evermore, 
 and throughout all the changes of time, for ever re¬ 
 mained the same. The Lily blushed as he drew 
 near, and across her pearly whiteness stole a crimson 
 shadow, as if a winged rose had flown over her, and 
 then passed on ; and, with downcast eyes, she told 
 him, that to her belonged Purity of Heart; that she 
 was once so holy a sanctuary, that even angels had 
 deigned to dwell with her, and in their love for so 
 spotless an abode, they had forfeited the domains of 
 Heaven. The Forget-me-not uplifted her blue eyes 
 as he approached, and said, that she had never for¬ 
 gotten him, but had waited in patience and silence 
 many an age for his coming; that, although her lips 
 were sealed, she held fond communion with her own 
 heart, and that she never looked up to the stars but 
 what they bade her hope; that she was still as true 
 to Love as the blue heaven that bent over her, 
 when first the morning-stars sang together for joy. 
 The timid Yiolet shrank amid her broad leaves 
 as she heard the approaching flutter of his wings; 
 and long did Love linger around her, and sigh as he 
 hung over her beauty, until, at last, she looked up 
 
 i v i i£DF O ■ [ j i 
 LIB R A R y 
 
22 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 and told him, that her home was the abode of Mod¬ 
 esty ; that she seldom ventured forth into the world; 
 that those who loved her sought her solitude, for 
 she coveted not the gaze of a stranger’s eye, nor 
 loved to parade her beauty abroad among the blos¬ 
 soms; for there were those among the children of 
 men, who, forgetful of all modesty, peeped under hei 
 face, and looked into her downcast eyes. The 
 Daisies rose up to welcome him, and gathered to¬ 
 gether in thousands to witness his approach. They 
 made him a couch of their starry coronets, they em¬ 
 braced him with their green arms, and looked fondly 
 upon him with their golden eyes, as they told him, 
 in sweet, unstudied syllables, that they were the 
 daughters of Innocence ; and as Love looked ten¬ 
 derly upon them, he felt a hushed and holy awe 
 about his heart, such as had never touched those 
 innocent flowers, that for ever remain in their child¬ 
 hood. Filled with sad and pleasing thoughts, which 
 gathered around him whilst he slept beside a bed of 
 Pansies, he awoke, and winged his way to a grey, old 
 ruined fortress, thinking that he there might ponder 
 over t^ie lessons he had learned from the flowers. But 
 on the mouldering battlements he beheld the wild 
 
LOVE AND THE FLOWERS. 23 
 
 Wall-flowers blowing' ; and when lie inquired why 
 they still haunted such a scene of decay and desola¬ 
 tion, they answered, that they had outlived all that 
 was once lovely and happy; and although Beauty no 
 longer reigned there, and the banquet-hall was desert¬ 
 ed, and the voice of the lute no longer sounded in the 
 lady’s bower — they were still faithful amid all the 
 storms of adversity. 
 
 Long did Love brood over the new language which 
 he had discovered, and many a day did he sit ponder¬ 
 ing to himself, as if hesitating whether or not he should 
 trust Woman with the secret. “ She is already armed 
 with beauty,” reasoned Love, as he sat with his elbow 
 pillowed on a bed of flowers ; “ there is a language in 
 her eyes, and a sweet music in her voice, and shall I 
 now teach her to converse through flowers—to give a 
 tongue to the rose, and a voice to the lily, and hang 
 upon the honeysuckle words of love, and turn every 
 blossom she gathers into the language of affection ? 
 No ; I will again fly abroad, and dropping a bud here 
 and a bell there, see to what purpose she turneth these 
 beautiful secrets. I will but at first teach her a few 
 letters in this new Alphabet of Love.” 
 
 Then he thought that as the flowers were such holy 
 
24 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 things—bom of beauty and nursed in purity, fed upon 
 the dews, and seldom looking upon aught less sacied 
 than the stars, as if they were more allied to heaven 
 than to earth—that if the virtue, and goodness, and love 
 which they represent were but practised by mankind, 
 they would again make the children of earth what 
 they were in the infancy of the world, and man would 
 again be found “only a little lower than the angels.” 
 
 Love flew to the burning East, where Beauty is 
 guarded by jealous lattices, and Pride, armed with 
 sharp scimitar, stands ever ready, feeling its cold, keen 
 edge, and waiting to cut every heart-sprung affec¬ 
 tion asunder; to punish a fond look, unaccompanied 
 by wealth, with death; and to dig a grave for every 
 hallowed feeling that is unattended by Power. Love 
 dropped a few flowers in the guarded turret, and then 
 concealed himself. A white hand shaped them after 
 the fond feelings of her heart, and then her rounded arm 
 let them fall from the airy balcony ; and the lowly lov¬ 
 er who waited below gathered up the banded flowers, 
 and placing them upon his heart, bore them away. He 
 wept, mused, sighed, and smiled over them in his soli¬ 
 tude, until he found their hidden meaning, and spelled 
 out, letter by letter, the mysterious language of love. 
 
LOVE AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 25 
 
 Fearlessly did he approach with them in his hand- 
 lie looked not, he spoke not: the watchful guardian 
 smiled grimly upon his drawn scimitar, believing that 
 its sharp edge had cut asunder every cord of love; for 
 he saw not the bright eye that peeped out from every 
 bud —he beheld not the sweet lips that bent forward 
 from every blossom. He heard not the language which 
 the flowers uttered, and he saw not how Love looked 
 on and laughed, as he noted every word which went 
 back, and sank unperceived into the heart. 
 
 Ages passed away before Love entered the flowery 
 fields and velvet valleys of merry England ; his heart 
 had long been light, and his wings unfettered, and he 
 cared not now into what quarter of the world he wan¬ 
 dered, for he found that wherever he went upon his 
 flowery errand, man grew more refined, and woman 
 each day bore a closer resemblance to the angels. He 
 visited ancient castles and humble hamlets, and throng¬ 
 ed thorpes, and thatched granges, and taught every¬ 
 where this new language of love. If he saw a rustic 
 maiden with her head hanging aside, and her hands 
 clasped, he plucked the fragrant blossom of the Haw¬ 
 thorn, and, throwing it at her feet, he whispered into her 
 ear and bade her Hope. As his foot dashed away the 
 
26 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 clew from the up-coned Lilac, he gathered the topmost 
 sprig and threw it at her unsuspecting lover, who from 
 that moment dated his first Emotions of Love. He 
 pointed out where many a blue-belled flower grew; 
 there they met and vowed to be Constant unto Death: 
 and while they sat hand-in-hand, gazing upon the white 
 Water-Lilies on the lake, they felt that deep heaving of 
 the heart which ever proclaimeth the Purity of Love. 
 
 So he wandered along, and on wild moorlands, 
 where rude huts rose, and scarce a flower broke the dark 
 brown solitude, Love left the broad Fern as a token of 
 Sincerity: on bleak mountain-tops, where scarce a tree 
 threw down its chequered shadow, he planted the 
 Harebell, and the crimson Heather, to give a charm to 
 Retirement and Solitude. Into the depths of the lone¬ 
 liest woods he went, visiting deep dells and deserted 
 dingles, where the graceful Lilies-of-the-Valley grew, 
 telling them they were not forgotten, but should yet be 
 proudly worn in many a fond breast that sighed for a 
 Return of Happiness. Beside the Marigold, which 
 closed its eyes as if for very Sorrow, he planted the 
 Celandine, and leaving the Hawthorn, Hope, to cheer 
 them and keep watch, he promised that, while ever the 
 Golden Star shone there, it should be the image of Joys 
 
LOVE AND THE FLOWERS. 27 
 
 to Come. From flower to flower lie flew on his peace¬ 
 ful pilgrimage: through them reconciling lovers who 
 had long been estranged, and bringing back many a 
 wandering affection that had long sighed for a fond 
 heart to dwell within. 
 
 Thus Love restored a language which for undated cen¬ 
 turies had been lost—which the sweet tongue of woman 
 had made music of before the beauty of the early world 
 was submerged beneath the waters. For Time had all 
 but blotted out the few records which told that there 
 ever existed a language between Love and the Flowers. 
 
 Amid the broken and crumbling ruins over which 
 Time has marched, he has only left the sculptured 
 capital of some column, or shattered pedestal, in which 
 we can trace, among a hundred rude hieroglyphics, 
 the rough outline of some flower, which was either 
 sacred to their religion or their love. In the ruins of 
 temples, whose origin even Antiquity has forgotten, 
 we trace, in the life like marble of the figures, brows 
 which are wreathed with blossoms, and in the broken 
 fresco we find groups of maidens strewing the path¬ 
 way which leads to the holy shrine with flowers, — 
 the carven altar is piled high with them ; they garland 
 the neck of the victim which their priests are about to 
 

 28 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 sacrifice,— and we know no more. Ages have passed 
 away since that procession moved — the shadows of 
 two thousand years have settled down over the hills 
 and valleys where those beautiful maidens first gath¬ 
 ered the flowers of Summer — history has left no 
 record of their existence — the language in which 
 they breathed their loves, their hopes, and their fears, 
 has died away — even their name as a nation is for¬ 
 gotten : and all we know is, that their men looked 
 noble and their women beautiful, and that flowers 
 were used in their sacred ceremonies, and that all, 
 saving the mute figures upon the marble, have long 
 since passed away. We sigh, and try in vain to deci¬ 
 pher these ancient emblems. 
 
 Love returned to the fables of the Heathen Poets, 
 and there he found that those whose beauty the gods 
 could not lift into immortality, they changed into 
 flowers; as if they considered that next to the glory 
 of being enthroned upon Olympus, was to be trans¬ 
 formed into a beautiful and fragrant object—one that, 
 so long as the sun shone upon the world, and the 
 globed dews hung their rounded silver upon the blos¬ 
 soms, so long should it stand throughout all time, 
 
 “ A thing of beauty and a joy for ever.'’ 
 

 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 29 
 
 THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 YOUR MODESTY AND AMIABILITY HAVE CAUSED ME TO 
 CONFESS MY LOVE. 
 
 Eraiilcms. 
 
 BLUE VIOLET— modesty; WHITE JASMINE— amiability; 
 
 MOSS-ROSE —confession of love ; PINK —pure love. 
 
 f 
 
 “Violets dim, 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 
 
 Or Cytherea’s breath.” —Shakspeare. 
 
 In one of those secluded valleys whose beauty 
 astonishes the traveller as he comes upon it unaware, 
 stood a neat-looking, lowly-thatched cottage, like a 
 hidden nest embosomed amid the tranquillity of the 
 hills. A winding footpath threaded its way toward 
 the green summit,—here running along the narrow 
 level of a ledge, there making a graceful bend round 
 the bole of some majestic tree, and farther on climb¬ 
 ing upward, with a steep, breathless ascent, until the 
 
30 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 level brow of the hill was gained; and then, far as 
 the eye could wander, it commanded a view of a vast 
 outstretched landscape, diversified with spires, and 
 plains, and woods, intercepted every way with a broad 
 clear river, that went rolling and bending along, until 
 it dwindled into a mere thread of silver, as it was lost 
 in the distance. On the brow of this beautiful hill a 
 plain rustic seat had been erected by the inhabitants 
 of the cottage in the valley, and as there was no 
 thoroughfare beyond what was traversed by the 
 neighboring villagers, as they came morning and 
 evening to milk the cows, which were heard lowing 
 among the hilly fields ; the summit, like the valley it 
 overlooked, was seldom trodden by the foot of a 
 stranger. And often on a summer’s evening, when 
 the labor of the day was over, might the form of a 
 lovely maiden be seen leaving that cottage, and climb¬ 
 ing the steep ascent of the hill, carrying either a little 
 work-basket on her arm, or a book in her hand, and 
 every now and then pausing to look over the land¬ 
 scape, as she threaded her way to the rustic seat. 
 Sometimes she sent forth her voice in gushing music, 
 which was prolonged and reverberated through the 
 dale, as if the echoes of the valley were her compan- 
 
THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 31 
 
 ions, and their only delight was to call to, and answer- 
 each other. She sang from the very overjoyousness 
 of her heart, like a bird, perched amid a cluster of 
 milk-white blossoms, that takes a delight in telling 
 the trees, and flowers, and sunshine that hangs around 
 it, how great is the pleasure that fills its little heart, 
 and how happy it is in the companionship of such 
 sweet scenery : and should the form of a stranger ap¬ 
 pear, the golden chain of her melody was snapped 
 asunder in an instant, and, like a bird, she -would dart 
 down to her little thatched nest in the valley below. 
 Her modesty, and the sweetness of her voice, had ob¬ 
 tained for her amidst the neighboring villagers the 
 name of, The Violet of the Valley. 
 
 Those who know not the bliss which springs from 
 contentment, might marvel how one so beautiful could 
 rest satisfied by burying herself in such seclusion. 
 They might as "well have asked the Violet why it was 
 so happy in the solitude which surrounded it, why it 
 concealed its beauty amid the green leaves by which 
 it was overhung, and scattered its sweetness upon “the 
 desert airand the Violet might have replied, that 
 although the air which blew around it was deserted, 
 yet many a breeze would carry its sweetness afar off, 
 
32 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 perfuming unseen and distant places that were not 
 solitary. Although her beauty had not gladdened the 
 gaze of many beholders, still her voice on a calm sum¬ 
 mer’s evening had fallen with a peaceful hush on many 
 a gentle heart, coming upon the ear 
 
 “ Like the sweet south 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 
 Stealing and giving odor:” 
 
 for hers were sweet and rustic strains,—unstudied 
 melodies, that stole in and out the heart: they were 
 “old and plain,” such as 
 
 u The spinsters and the knitters, in the sun, 
 
 And the free maids that weave their thread with bone, 
 
 Do use to chant: for they were silly truth, 
 
 And dallied with the innocence of love 
 Like th’ olden age.” 
 
 They were such as Barbara was wont to chant when 
 she went singing about the house before she “hung her 
 head aside,” and all for love ; for within that innocent 
 heart Love had not yet “lighted his golden toich, and 
 waved his purple wings.” The temple and the shrine 
 were there, but within that holy place no worshiper 
 had as yet knelt down—no incense was offered up 
 saving from the flowers, those bowing adorers of that 
 
THE VIOLET OP THE VALLEY. 
 
 33 
 
 tranquil valley. The anthems that echoed there were 
 the songs of the wild birds, and the prayer breathed 
 forth was the adoration of Nature, ministering in her 
 
 I 
 
 own holy temple. If Love was there, it sat like a child 
 playing in its innocence upon its own hearth, ad¬ 
 miring the starry Jasmine which threw its green 
 curtaining over the casement, or looking fondly at the 
 Moss-rose which peeped in timidly at the latticed door¬ 
 way. There was an unstudied grace in her attitude 
 which the eye of the sculptor hath not yet caught,—a 
 finish about the turning of the head and the rounding 
 of the shoulders, to which marble hath not yet lent its 
 enduring immortality; while in the large blue heaven 
 of her downcast eyes, Modesty ever seemed to sit en¬ 
 throned. In her casual visits to the distant market- 
 town, men turned their heads in wonderment, and even 
 women marveled from whence such a being of life 
 and beauty had sprung; for wherever she moved she 
 seemed to throw across the pavement a glad streak as 
 if of sunshine. The astonished stranger made his 
 inquiries in vain,—all he could gather was, that she 
 was called the Yiolet of the Valley, but where she 
 dwelt there were few that knew. And many an eye 
 
 ere it closed in sleep, pictured that form moving before 
 
 3 
 
34 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 it, until slumber settled down, and in dreams they were 
 carried away to far-off dells and dingles; to valleys 
 where the nightingale made music all summer long: 
 and they thought of Eve before she fell, and believed 
 that somewhere in the earth there still existed an 
 unvisited Paradise. They pictured a rustic home 
 which the amiable Jasmine overhung, without know-: 
 ing that with such her own was garlanded. They 
 conjured up a porch twined over with Moss-roses, 
 unconscious that the threshold over which her beauty 
 passed, was wreathed with the same queenly flowers. 
 In their sleep they sighed over perfumed beds of Pinks, 
 not knowing that her own garden w r as covered with 
 them ; and they built up an imaginary abode for Love 
 to dwell in, before the winged god had either alighted 
 upon, or visited the spot. Many a sigh was sent ovei 
 the hills which overlooked that little cottage, and many 
 a prayer Wcifted towards the happy valley in which she 
 dwelt; but the bees murmured round her home, the 
 butterflies sat swinging upon her flowers, morning and 
 evening the birds swelled their anthems upon the 
 breeze, and all night long the brook went singing to 
 itself beneath her window, and, saving an affection for 
 all these sweet sights and sounds, and a heart at peace 
 
THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 35 
 
 with all mankind, she was as yet untouched by 
 Love. 
 
 But Love at length came, timid as he ever cometh : 
 concealing himself at first behind the trees, or screened 
 by the surrounding bushes, as if all he coveted was to 
 listen to the music of her voice. When he appeared, 
 she vanished; when he retreated, she was again in her 
 accustomed place. It was as if the sunshine was sport- 
 ing with the beautiful shadow, and both vanished at 
 the same moment of time,—as if Love and Modesty 
 were ashamed of accosting each other, though they 
 
 were ever sighing when alone to be made one. Until 
 
 one day, Love, emboldened, left a bouquet upon her 
 favorite rural seat, hiding himself while he watched 
 the Violet of the Valley untwining her sister flowers. 
 As she held them in her hand the Moss-rose fell 
 against hei heart, and she felt a strange flutterin 0- 
 from within, which told her that Love was fold in his 
 wings, and taking possession of his new abode ; while 
 from her heaving heart arose this confession, her cheek 
 became blanched until it was paler than the blossoms 
 of the Jasmine, then over all arose a flushing warmth, 
 the pearly pinkness of blushing love mantling her 
 cheek, and making it more beautiful than the most 
 
36 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 delicate crimson with which the Moss-rose was dyed ; 
 and from that day Love and Modesty dwelt together, 
 their abode embowered about with Jasmine, and trail¬ 
 ing Roses, and Violets, sweet as the perfumes of Para¬ 
 dise. 
 
 Love could not have found a happier nor a more peace¬ 
 ful home. The very spot in which they dwelt together 
 was a land of perfect poetry, and within it her simple 
 wishes were bounded ; for she knew no more about 
 what the world calls rank, and splendor, and fashion, 
 than the modest Violet after which she was named, 
 does of the flowers that are forced into bloom and 
 beauty within the unnatural atmosphere of a hot-liouse. 
 “The heart.” says an old writer, “envieth not that 
 which it hath never known, neither doth the eye covet 
 what it hath never seen, and from this very ignorance 
 cometh much happiness.” Spring came, and poured 
 her opening buds into the valley, and let loose her 
 feathered songsters amongst the trees. Summer fol¬ 
 lowed, and, with sunny fingers, opened the flowers, 
 giving freedom to a thousand imprisoned perfumes. 
 Then came Autumn, with his wheaten sheaf and ruddy 
 fruitage,—and when all these were gone, she had still 
 Love left for her companion throughout the dark win- 
 
THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 37 
 
 ter; and knowing that the bright seasons would soon 
 return again, there was nothing in the world that she 
 coveted. 
 
 Every one can remember some bank on which the 
 Violet blows—some green lane or pleasant foot-path 
 in which they have been stopped in spring by its fra¬ 
 grance. “Sweet Violets,” is one of the earliest cries 
 which greet the ear in spring, telling us that they have 
 come again, like beautiful children, heralding in the 
 approach of summer; they bring joyous tidings of 
 brighter days, and the return of singing birds, and the 
 whispers of long leaves and pleasant walks, reminding 
 us that Nature has awoke from her slumber, and is 
 shaking open the unblown buds which have gathered 
 around her during her long winter’s sleep. Dear was 
 this modest and beautiful flower to the hearts of our 
 elder poets, and from its sweetness, buried amid the 
 broad green leaves, they drew forth many an exquisite 
 image, and in it found the emblems of hidden Virtue, 
 and neglected Modesty, and unchanging Love. 
 
38 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Stepping further into summer, comes the star-white 
 Jasmine—that sweet perfumer of the night, which 
 only throws out its full fragrance when its sister stars 
 are keeping watch in the sky ; as if when the song of 
 the nightingale no longer cheered the darkness, it sent 
 forth its silent aroma upon the listening air. Many a 
 happy home does it garland, and peeps in at many a 
 forbidden lattice, where Love and Beauty lepose. 
 Little did the proud courtiers and stately dames of 
 Queen Elizabeth’s day dream that this sweet-scented 
 creeper (a sprig of which seemed to make the haughty 
 haughtier still) would one day become so common as 
 to cluster around, and embower thousands of humble 
 English cottages,—a degradation which, could they but 
 have witnessed, would almost have made every plait 
 
 of their starched ruffs bristle up, like “epulis upon the 
 
 fretful porcupine.” Beautiful are its long, drooping, 
 dark-green shoots, trailing around the trellis-work of a 
 door-way, like a green curtain embroidered with silvei 
 flowers; while here and there the queenly Moss-rose, 
 creeping in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapes¬ 
 try, shows its crimson face amid the emboweled gieen, 
 —a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad case¬ 
 
 ment. 
 
THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 39 
 
 Bat of all the odors that ever floated from the spicy 
 shores of “Araby the Blest,” there are few to excel 
 the sweet fragrance of our scented Pinks ; over which, 
 when the wind blows, the gale seems to come laden as 
 if with perfume from a bed of spices. Beautiful are 
 they in their wild state, waving on the ruined walls of 
 some ancient fortress, and drooping peacefully over 
 those mouldering battlements, behind which the warder 
 once paced, and the crossbowman took his deadly 
 aim,—there it still hangs, throwing its sweetness over 
 the roofless walls of the banquet-hall, as if to show how 
 frail and fleeting was the beauty which once proudly 
 trod those crumbling floors. 
 
 Alas! the breathiug beauties have departed, and 
 only the flowers are now remaining behind. They 
 are gone who loved to see themselves wreathed around 
 with blossoms, and thought their loveliness still love¬ 
 lier when adorned with summer’s opening buds; for 
 amid all the rich stores which Imagination suggested, 
 they could find no tints that excelled, no shapes that 
 surpassed, no fragrance that outsweetened, the per¬ 
 fumed breath of the flowers. From the deep purple 
 which the haughty Emperor wore, to the shaded and 
 delicate colors which mingled in the varied costume of 
 
40 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the crowned Q,ueen,—when the loom had exhausted 
 its richness, and the unsunned mine brought to light 
 the splendor of its treasures, they were still eclipsed 
 by the matchless attire of the flowers ; for “ Solomon, 
 in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. 
 
FLOWERS OF LOVE. 
 
 41 
 
 FLOWERS OF LOVE. 
 
 With gray head bent toward the ground, 
 While wandering through a Saxon vale, 
 A pilgrim first the Yiolet found, 
 
 Flinging its fragrance on the gale 
 As he toward the holy shrine 
 
 Journeyed along with wearied feet:— 
 He smiled to think the saint divine 
 
 Should him with such sweet odors meet. 
 
 A Lover on the Indian sea, 
 
 Sighiag for her left far behind, 
 
 Inhaled the scented Jasmine-tree, 
 
 As it perf’j n ed the evening wind : 
 Shoreward he steer’d at dawn of day, 
 
 And saw the coast all round embower’d, 
 And brought a starry sprig away, 
 
 For her by whose green cot it flower’d. 
 
42 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 And oft when from that scorching shore, 
 In after years those odors come, 
 
 He pictured his green cottage doer, 
 
 The shady porch, and window-frame, 
 Far, far away, across the foam : 
 
 The very Jasmine-flower that crept 
 Round the thatch’d roof about his home, 
 Where she he loved then safely slept. 
 
 With raven-ringlets blown apart, 
 
 And trembling like a startled dove, 
 
 A lovely girl press’d to her heart 
 A Moss-rose, to appease its love. 
 
 But all in vain, it still kept beating,— 
 And so she said, “ ’Tis all in vai 1 1 
 Oh, this love, ’tis past defeating,— 
 
 What can I do but love again " 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 43 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 LOVE, FORGET ME NOT, FOR IF FORSAKEN I DIE. 
 
 Emblems. 
 
 MYRTLE —love: forget-me-not. ANEMONE— forsaken. 
 
 LAURUSTINUS —if neglected i die. 
 
 Thy very name is Love’s own Poetry, 
 
 Born of the heart and of the eye begot, 
 
 Nursed amid sighs and smiles by Constancy. 
 
 And ever breathing, 1 Love, Forget me not.’ . 
 
 \ Love and flowers caused the wise king of Israel to 
 break forth into song, and the lays he chanted to the 
 dark-haired daughter of Egypt, are among the richest 
 notes that ever hung upon the golden chords of the 
 lyre. That the divinity he adored was a fair daughter 
 of Eve, whose beautiful form often glided through the 
 fretted chambers of the princely palace of Jerusalem, 
 even our most learned and grave commentators have 
 
44 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 been compelled to acknowledge: showing that the 
 language in which we express our admiration of the 
 matchless loveliness of Woman, approaches so near our 
 imperfect utterance of the adoration of heaven, that it 
 is Love which first learns us to lisp the holier language 
 that is wafted upward, and on the wings of prayer 
 borne to the abode of the angels. In what a sea of 
 bliss must the heart of the monarch have floated when, 
 looking out of his casement over the green gardens of 
 Jerusalem, he saw the whole landscape steeped in sun¬ 
 shine, as if thrown back and reflected from a mirror of 
 gold ; and gently awaking his beautiful and dark-eyed 
 Egyptian bride, he breathed into her ear a sweet lay 
 of love,—told her that the flowers had again appeared 
 on the earth, that the singing birds had returned from 
 distant climes, and the voice of the turtle was heard in 
 the land,—that the grapes threw out a sweet smell, 
 and the young roes were feeding among the lilies. He 
 bade her come forth and show her beauty, like an 
 apple-tree in full blossom, amid the greenery of the 
 surrounding woods. While he murmured in her ear, 
 and placed his left hand under her head, and she look¬ 
 ed back upon him with half-averted eyes ;—the banner 
 that waved over him was Love. He led her forth by 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 45 
 
 the hand, and as her sable tresses blew back in the 
 morning breeze, her queenly scarf streamed in an arch, 
 like a rainbow, “ backward borne,” and she came down 
 into the garden with a dancing step, skipping along in 
 the very fulness of her love, like a young roe upon the 
 mountains. Her lips were like a thread of scarlet, her 
 neck like a stately tower, her hair like the floating silk 
 ol Cashmere ; her teeth white and beautiful as a flock 
 of lambs returning from the washing; her eyes, now 
 and then hidden by the raven ringlets which blew 
 across her queenly brow, were softer than the eyes of 
 the dove when it bends over and coos to its voune - . As 
 they walked along, a smell of spikenard, and cinnamon, 
 and myrrh, perfumed the air ; and as he gathered flow¬ 
 ers, and placed them in her hand, he called her his 
 garden—his delight: the sweetest blossom that ever 
 hung over, or was reflected in the Nile, or opened 
 beneath the earliest sunbeam that ever gilded the 
 summits of her father’s pyramids. They rambled 
 onward through the garden of nuts—through the 
 valley covered with myrtles, that evergreen emblem of 
 Love, where the tendrils of the vine swayed idly in the 
 morning air, and the pomegranates put forth-their 
 buds; they went far away among the pleasant fields, 
 
46 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 and, throwing aside their regal dignity, rested them¬ 
 selves among the homely villagers. He told her how 
 Love is stronger than Death—that the wide waters 
 which overflow Egypt would be unable to quench it; 
 and that while he slept, his heart was still awake, and 
 that his dreams were ever of Love. 
 
 Although the Myrtle is consecrated to Venus, and 
 formed the garland with which the Goddess of Love 
 and Beauty was crowned, growing also around the 
 temples which were dedicated to her worship, still its 
 antiquity dates not so far back as the Forget-me-not, 
 which is as old as memory, and coeval with the crea¬ 
 tion of man. It was among the first flowers that sprang 
 up from the saturated earth, after the overwhelming 
 waters of the great deluge had subsided. Its history 
 is found in the earliest records of the world, and woven 
 with those legends which were current among the 
 builders of Babel, who, in their ambition, attempted to 
 rear a tower, the summit of which was to reach the 
 stars. Thousands of the traditions, that were rich in 
 the lore of the antediluvian world, have been lost for 
 ages, and it is only in those countries which were first 
 peopled by the sons and daughters of Noah, that we 
 are able to trace the faint outline of their origin, and in 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 47 
 
 one of these relics of forgotten poetry, we find the 
 legend of the Forget-me-not. 
 
 It was on the site of one of those old homes of the 
 early world—one that had stood beside the banks, 
 where as beautiful a river flowed as had ever flashed 
 back the golden lines of sunlight from the moving 
 mirror of its waters—that a lost angel sat down, sad 
 and sorrowful; his face buried in the Dalms of his 
 hands, his long ringlets, which the celestial air of 
 heaven had many a time fanned, drooped negligently 
 over his rounded shoulders ; and his broad white 
 wings, which fell folded upon his back, looked as if 
 they had borne the brunt of many a storm, and shaken 
 from their white plumes the blind rain of many a de¬ 
 scending shower. He was one of those who had lost 
 heaven through the love of woman, and had floated 
 long days through the solitary air, his own image the 
 only moving thing shadowed in the silent waters that 
 covered the earth, while all below, saving the ark, was 
 buried beneath the deep deluge. But the waters had 
 now subsided, the green hills had bared their tall sum¬ 
 mits, and the outstretched plains at their feet, were once 
 more visible. But the top of many a mountain had 
 been washed away, and fields which before waved with 
 
48 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 a thousand flowers were now deeply covered beneath a 
 new soil—the grave of all that was lovely and beauti¬ 
 ful among women. And she, whose loss the angel 
 mourned, whose image had so often floated between 
 him and heaven ; rising before him when he stood with 
 bowed head amid the ranged ranks of the winged cheru¬ 
 bim, while the remembered echoes of her voice still 
 seemed to sound upon his ears, and made the holy an¬ 
 them which pealed through the vaulted gold, grate like 
 harsh music,—she, too, was buried deep below: the 
 loveliest flower which the deluge had destroyed, amid 
 all its wreck of bright and beautiful blossoms. 
 
 He raised the dim starlight of his eyes and gazed 
 around, but not a vestige remained behind to tell of 
 what had been. The trellised bower, over which, even 
 at noonday, a green kind of shadowy twilight seemed 
 to hang, was swept away, and not a trace left to mark 
 out the spot where it had once stood. Groaning, he 
 threw himself upon his side, and his great immortal 
 heart beat as if it would have burst, while the snowy 
 whiteness of his plumes was dabbled over with the dark 
 soil, which had settled down and blotted out the light 
 of her beauty whom he loved. “Never more/’ ex¬ 
 claimed he, in the utterance of his deep agony, “ shall 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 49 
 
 I lean, upon thy warm shoulder in the evening 1 sunset, 
 listening to those silver accents, which to me were 
 sweetei music than that which floated through the en¬ 
 vied heaven I have lost. Never more will those milk- 
 v hite arms embrace me, nor shall I again taste the 
 bubbling honey which steeped the rounded roses of thy 
 matchless lips, far sweeter than the dews which swell 
 the pouting blossoms that blow in the immortal gardens 
 above : those golden ringlets, which hung upon the 
 downy whiteness of my wings, like the last deep rays 
 of sunset shed over a bed of lilies, have now blended 
 their golden clusters with the clod of the valley : those 
 eyes, which but to look on made the stars, that pave 
 the azuie floor of that heaven which I shall never aerain 
 tread, look dull, and dead, and rayless : and that heart, 
 which was a fitting sanctuary for the Holy One him¬ 
 self to dwell in, is now cold, and hushed, and motion¬ 
 less, and dark as the chaos I flew over at His bidding 
 
 O 7 
 
 long before the first morning broke upon the void. 
 
 With one hand shadowing his face, he arose from 
 
 the earth, mute and sorrowful; and tears, the first that 
 
 had ever yet dimmed immortal eyes, oozed out from 
 
 between the unstained whiteness of his fingers, and 
 
 fell like a shower upon the ground. He looked upon 
 
 4 " 
 
50 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 the earth, and stood ankle-deep in the blue flowers of 
 the Forget-me-not—they had sprung from the angel’s 
 tears; and high in the air he heard a floating, unem¬ 
 bodied voice, sweeter than that music which had 
 cheered his lonely watch, when he kept guard beside 
 i the battlements of heaven, while the helmed cherubims 
 i flew forth to wage war against the fallen angels. It, 
 was the voice of her for whose love he had sacrificed 
 heaven: and, kneeling amid the blue flowers, with 
 clasped hands, motionless as a statue, the low, aerial 
 music shaped itself into words, as it fell upon his ear ; 
 and he held his breath with awe, for he knew that it 
 was now an immortal voice which said 
 
 By the wold and by the wildwood, 
 
 By lonely mere, and water’d lea, 
 
 Haunts of age, and sportive childhood, 
 
 I am doomed to follow thee. 
 
 By the torrent it was utter’d, 
 
 ’Mid the flowers that round it blow, 
 
 And upon the breeze was mutter’d 
 The sad sentence of our woe— 
 
 And each bud and bell that’s hollow, 
 
 Bade thee lead where I must follow ; 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 51 
 
 Till the flowers thy feet surrounding 
 Shall be planted every where, 
 
 No shaded stream but what they ’re found in, 
 Throughout the summers of each year: 
 And in remembrance of our sorrow, 
 
 Many a maid shall seek that spot 
 In twilight glooms,—and when the morrow 
 Gilds the sweet Forget-me-not— 
 
 Where the river murmurs hollow, 
 
 Lovers ages hence shall follow. 
 
 And where the forest brook runs brawling,— 
 Here in sunshine, there in shade,— 
 
 Lovers shall be oft heard callingr. 
 
 While they traverse glen and glade : 
 
 As they search each woodland spot, 
 
 Hazeled dell and briery brake, 
 
 For the blue Forget-me-not, 
 
 Which they’ll cherish for our sake— 
 
 And up to Heaven’s high arching hollow, 
 Many a sigh our loves shall follow. 
 
52 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And in the flower they shall see blended. 
 
 The golden star that emblems thee, 
 Rimmed with the blue thy wings descended, 
 The heaven, that’s lost through lov.e of me 
 Without repining, or complaining, 
 
 Must thy weary task be done, 
 
 If thou hast hopes of e’er regaining 
 Those lost realms beyond the sun— 
 
 For the Voice said, low and hollow, 
 
 « Where he goest thou shalt follow.” 
 
 Every one who has wandered by the meadow- 
 streams and woodland brooks of pastoral England, 
 has gathered the blue Forget-me-not, one of the most 
 beautiful of our water-loving flowers; looking, where 
 a bed of it is growing together, as if the blue of heaven 
 had dropped down, and blended with the green tint of 
 the earth. Nor is its azure-eyed sister of the meadow 
 (the Myosotis Arvensis ) less fair; but its legend has 
 yet to be written, and the gentle spirit portrayed who 
 first planted it in the fields of Waterloo, above the 
 graves of England s fallen heioes. 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 53 
 
 The Myrtle had its birth in the sunny clime of the 
 East, and first grew amid those gardens where the 
 dark-eyed daughters of the sun, as they floated through 
 the mazy circles of the dreamy dance, shook out their 
 silken ringlets to the dallying wind. In many a peace¬ 
 ful valley which nestles down between the mountain- 
 passes is it found, with its beautiful white blossoms 
 blowing amid the untrodden solitudes, and filling the 
 air with fragrance for miles around. The fair maidens 
 of Judea bore it in their processions, and twined its 
 scented branches into green arbors at their solemn 
 festivals. And among the ancient traditions of the 
 Arabs it is recorded, that Adam bore in his hand a 
 sprig of Myrtle, when he was driven from the garden 
 of Paradise, — it might be from the very bower where 
 he first breathed his love into the ear of Eve. 
 
 In spring the green woods of merry England are 
 covered with the flowers of the Anemone. Turn the 
 eye whichever way you will, there it greets you like 
 ££ a pleasant thoughtit forms a bed of flowers around 
 the foot of the mighty oak, and below the tangling 
 brambles, which you may peep between, but cannot 
 pass, — there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending. 
 The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so 
 
54 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 plentiful is it in our country that we might fancy the 
 breeze had blown it every where. The gaudy Ane¬ 
 mone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken lo\ e, is 
 known to all; but our favorites are the uncultivated 
 offspring of the windy woods, which come long before 
 the broad green leaves hang overhead to shelter them. 
 
 The Laurustinus is a beautiful evergreen, bearing 
 white flowers ; which, before they become opened, 
 have all the richness of the Rose about the coloi of 
 the buds. Why so hardy a plant was selected for the 
 image of Neglected Love we know not, unless it be 
 that Love dies a hard death, and is difficult to destroy. 
 Milton has found a much more poetical image in 
 
 “The rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,” 
 
 than in the Anemone ; and for the sake of the Raid of 
 Paradise, the Primrose should have been held invio¬ 
 lable to Forsaken, or Neglected Love. It is a more 
 poetical flower than either of the above, and although 
 we have followed our predecessors in nothing but their 
 ill-chosen names, yet our emblem of Forsaken Love is 
 ' the Primrose, so christened by Milton at his own Im¬ 
 mortal Font. 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 55 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Forget thee, love ? — no, not while heaven 
 Spans its starred vault across the sky; 
 
 Oh, may I never be forgiven, 
 
 If e’er I cause that heart a sisdi! 
 
 O 
 
 Sooner shall the Forget-me-not 
 
 Shun the fringed brook by which it grows, 
 And pine for some sequestered spot, 
 
 Where not a silver ripple flows. 
 
 By the blue heaven that bends above me, 
 Dearly and fondly do I love thee ! 
 
 They fabled not in days of old 
 
 That Love neglected soon will perish,— 
 Throughout all time the truth doth hold 
 That what w r e love we ever cherish. 
 
 For when the Sun neglects the Flower, 
 
 And the sweet pearly dews forsake it, 
 
 It hangs its head, and from that hour, 
 
 Prays only unto Death to take it. 
 
56 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 So may I droop, by all above me, 
 
 If once this heart doth cease to love thee ! 
 
 The Turtle-Dove that’s lost its mate, 
 
 Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade, 
 And there alone mourns o’er its fate, 
 
 With plumes for ever disarrayed : 
 
 Alone ! alone ! it there sits cooing 
 
 Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek ? 
 ’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing, 
 
 In murmurs through its plaintive beak. 
 
 So will I mourn, by all above me, 
 
 If in this world I cease to love thee ! 
 
t 
 

OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 57 
 
 OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 YOUR HUMILITY, AND CONSTANCY, AND PURITY OF 
 HEART, CLAIM MY AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Emblems. 
 
 BROOM— humility. CANTERBURY-BELL— constancy. 
 
 WHITE WATER-LILY— purity of heart. ROSE¬ 
 MARY— affectionate remembrance. 
 
 Oft musing by the greenwood side, 
 
 5 Mid Blue-bells deep, and golden Broom, 
 
 Time’s ancient gateway open wide, 
 
 And far adown the gathering gloom, 
 
 On many a mouldering Saxon tomb, 
 
 The oldest flowers of England bloom. 
 
 Beautiful art thou, O Broom ! waving in all thy 
 rich array of green and gold, on the breezy bosom of 
 the bee-haunted heath. The sleeping sunshine, and 
 the silver-footed showers, the clouds that for ever play 
 about the face of Heaven, the homeless winds, and the 
 chrystal-globed dews, that settle upon thy blossoms 
 like sleep on the veined eyelids of an infant, are ever 
 beating above and around thee, as if to tell that they 
 
58 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 rejoice in thy companionship, and that, although a 
 thousand years have strided by with silent steps, Time 
 hath not abated an atom of their love. Who can tell 
 the thoughts of Saxon Alfred when, wandering alone, 
 crownless and sceptreless, he stretched himself on the 
 lonely moor beneath the shadow of thy golden blos¬ 
 soms, sighing for the fair queen he had left far behind ? 
 When he bowed his kingly head, and, musing on thy 
 beauty, buried in a solitary wild, thought how even 
 regal dignity would be enhanced by Humility, and 
 that, although thou didst grow there unmarked and 
 unpruned, not a more princely flower waved in his 
 own English garden. And thus musing he might 
 pluck the Blue-bell that nodded beside thee, and see 
 imaged in the humble and beautiful flower, an emblem 
 of Constancy,—might mark how ye still grew together 
 side by side, how the yellow Broom sheltered the azure 
 Bell which bloomed beneath it, from storm and wind, 
 and how, when the sunshine streamed out, the con¬ 
 stant flower opened its blue eyes and looked upward, 
 and thus they became enamoured of each other. 
 That his thoughtful eye glanced over the silent waters 
 of the lonely mere, where the White Water-lily sat, 
 like a crowned queen upon a green throne of rounded 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 59 
 
 leaves, receiving homage from a thousand ripples, 
 which were ever bowing down and kissing the pearly 
 whiteness of her feet. How the snowy petals of this 
 pale princess of the waters might recall the Purity of 
 Heart of her he loved, how he might trace the outline 
 of her beautiful brow in the golden crown of the flower, 
 see in the silver-skirted ripples the moving forms of her 
 attendants, and, catching another glimpse of the yel¬ 
 low Broom, and the rounded Blue-bell, conjure up the 
 Humility, and Constancy, and Purity of his own queen ; 
 and, taking heart, strike some sad, sweet note on the 
 silent harp, which had hitherto lain neglected beside 
 him, and see rising before him a thousand homes, 
 which no misbelieving Dane had ravished, and a king¬ 
 dom freed from the desolating hand of the invader. 
 How on a future day some proud Plantagenet might 
 have heard the legend from the sweet lips of the fair 
 Saxon he had espoused, and he might mount the hum- 
 ble Broom in his haughty helmet, his cheek blanching 
 while he gazed over the possessions be had gained by 
 plunder and power, as he thought how in former days, 
 the recovery of a kingdom had been planned, and won 
 back, by a brave, and houseless king ; whose throne 
 was then a solitary heath, canopied by a blue and 
 
60 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 bounded sky, and his attendants only the surrounding 
 flowers. 
 
 Who can tell what sad feelings hung about the 
 heart of the fair Saxon princess Rowena, when, stand- 
 ino- in the twilight, on the broom-covered steep hill side, 
 she saw from the distance, the fires kindled by the 
 hands of the desolating Dane, and beheld the flames 
 which devoured the home of her childhood, reddening 
 the evening sky ? It might be that while she found a 
 couch among the waving gold of the wild, surrounded 
 by her houseless attendants, and pillowed her head 
 upon the Broom, she selected it as the emblem of 
 Humility. And when she saw the waving Blue-bells 
 spring up on the very spot where the stormy sea-kings 
 had encamped, where the tide of battle had raged, and 
 swollen, and subsided, leaving no other trace of its 
 course than the silent ridges which had heaved up over 
 the dead; she selected the blue-cupped flower as the true 
 image of constancy; which, though crushed, and bruis¬ 
 ed, and buried, forsaketli not the chosen spot where its 
 beauty first bloomed. That when she sat mournful 
 beside the moorland lake, wearied through carrying 
 water to quench the thirst of the bia\e Saxons, 
 who had been wounded in battle, she saw the pale 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 61 
 
 Water-lilies sleeping upon their dark-green velvet 
 leaves, spotless as the clear element upon which they 
 floated, and leaving no vestige of the gross earth from 
 which they sprung; and she thought how the heart of 
 a woman, ennobled by virtuous deeds, might become 
 so purified, that if looked into by the eye of an angel, 
 he could not discover within, either blot, or blemish, 
 nor aught that varied from his own divinity, but the 
 fond humanity of love. Musing, she might conjure up 
 some gray old Saxon abbey, nestling amid the silence 
 of a green, sequestered valley, with its quiet graves, 
 around which the Rosemary grew, hallowed the more 
 in its remembrance, through having been brought by 
 holy men across the pathless sea ; and she might think 
 that even as that plant put forth its flowers in the dead 
 midnight of winter, so through the deep clouds which 
 hung over and darkened her native land, the morninsr 
 of peace might yet break, and see many a battle-field 
 again overgrown with flowers. 
 
 It was in those days that Love and Constancy set 
 out together to visit the world, and look for the abode 
 of Happiness: for there were rumors abroad that she 
 had concealed herself somewhere in the earth, and they 
 were fearful that Happiness had long pined for their 
 
society, and grown weary in waiting for their coming. 
 Humility went with them ; and Affectionate Remem¬ 
 brance, a lovely maiden, who sighed as often as she 
 smiled, was also their attendant. Many a time would 
 she have sunk by the way, had not Love and Con¬ 
 stancy consoled her ; while Humility led her by the 
 hand and whispered words of hope, whenever she felt 
 low and desponding. “ I cannot help it,” said Remem¬ 
 brance ; “but when I look into the past I see more of 
 pain than pleasure, and as for the future, it is so check¬ 
 ered with hopes and fears, that whilst I Moat, I doubt:’ 
 and there ever seems some sorrow overhanging, and 
 ready to settle dowrl upon what I love.” “Take 
 heart,” said Constancy, “ all will yet be well; even 
 Love is sometimes fretful, and it is only by leaning 
 upon him, and looking into his face, that I can com¬ 
 fort him ; for he seems as if he sometimes had forgot¬ 
 ten that I was still at his side.” 
 
 Humility, and Constancy, and Purity of Heart, are 
 the very divinities of Love, and among the holiest 
 images which we enshrine in the innermost temple of 
 the soul. Humility, like a lowly and beautiful maid¬ 
 en, ever walketh abroad with downcast and modest 
 glance, her hands folded meekly, and her free thoughts 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 63 
 
 wandering like graceful handmaids through the charm¬ 
 ed chambers of the mind ; unfettered by the painful 
 panoply of pride, and unimpeded by the watchful sen¬ 
 tries who ever keep jealous guard around the slave of 
 ambition. On her cheek the healthy beams of morn¬ 
 ing beat, and the dews of dawning are the pearly gems 
 which diadem her brow: there is a grace in the un¬ 
 studied flow of her drapery which the artists of old 
 seized upon, when they called forth from the canvass 
 forms which embodied the divinity of women. They 
 drew the adoration of angels from her looks, and the 
 great masters flew to her expressive features, when 
 they shadowed forth the Virgin-mother bending over 
 her Holy Child ; for there is no love without humility, 
 no true affection unless it sees in the object of its wor¬ 
 ship, a divinity toward which it tremblingly aspires. 
 
 “Constancy,” says the poet, “liveth in realms above : 
 but kind Pity, who had long looked down with tender 
 eyes, and beheld how cheerless and restless the wan¬ 
 dering heart was, even though it fondly loved, sent her 
 down upon the earth as a comforter, and she took up 
 her abode within the blue-belled flowers of the wild. 
 She gathered together all the floating affections of true 
 hearts, and formed for them many a sweet habitation, 
 
64 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 which they had sighed for in vain, to dwell in. She 
 erected for them a new and pleasant home in the heart, 
 —she assembled around them a thousand household 
 virtues,—and what the eye had before sought for 
 abroad in vain, it found within: it became the resting- 
 place of Love, and there alone was true beauty to be 
 found. Man no longer sighed for the Paradise he had 
 lost, for Constancy led him by the hand and brought 
 him back ; and he sat enthroned amid a lovelier Eden, 
 in the beating heart of woman. 
 
 Abroad he saw her image every where reflected. 
 The Water-lily sleeping on the lake mirrowed back 
 the purity in which lie now dwelt: all around beside 
 her might move, but Constancy had anchored her true 
 roots within the heart,—an hundred contending waves 
 might wash over the spotless snow of her blossoms, 
 but she still rose triumphant, whiter and purer from 
 the contest; for the washing of every ripple but laid 
 bare some hidden virtue, and from every assault she 
 won back some lost affection. 
 
 And when Love and Constancy set out to wander 
 together hand in hand through the world, while Hu¬ 
 mility and Affectionate Remembrance were their attend¬ 
 ants, and within was found that Purity of Heart which 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 65 
 
 ever ensureth devoted attachment—then it was that 
 they made a happy home wherever they alighted, and 
 carried with them a sweet sunshine, which threw its 
 brightness around the shadiest places. In old primeval 
 forests they sometimes dwelt, far away from the fever 
 and the fret of busy cities—they found a shelter be¬ 
 neath the yellow Broom, and a couch amid the azure 
 Bells of flowers; where huge sandy deserts stretched 
 for miles away they pitched their tent, and in the deep 
 caverns of majestic mountains, Love and Constancy 
 took up their abode; they tended their cattle together 
 on vast plains, and followed Summer over many a high 
 hill and outstretched valley; they sojourned together 
 in rude huts, whose branched walls and leafy roofs 
 bore the first rough tracings of the primitive home of 
 man. The feudal castle raised its grim and grated 
 portcullis to receive them, and the iron archers threw 
 down their tight-strung bows to welcome their ap¬ 
 proach. They slept together in sheds where the hardy 
 serf struggled against wrong, and laid many a night 
 on the bleak hill-side, where the lonely shepherd tended 
 his flock. They accompanied many a brave heart, 
 that went forth reluctantly to wage war against the 
 
 invaders of its country; and, as they conversed to- 
 
 5 
 
66 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 getlier, they beguiled the listless cheerlessness of the 
 way. Wherever they went, old age coveted no other 
 companionship, nor did they leave a gray head to sink 
 down in sorrow to the grave. They gave to poverty 
 content, and to affliction resignation, and into the sad 
 heart of pity they breathed hope. 
 
 It was then that mankind began to find deep matter 
 ,> for meditation in the flowers — that they no longer 
 looked upon the blossoms as the mere harbingers of 
 the seasons and beautiful ornaments of the fields, but 
 discovered that they were lettered over with the lan¬ 
 guage of love, — that beauty bloomed where no human 
 eye perceived it, in sequestered nooks and untrodden 
 wilds, and Nature needed not the presence of man, to 
 either look upon or praise her works. They believed 
 that hidden spirits dwelt among the flowers of the 
 woods, and that not a Bell waved in the solitudes of 
 the pathless dell, but what had its own fair minister : 
 
 “ That there are more things in heaven and earth 
 Than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” 
 
 That the airy tongues which syllable men’s names,” 
 sounding on lonely moors and amid the silence of 
 solemn forests, are invisible spirits, which linger about 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 67 
 
 the earth until the human heart becomes purified by 
 Love—and a fitting habitation for them to dwell in. 
 That as there is nothing in the ocean but what hath 
 its representative on land, so is there no virtue upon 
 earth but what is found in a purer form in Heaven,— 
 that Divine Love sends down its essence like a stream 
 of light, and that all which prevents it from becoming 
 in man what it is in the angels, is the perishable mor¬ 
 tality in which we are clothed. 
 
 We know not what visions the great poets may have 
 seen in the earlier ages, when they described Spring as 
 a beautiful maiden descending from heaven, and scat¬ 
 tering flowers upon the earth. They may have caught 
 glimfTses of the immortal goddess as she cleaved her 
 way through the sky, and hung poised for a moment 
 upon the skirt of some silver cloud. In the blue and 
 deepening twilight, as they went musing by the side 
 of some hoary forest, they may have seen, through the 
 evening shadows, eyes peering amid the dim foliage, 
 as bright as the stars which hang in the bending arch 
 of heaven ; for we know not what forms visit the folded 
 flowers, as they bow their heads and seem to sleep 
 through the still night; nor can we tell what the leaves 
 say to one another when they whisper together, or 
 
68 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 what wisdom is uttered by “ those green-robed senators 
 of mighty woods.” Titania and her fairy train may 
 yet haunt many a bank 
 
 “ Whereon the wild thyme blows, 
 
 Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; 
 
 Quite o’ercanopied with lush woodbine, 
 
 With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.” 
 
 The White Water-lily is the Queen of the Waves, 
 
 and reigns sole sovereign over the streams ; and it was 
 
 a species of Water-lily which the old Egyptians and 
 
 ancient Indians worshiped—the most beautiful object 
 
 that was held sacred in their superstitious creed — and 
 
 one which we cannot look upon even now without 
 
 * 
 
 feeling a delight mingled with reverence. No flower 
 looks more lovely than this “ Lady of the Lake,” rest¬ 
 ing her crowned head on a green throne of velvet, and 
 looking down into the depths of her own sky-reflecting 
 realms, watching the dance, as her attendant water- 
 nymphs keep time to the rocking of the ripples, and 
 the dreamy swaying of the trailing water-streams. 
 Whether or not this Queen of the Waters retires to 
 her own crystal dominions after sunset, and sleeps in 
 her silver palace beneath the ripples, seems to be a 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 69 
 
 matter of doubt among botanists. To an old angler 
 like myself, who has lost many a hook and had his 
 lines entangled among their stems after they had sunk 
 below the waters, there can be no doubt at all; but 
 whether this might be the case in very shallow streams, 
 or “ made ponds,” is another matter ; my experience is 
 confined to ancient delfts and old out-of-the-way meres 
 and places, that yet retain their ancient Saxon names, 
 where the true English Water-lilies still grow. The 
 bard of Erin says— 
 
 “ Those virgin lilies all the night 
 
 Bathing their beauties in the lake, 
 
 That they may rise more fresh and bright 
 When their beloved sun’s awake.” 
 
 The “Bonny Broom” is familiar to every lover of 
 the country, and cannot be mistaken for the gorse or 
 furze, even in the dark ; for, although their flowers are 
 very similar, there is a difference in the latter, which 
 is soon “felt.” The Broom is one of England’s oldest 
 flowers, and was as familiar to the eye of the ancient 
 Briton as it is to our own ; neither has its name under¬ 
 gone any change, for Alfred the Great called it the 
 Broom, as we do now. I have chosen to carry it far¬ 
 ther back than the days of the Plantagenets, for the 
 
70 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 origin of its emblem, as there is but little of Humility 
 about their haughty race, whatever there may be in 
 their name. 
 
 Blue-belled flowers, known by a hundred various 
 names in different parts of England, and all belonging 
 to the genus Campanula, are as familiar as the Daisy 
 to every one who has rambled about the country—from 
 the campion (the giant) to the creeping, and every 
 variety of bell-shaped flower that belongs to the order. 
 But of all the Blue-bells, my favorite is the little wild 
 Hare-bell, which still gets as near into London as it 
 can for the smoke, and may be found no farther off than 
 Dulwich and Norwood, nodding its beautiful blue head, 
 when nearly all the flowers of summer have faded. 
 There, together with the heather, it still blows, in spite 
 of railways and land-surveyors, and will do until the 
 foundations for new houses have uprooted it from its 
 native spot; until human habitations are reared, and 
 household hearths blaze above the place where it has 
 for ages grown. That botanist displayed some taste 
 who first selected these bell-shaped flowers as the em¬ 
 blem of Constancy, for “true blue” is one of the few 
 colors about which Britons boast; they are truly 
 English flowers. 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 71 
 
 “ Sweet daughters of the eartli and sky.” 
 
 The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early 
 writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, 
 that a long article possessing great interest to such as 
 love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. 
 The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their 
 funerals,—the christening-cup was stirred with it, and 
 it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare 
 has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and 
 who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower 
 which his genus has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over 
 which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”—in 
 memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. 
 A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of 
 England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead ; 
 nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse— 
 rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. 
 But I have entered rather lengthily into this subject in 
 my “Pictures of Country Life,” under the article headed 
 “ Rural Cemeteriesso have good reasons for not 
 going again over the same ground. Shakspeare, who 
 never even gathered an image from a flower, or selected 
 it as an emblem, without first examining its appro¬ 
 priate nature, chose the Rosemary as the representative 
 
72 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 of Remembrance, for it flowers in winter. How beau¬ 
 tiful and poetical is this allusion ! When all around 
 beside is withered and decayed, when the 
 
 “ Wind and rain beat dark December,” 
 
 and the gaudy Summer is dead and buried, with all 
 her wreathed flowers ; it was then that from the only 
 one which came to look upon and cheer man by its 
 presence, he chose the Rosemary, and said— 
 
 “ That’s for Remembrance • 
 
 I pray you, love, remember.” 
 
OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 73 
 
 OLD SAXON FLOWERS. 
 
 The Lily on the water sleeping, 
 
 Enwreath’d with pearl, and boss’d with gold, 
 An emblem is, my love, of thee : 
 
 But when she like a nymph is peeping, 
 
 To watch her sister-buds unfold, 
 
 White-shoulder’d on the flowery Lea, 
 Gazing about in sweet amazement, 
 
 Thy image, from the vine-clad casement, 
 Seems looking out, my love, on me. 
 
 No marvel that my heart became 
 Attached to thee—in all around me 
 I saw the likeness of thy face ; 
 
 Within the Broom I spelt thy name, 
 
 In every Blue-bell’d flower I found thee, 
 
 In all fair things I could thee trace; 
 
 No bud, nor bell, the stem adorning, 
 
 Hung with the trembling gold of morning — 
 The dew—but call’d up thy embrace. 
 
74 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 In thee I found a new delight — • 
 
 Alone, my heart was ever sighing 
 And pining for another heart; 
 
 Like flowers that bow beneath the night, 
 
 The very fragrance in them dying, 
 
 So did I droop from thee apart; 
 
 Till on me broke thy beauteous splendor — 
 
 Thine eyes that looked — oh, heaven ! how tender: 
 I cannot tell thee what thou art. 
 
 Thou ’rt like the Water-lily pure, 
 
 That grows where rippling waters rumble, 
 Constant as are the flowers of blue, 
 
 That every stormy change endure ; 
 
 And, like the Broom, though ever Humble, 
 They die, but never change their hue : 
 
 The Rosemary, that in December 
 
 Still says, “ I pray you, love, remember 
 Through storms and snow remaining true. 
 
i. 
 
 
 
 « 
 
 t 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Si 
 
 - '• ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 
 
 75 
 
 HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED, 
 
 YOUR PREFERENCE WOULD BRING ME CONSOLATION; 
 YOUR LOVE, A RETURN OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 22 m h l e m s. 
 
 APPLE-BLOSSOM— preference. POPPY— consolation. 
 ROSE— love. VIOLET OF THE VALLEY— 
 return of happiness. 
 
 “ Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand, 
 
 Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground: 
 
 Sometimes her arms enfold him like a band ; 
 
 She would:—he will not in her arms be bound; 
 
 And when from thence he struggles to be gone, 
 
 She locks her fingers, (round him) one in one.” 
 
 Shakspeare’s Vernas and Adonis. 
 
 It was drawing toward the decline of a beautiful 
 summer day, when the red, round sun was bending 
 down a deep, blue, unclouded sky, to where a vast 
 range of mountains stretched, summit upon summit, 
 and in the far distance again arose, pile upon pile, until 
 high over all towered the god-haunted height of cloud' 
 
76 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 
 capt Olympus, rising with its rounded shoulder, like 
 another world, on the uttermost rim of the horizon. 
 At the foot of this immense world of untrodden moun¬ 
 tains, opened out a wide, immeasurable forest, stretch¬ 
 ing far away, league upon league, with its unexplored 
 ocean of trees, which were bounded somewhere by 
 another range of unknown mountains, that again 
 overlooked a vast, silent, and unpeopled world. On 
 the edge of this pathless desert of trees, and nearest 
 the foot of Olympus, sat the Queen of Beauty and of 
 Love ; with her golden tresses unbound, and her 
 matchless countenance buried within the palms of her 
 milk-white hands, and sobbing as if her fond, immortal 
 heart would break. Beside her was laid the dead body 
 of Adonis, his face half-hidden beneath the floating fall 
 of her hair, as she bent over him and wept. Beyond 
 them lay the stiffened bulk of the grim and grisly boar, 
 his hideous jaws flecked with blood and foam, and his 
 terrible tusks glittering like the heads of pointed spears, 
 as they stood out, sharp and white, in the unclouded 
 sunset. Not an immortal comforter was by: for the 
 far-seeing eye of Jove was fixed listlessly upon the 
 golden nectar-cup, as it passed from hand to hand, 
 along the rounded circle of the gods, while they were 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 
 
 77 
 
 recounting the deeds of other days, when they waged 
 war against the Titans. Even the chariot of Venus 
 stood unyoked at the foot of the mount; the silken 
 traces lay loosely thrown together upon the ground, 
 and the white doves were idly hovering round in the 
 air ; for the weeping Goddess was so overwhelmed 
 with sorrow, that she had forgotten to waft her light¬ 
 winged whisper to the Mount of Olympus; nor had 
 they received any summons from the charioteer Love, 
 who lay sleeping upon a bed of roses, with his bow 
 and arrows by his side. 
 
 In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval 
 world, whose echoes had never been startled by the 
 blows of a descending axe, nor a branch rent from 
 their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded bolts of the 
 Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his 
 anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beauty 
 still continued to sit, as if unconscious of the savage 
 solitude which surrounded her; nor did she notice the 
 back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her unrobed love¬ 
 liness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess 
 in the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the 
 mighty and storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and 
 there flashed down in rays of molten gold, making 
 
73 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 their gnarled and twisted stems look as if they had 
 just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like 
 furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a 
 blackened avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of 
 the consuming lightning had ages agone marched. 
 Every way, where the lengthened shadows of evening 
 began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a 
 more savage look, which was heightened by the noise 
 of some deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and 
 thundering through the thicket; the growl of the 
 tio-er was also heard at intervals, as he retreated farther 
 into the deepening darkness of the dingles, mistaking 
 the blazing sunset for some devouring lire. But the 
 eyes of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover, — she 
 felt only his chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and 
 deeper into the warm heart on which she pressed it, 
 and over which her tears fell, slower or faster, just as 
 the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or subsided, and 
 sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids 
 that overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her 
 immortal heart before been swollen by such an over¬ 
 flowing torrent of grief. But the warmth of her kisses, 
 which would almost have awakened life in a statue of 
 marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 79 
 
 and her sighs, which came sweeter than the morning 
 air when it first arises from its sleep among the roses, 
 stirred not one of the clotted ringlets which softened 
 into the yielding whiteness of her heavenly bosom,— 
 
 “ She looked upon his lips, and they are pale; 
 
 She took him by the hand, and that was cold; 
 
 She whispered in his ear a heavy tale, 
 
 As if they heard the woeful words she told.” 
 
 She would have given her immortality but to have 
 heard those lips murmur and complain, as they had 
 done a few hours before — to have seen those eyes again 
 burning with disdain, as they flashed back indignantly 
 the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as 
 he had that very morning stood, in all the pride of 
 youthful manliness and beauty, when he looked down, 
 blushing and abashed, as he held his boar-spear in his 
 hand, when she threw the studded bridle over her own 
 rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser prick¬ 
 ed up his ears with delight, and shook his braided 
 mane, while his long tail streamed out like a banner, 
 and his proud eye dilated, and his broad nostrils ex¬ 
 panded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud to be 
 led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pic¬ 
 tured the Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluc- 
 
80 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 tantly in her arms, how he tried to conceal his face, 
 this way, and that way, among the flowers, whenever 
 she attempted to press his lips, — 
 
 “While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple : 
 
 Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, 
 
 He might be buried in a tomb so simple.” 
 
 She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from 
 her embrace, and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, 
 which had snapped the rein that secured it to the 
 branch of a neighboring oak, and started at full speed 
 down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy 
 she again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, 
 wearied with the fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling 
 down, she then 
 
 “Took him gently by the hand, 
 
 A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow, 
 
 Or ivory in an alabaster band : 
 
 So white a friend engirt so white a foe; 
 
 A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, 
 
 Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.” 
 
 And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his 
 lips moved again, as when they said, “Give me my 
 hand, why dost thou feel it ?” she fancied she again 
 felt his face upon her cheek — his kisses upon her lips, 
 as when she fell down and feigned herself dead ; the 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 81 
 
 while he bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and en¬ 
 deavored, by a hundred endearments and tender expres¬ 
 sions, to restore her. And how, when she pretended 
 to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered 
 kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer 
 offered any resistance; and how, at last, he broke 
 from her fair arms, and, darting down the “darklawn,” 
 left her seated alone upon the ground. 
 
 As picture after picture rose before her of what had 
 been, and every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, 
 but still dearly-loved form, told her what the hand of 
 death had done, and that those very “hopes and fears 
 which are akin to love,” were now forever darkened 
 and extinguished, she burst forth into such a loud, 
 wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto 
 Olympus, and fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, 
 in a moment, dashed the golden nectar cup upon the 
 ground, which he was about uplifting to his lips, and 
 sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying 
 to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped 
 down to the edge of the forest—of gods and goddesses 
 passing through the air — of golden chariots, that went 
 whistling along like the wind, as they cleft their rapid 
 
 way — and the flapping of dark, immortal wings, be- 
 
 6 
 
82 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 tween which many a beautiful divinity was seated. 
 The golden clouds of sunset gathered red and omin¬ 
 ously about the rounded summit of Olympus, and a 
 blood-red light glared upon such parts of the forest as 
 were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the 
 approaching twilight,—for the Thunderer had stamped 
 his immortal foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to 
 its very base. And now, in that forest glade, which 
 but a few moments before was so wild and desolate,— 
 where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead Ado¬ 
 nis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty, broke the 
 level lines of the angry sunset, were assembled the 
 stern Gods, and the weeping Graces, and the fluttering 
 Loves that ever hover around the chariot of Venus. 
 With bleeding feet and drooping head—wan, and cold, 
 and speechless,—was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into 
 her golden chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, 
 wafted by her silver and silent-winged doves to Mount 
 Olympus. And then a deep darkness settled down 
 upon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose 
 and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the 
 blood of the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which 
 were ever before white, were changed into a delicate 
 crimson; and wherever a tear had fallen, there had 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 
 
 83 
 
 sprung up a flower, which the earth had never before 
 borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and 
 wherever a ruddy drop had fallen from the death- 
 wound of Adonis, sprung up the red flower which still 
 beareth his name. Even the white apple-blossoms, 
 which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the 
 ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers ; 
 and the drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around 
 the spot, as if to denote that the only consolation which 
 can be found for sorrow is the long, unbroken sleep of 
 death. Thus the Rose, which was before white, be¬ 
 came red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty 
 and Love. And the Lily of the Valley ever after 
 came up with the earliest flowers of spring, proclaim¬ 
 ing that Happiness may again return, even after the 
 long silence of Death’s unbroken, wintery sleep. 
 
 The Rose is the queen of flowers, and neither in 
 beauty nor fragrance has she an equal throughout ihe 
 wide range of the whole floral world. There are now 
 abovemn hundred varieties of the common or Provence 
 Rose, which were first brought from the East many 
 
84 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 centuries ago, and from these every species of the Moss- 
 rose first sprung. Even its very foliage is graceful: and 
 the comparison between an opening rose-bud and beau¬ 
 ty dawning into womanhood, has become a standard 
 and favorite flower in the choice garden of English 
 poetry. In ancient days the bride was crowned with 
 roses: they were suspended over the heads of the guests 
 while they sat at their banquets, and solemnly carried 
 by white-robed virgins in their religious processions. 
 Some of the most admirable passages which are to be 
 found in Oriental poetry, are descriptive of the love of 
 the nightingale for the Rose. Anacreon, in his beauti¬ 
 ful ode, tells us that the breath of the Rose perfumes 
 the bower of Olympus, and that the Graces love to 
 twine themselves together by a band of these queenly 
 flowers, and that it was planted, and reared, and twined 
 above the abodes of the Muses ; that he himself loved 
 to view it, sleeping upon its glittering stem, in the early 
 glance of morning, to wipe away with tender hand the 
 dew, which lay like tears upon its blushes, and to hold 
 the young buds, while they dropped heavy with the 
 rounded pearls which adorned them. That there is 
 nothing beautiful in nature unless it wears the tinge 
 of the rose ; that Aurora paints the morning sky with 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 85 
 
 its colors, and the velvet cheeks of the nymphs are 
 dyed with the reflection of its blushes. It gives us 
 pleasure to enrich our pages with the following beauti¬ 
 ful gem, transplanted from the Land of Roses into our 
 native soil by Miss Costello, and entitled 
 
 THE FAIREST LAND. 
 
 “ ‘Tell me, gentle traveler, thou 
 
 Who hast wandered far and wide, 
 
 Seen the sweetest roses blow, 
 
 And the brightest rivers glide; 
 
 Say, of all thy eyes have seen, 
 
 Which the fairest land has been V 
 
 ‘ Lady, shall I tell thee where 
 Nature seems most blest and fair, 
 
 Par above all climes beside ?— 
 
 ’T is where those we love abide. 
 
 And that little spot is best 
 
 Which the loved one’s foot hath pressed. 
 
 ‘ Though it be a fairy space, 
 
 Wide and spreading is the place; 
 
 Though ’t were but a barren mound, 
 
 ’T would become enchanted ground. 
 
 ‘ With thee yon sandy waste would seem 
 The margin of A1 Cawthar’s stream; 
 
 And thou canst make a dungeon’s gloom, 
 
 A bower, where new-born roses bloom.”’ 
 
86 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 Lily of the Valley ! what a spring sound there is in 
 its very name ! How delicate it is, both in form and 
 fragrance; resting its white, fairy-like bells upon a deep 
 background of green, like a little child which has fallen 
 asleep with its careless arms extended upon the emerald 
 April grass. Pleasant visions does it recall before mine 
 eyes of other days—of springs which have long since 
 passed away : of old woods just putting forth their 
 summer leaves,—dingle, and dell, and glen, and copse, 
 and many other sweet woodland spots, amid which we 
 rambled for hours together, that were strewn every¬ 
 where full “ ankle-deep with Lilies of the Valley.” 
 Places where the callow throstles first lisped, and the 
 golden-beaked blackbird sang,-—where the little wren 
 went hopping from spray to'spray, and the yellow lin¬ 
 net warbled forth her song, concealed by the white 
 blossoms of the black-thorn,—they have ever seemed 
 to us as the sweetest and fairest daughters of Spring— 
 the little fairies of the wood, just wakening from then- 
 
 winter sleep,— 
 
 “ Shading, like detected light, 
 
 Their little green-tipt lamps of white.” 
 
 The drowsy Poppy has been selected, in floral lan¬ 
 guage, as the emblem of Consolation : and, from its 
 
HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 87 
 
 dreamy, narcotic qualities is well chosen. Many of the 
 double Poppies which are cultivated in gardens have a 
 very elegant appearance. It also forms a very beauti¬ 
 ful ornament about the borders of our corn-fields, being 
 pleasanter to the sight than to the smell; for the fra¬ 
 grance is very unwholesome, and on this account it is 
 called by the country people the Headache. It is also 
 called the Red-cap, and Corn-rose, in different parts of 
 England. In the heathen fables the Poppy is first said 
 to have been raised by the goddess Ceres, to console 
 her for. the loss of her daughter Proserpine, who, while 
 gathering flowers in the fields of Enna, was carried off 
 by Pluto; and ever since then the Goddess of Harvest 
 has cultivated it amidst the golden wheat. In some 
 parts the country maidens have still a belief that they 
 can test the affections of their lovers by the secret 
 power which the Poppy possesses ; that if one of the 
 petals was placed upon the palm of the hand, and 
 when struck smartly it made a loud report, their 
 swains were true, while if it burst in silence, it foretold 
 that their lovers were false. In allusion to this, there 
 is an old stanza, written by whom I know not, which 
 says— 
 
88 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 “ By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found 
 Your changed affection; for it gave no sound, 
 
 Though in my hand struck hollow, as it lay, 
 
 But quickly withered, like your love, away.” 
 
 In the Apple-blossom we see the Lily and the Rose 
 blended together, like a blush softening into the snowy 
 whiteness of a sweet face, — decking, peradventure, 
 some countenance that we secretly love — a love which, 
 from very fear, we dare not give utterance to, lest some 
 other should already be preferred. It may be, too, that 
 at the same time we already stand high in her estima¬ 
 tion, and yet her innate modesty causes her to shrink 
 back from revealing it; and so we go on dallying and 
 sighing together, like the spring breeze playing in and 
 out a bunch of Apple-blossoms, then quitting them 
 until the warmer air of the bolder summer comes forth, 
 and ripens the blushing blossoms into the full fruit of 
 mellowed love. Of all the beauties which Spring, 
 stepping forth, hangs upon the trees, leaving a wreath 
 here and a garland there, the loveliest of all her rich 
 decorations is still the opening Apple-blossom — the 
 emblem of Preference in Love. 
 
THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY AND OF LOVE. 
 
 89 
 
 THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY AND OF LOVE. 
 
 “ And Venus fair, 
 
 With parted hair, 
 
 Was bending there: 
 
 She seemed to mock the sculptor’s art, 
 
 And, listening, stood with lips apart.’ 
 
 Fair Goddess, with heart-searching eyes, 
 
 In thy gold, dove-drawn car descend ; 
 Lovely as when Olympian skies 
 Above thy braided brow did bend, 
 
 When Love upon thee used to tend, 
 
 And round thy sweet and matchless head 
 Did wreaths of richest Roses blend, 
 Blending the pale hue with the red, 
 
 Like cheeks o’er which young blushes spread. 
 
 Oh, visit us, fair as when thou 
 Sank on thy loved Adonis’ breast, 
 
 With all the flush which on thy brow 
 Did at that very moment rest, 
 
90 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 When feigning death, thou feltest blest; 
 
 The while thy rounded bosom rose, 
 
 As does a bird’s within its nest, 
 
 Hemmed in with buds of snow-white sloes ; 
 When kisses timed thy sweet repose. 
 
 Come to us in a cloud of flowers, — 
 
 Around our hearts their sweets diffuse ; 
 Making them like Olympian bowers, 
 
 Where pearly blend with rosy hues. 
 
 Appear as when, through morning dews, 
 Thou didst thy mourned Adonis chase, 
 
 And he (poor hunter) did refuse 
 To kiss thy never-equalled face, — 
 
 But struggled in thy warm embrace. 
 
 Appear as on Olympus’ brow, 
 
 When all the gods in love were driven, 
 
 And swore, by thy cheeks’ rosy glow, 
 
 That every heart was rent and riven—■ 
 
 That thou wert Love, and Love was heaven, 
 And that the regions of the blest 
 Were unto thee for ever given —• 
 
THE QUEEN OP BEAUTY AND OF LOVE. 
 
 91 
 
 That he who sank upon thy breast 
 Would never seek another rest. 
 
 Descend as when on Ida’s hill 
 
 Thou there didst win the golden prize, 
 
 And beardless Paris felt a thrill 
 
 Go through him from thy azure eyes, 
 Down-glancing like the morning skies, 
 When all the world in sleep reposes, 
 
 Saving Aurora, who doth rise, 
 
 And to the wondering stars discloses 
 
 The couch that’s curtained round with roses. 
 
 Goddess of Love ! it is to thee 
 All earthly happiness we owe, 
 
 All bliss that mortals here can see, 
 
 Who at the shrine of beauty bow. 
 
 Thou askest but a woman’s vow,— 
 
 That we shall love until life ends : 
 
 Upon our lips we swear it now— 
 
 And by each kiss that here descends, 
 
 May Hate seize him who but pretends. 
 

 # 
 
 
 
 
I •. 
 
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 
 
 FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 
 
 IN SOLITUDE AND SILENCE YOU OCCUPY 
 MY THOUGHTS, SUCH IS MY DEVOTED ATTACHMENT. 
 
 35 mi terns. 
 
 HEATH— solitude. WHITE ROSE— silence. PANSY— thought. 
 
 HELIOTROPE— devoted attachment. 
 
 “ Juliet leaning 
 
 Amid her window-flowers,—sighing—weaning, 
 
 Tenderly her fancy, from its maiden snow, 
 
 Doth more avail than these : the silver flow 
 Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
 
 Fair Pastorelia in the bandit’s den, 
 
 Are things to brood on.”— Keats’ Endymion. 
 
 “ There is Pansies,” said the sweet Ophelia ; “that’s 
 for thoughtsbut whether sad or pleasing the immortal 
 poet mentions not. For well did he know that where 
 so many hues were thrown upon the face of one flower, 
 Fancy would, according to the feeling of the moment, 
 trace out her own favorite image. In the dark lines 
 which diverge and widen from the centre, spreading 
 over the subdued silver, branching across the yellow 
 
94 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ground of deepest gold, or blended and lost amid the 
 dark hues of the deepest purple ; even so would the 
 thoughts wander over the one, light and cheerful as the 
 floating silver of a summer cloud, or stumble over the 
 jagged splendor of glittering precipices, like those piled 
 heights which grow golden about the dizzy summits of 
 sunset, when the western slope of heaven glows again 
 with its burning range of upconed mountains, till over 
 all the dark-blue purple of the evening twilight gathers, 
 and the shadows of night settle thicker upon each 
 other, and all the land is dark. So might the unfet¬ 
 tered thoughts, wandering over the face of the Pansy, 
 picture the bright, and the golden, and the dark, which 
 checker the ever-changing countenance of heaven, as 
 hopes, and joys, and fears, a’nd sorrows, brighten and 
 fade, and blacken over the brief April sunshine of our 
 human existence. 
 
 All the old legends which were known about the 
 Pansy in ancient days are lost; saving the one pre¬ 
 served by Shakspeare, and woven into his inimitable 
 “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” wherein he tells us 
 how 
 
 “ The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, 
 
 Will make, or man or woman, madly dote 
 Upon the next live creature that it sees.” 
 
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 95 
 
 And who that has once read, can ever forget the 
 pleasing confusion it makes among the lovers in the 
 wood 7 
 
 It was in those days — age of happy dreams ! when 
 armed knights rode forth in quest of adventures, com¬ 
 bated with mighty giants, and destroyed enchanted 
 castles by one blast of their loud bugle-horn, — battled 
 with dragons, and met with beautiful and disconsolate 
 maidens at the foot of almost every gray and weather¬ 
 beaten cross, wherever three lonely roads met together, 
 — when the cave of Merlin was visited by all who had 
 courage enough to look into the future, and King 
 Arthur’s Round Table was never without a gallant 
 guest, — it was then that they begun to seek for signs, 
 and spells, and charms, and tokens, and all the awful 
 mysteries of divination, in the secret virtues of the 
 flowers. But most of all to the petals of the Pansy 
 did they turn their thoughts, and in its freaked flowers 
 seek to learn, their destiny. If the petal they plucked 
 was penciled with four lines, it signified hope ; if from 
 the centre line started a branch, when the streaks 
 numbered five, it was still hope, springing out of fear ; 
 and when the lines were thickly branched, and leaned 
 toward the left, they signified a life of trouble; but if 
 
96 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 they bent toward the right, they were then supposed 
 to denote prosperity unto the end ; seven streaks they 
 interpreted into constancy in love, and if the centre one 
 was longest, they prophesied that Sunday would be 
 their wedding-day; eight denoted fickleness ; nine, a 
 changing heart; and eleven — the most ominous num¬ 
 ber of all — disappointment in love, and an early grave. 
 They called it no end of endearing names; such as 
 Love-in-idleness, — Cuddle-me-to-you, — Kiss-me-at-the- 
 garden-gate, — Heart.s’-ease, — Think-of-me, — Three- 
 faces-under-a-hood,—Jump-up-and-kiss-me,—and many 
 others equally expressive, which have yet to be culled 
 out of the pages of our oldest poets ; and this flower, 
 eyed like the bird of Juno, has ever been selected as 
 the emblem of the noblest faculty with which man¬ 
 kind is gifted. After all its trivial appellatives are ex¬ 
 hausted, it stands up, bold and solemn, the solitary 
 flower of thought: the representative of that silent 
 messenger which in a moment is wafted over wide 
 seas, and to far-off foreign shores ; that can recall faces, 
 and forms, and sights, and sounds, at will, — daring 
 even to soar into the presence of the Highest, and pic¬ 
 ture the halo of that blinding glory, before which the 
 ranged ranks of Heaven “ veil their faces with their 
 
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 97 
 
 wings.” Plunging again fearlessly downward in a 
 moment, bidding unfathomable seas open, and fiery 
 volcanos bare their nethermost depths, while, with 
 fearless eye, it surveys those vast realms where the fal¬ 
 len angels writhe in the sweat of their great agony, 
 amid thunder and darkness, in that fathomless and 
 shoreless ocean of molten flames. Mysterious flower ! 
 we know not at what hallowed font thou wert first 
 named,—whether thou wert christened in smiles or 
 tears,—or amid the maimed rites of some heart-break¬ 
 ing ceremony, wert first named the everlasting flower 
 of undying thought. 
 
 The White Rose has long been considered as 
 
 sacred to Silence: over whatever company it was 
 
 suspended, no secrets were ever revealed, for it hung 
 
 only above the festal board of sworn friendship. No 
 
 matter how deep they might drink, or how long the 
 
 wine-cup might circulate round the table, so long as 
 
 the White Rose hung over their heads, every secret 
 
 was considered inviolable; no matter how trivial, or 
 
 how important the trust, beneath that flower it was 
 
 7 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 never betrayed, for around it was written the sen¬ 
 tence- - 
 
 “ HE WHO DOTH SECRETS REVEAL 
 BENEATH MY ROOF SHALL NEVER LIVE.” 
 
 What faith and what confidence must there have been 
 between man and man in the olden time, when only 
 the presence of a flower was needed to prevent the 
 maligning whisper — to freeze up slander’s hateful 
 slime — and destroy that venom which, when once cir¬ 
 culated, proves so fatal to human happiness ! Beyond 
 the circle to which the expressive text was assigned, 
 that wound about the Rose, not a whisper wandered ; 
 the pleasure only was remembered, the painful word 
 forgotten ere it had gathered utterance — or if remem¬ 
 bered at all, it was only as having existed for a moment 
 “under the Rose.” Truest test of friendship ! inviola¬ 
 ble bond of brotherhood! Sacred altar, on which 
 heart was sworn to heart, thou didst need no golden 
 chains to bind thee to thy trust, — no solemn vow, 
 sworn but to be broken; — nothing but a simple White 
 Rose to bind these men of true hearts and strong 
 faith together. 
 
 The Heath was well chosen as the emblem of Soli¬ 
 tude. It could scarcely be otherwise, adorning, as it 
 
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 09 
 
 does, the lonely waste, and waving over weary miles 
 of desolate moorland, where scarcely a tree breaks the 
 long level line of the low hanging sky, and a human 
 habitation but rarely heaves up to cheer the monotony 
 of the scene. It recalls many a wild landscape: the 
 bleak, broad mountain-side, which throughout the long 
 winter and the slow-opening spring, looked black and 
 barren, till toward the end of summer, when it was 
 clothed every where with the rich carpet of crimson 
 and purple heather, looking from the distance as if a 
 sunshine, not of earth, had come down and bathed the 
 whole mountain steep in subdued and rosy light. The 
 Heath recalls scenes of solitude and of silence—vast 
 plains of immeasurable extent, where only the wild 
 bird flaps its wings—spaces which when the sun has 
 traversed across, the day is ended, and upon the wide 
 outstretched plains you see the night descend ; it brings 
 before the eye still, out-of-the-way scenes, that go elbow¬ 
 ing in where mighty woods meet together, where the 
 bramble trails, and the blackthorn grows, and the red 
 fox sits before the shadow of the steep bank, eyeing 
 her young cubs as they play together among the 
 crimson Heath-bells,—spots where lovers might sit and 
 sigh away their souls in each other’s arms, without 
 
100 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 being disturbed by even the foot of the solitary hunter; 
 where the light-footed deer would pace slowly along in 
 his heathery fastness, then bound off in a moment 
 with all the tleetness of the wind, when he saw the 
 form of man intruding upon his forest habitation,— 
 places where the spotted snake basks securely at the 
 foot of the antique oak, while the long-tailed martin 
 pursues its prey among the gnarled and moss-covered 
 branches overhead,—where the little lizard peeps se¬ 
 curely from its hole, and the wild cat glares with fiery 
 eyes from the deepest solitude. Not that Love can 
 ever be solitary or alone, for around it are floating 
 sweet memories, eyes that bend tenderly downward, 
 that fall sweeter than music upon the ear, and looks 
 that were kindled into sweet affection by the warmth 
 of love. 
 
 The Heliotrope, in floral language, is dedicated to 
 Devoted Attachment, a meaning synonymous to that 
 given to our English Woodbine or Honeysuckle, in the 
 language of flowers: it is a native of Peru, and might 
 be well spared from our Alphabet of Love. Its smell 
 is very overpowering in a close room, and as such con¬ 
 sidered unhealthy. We know no legend connected 
 with it, nor any poem that has been written in its 
 
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 101 
 
 praise; we even doubt whether it possesses the quality 
 from which it was named — that of turning toward 
 the sun, both when it rose and set. It belongs not to 
 the flowers which are twined around our memories— 
 we find it not among those that conjure up the days 
 of our youth, when Love but breathed in broken 
 whispers, and the awed tongue could not yet give utter¬ 
 ance to the feelings of the heart. Happy days ! when 
 even to sigh was a pleasure, and the abashed lips found 
 a rich banquet while only feeding upon fancy,—when 
 Love found a May in every month, and the song of 
 the nightingale all the year long in her voice, that 
 never breathed without making the sweetest music,— 
 when, as an old poet nearly three hundred years ago, 
 in his 11 Golden Legacy,” beautifully said,— 
 
 “ Love in my bosom, like a bee, 
 
 Doth suck his sweet; 
 
 Now with his wings he plays with me, 
 
 Now with his feet; 
 
 Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
 
 His bed amid my tender breast, 
 
 My kisses are his daily feast, 
 
 And yet he robs me of my rest. 
 
102 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And if I sleep, then pierceth he 
 With pretty slight, 
 
 And makes his pillow of my knee 
 The live-long night; 
 
 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
 He music plays if I but sing; 
 
 He lends me every lovely thing, 
 
 Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting.” 
 
 PANSIES. 
 
 “That’s for thoughts.” 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Sister, arise, the sun shines bright, 
 
 The bee is humming in the air, 
 
 The stream is singing in the light, 
 
 The May-buds never looked more fair; 
 Blue is the sky, no rain to-day: 
 
 Get up, it has been light for hours, 
 
 And we have not began to play, 
 
 Nor have we gather’d any flowers. 
 Time, who looked on, each accent caught, 
 And said, “He is too young for thought.” 
 
PANSIES. 
 
 103 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 To-night, beside the garden-gate ? 
 
 Oh, what a while the night is coming ! 
 
 I never saw the sun so late, 
 
 Nor heard the bee at this time humming! 
 
 I thought the flowers an hour ago 
 
 Had closed their bells and sunk to rest: 
 How slowly flies that hooded crow ! 
 
 How light it is along the west! 
 
 Said Time, “ He yet hath to be taught 
 That I oft move too quick for thought.” 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 What thoughts would’st thou in me awaken ? 
 
 Not love? for that brings only tears — 
 
 Nor friendship? no, I was forsaken ! 
 
 Pleasure I have not known for years : 
 
 The future I would not foresee, 
 
 I know too much from what is past, 
 
 No happiness is there for me, 
 
 And troubles ever come too fast. 
 
 Said Time, “No comfort have I brought, 
 
 The past to him’s one painful thought.” 
 
104 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 Somehow the flowers seem different now, 
 The Daisies dimmer than of old ; 
 
 There’s fewer blossoms on the bough, 
 
 The Hawthorn buds look gray and cold; 
 The Pansies wore another dye 
 
 When I was young — when I was young ! 
 There’s not that blue about the sky 
 Which every way in those days hung. 
 There’s nothing now looks as it “ ought.” 
 Said Time, “The change is in thy thought.” 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 105 
 
 THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 
 
 YOUR INNOCENCE AND SINCERITY WOULD MAKE 
 RETIREMENT HAPPY 
 
 25 m b l £ m s. 
 
 DAISY— innocence. FERN— sincerity. WILD HAREBELL- 
 
 HAPPY RETIREMENT. 
 
 “ When that the month of May 
 Is coming, and that I do hear the birds sing, 
 
 And that the flowers begin to spring, 
 
 Farewell my book and my devotion : 
 
 Now have I then, too, this condition, 
 
 That, of all the flowers in the mead, 
 
 Then love I most those flowers, white and red, 
 
 Such that men call daisies in our town.” 
 
 Written by Chaucer nearly 500 years ago. 
 
 Beautiful are the fields of England powdered over 
 with Daisies, as Chaucer happily termed it nearly five 
 hundred years ago,—’those emblems of innocence— 
 companions of the milk-white lambs—the first heav- 
 
106 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ings of the awakening bosom of Spring. Majestic are 
 the remains of our old English forests, where, around 
 the battered and weather-beaten stems of the primitive 
 oaks, the broad, fan-like leaves of the Fern spread ; 
 showing how sincerely they still adhere to the ancient 
 soil which first nourished them, and that, amid the 
 great revolutions of departed ages, they still stand 
 there,—true, but lowly emblems of Sincerity,—mark¬ 
 ing out the spot where England’s mighty forests once 
 spread. And in those solitudes, where human voice 
 was then seldom heard, the tender and trembling 
 Harebell grew, ever waving its delicate cups if the 
 hushed wind but breathed in its sleep. Fitly was it 
 named the Happiness of Reiirement^the beauty of 
 solitude—the graceful inhabitants of still and lonely 
 places; for when a silence hung over the unexplored 
 depths of our woodland fastnesses, it was still there. 
 
 It was one day, after a weary flight from a far-off 
 foreign shore, that Love alighted with a sprig of grace¬ 
 ful Fuchsia in his hand, and, sitting down beneath 
 the shadow of a gigantic oak in a lonely forest-glade, 
 he took up the broad-leaved Fern to fan and cool him¬ 
 self, for the air around was hot. Then throwing it 
 down across his bow, he stretched himself upon the 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 
 
 107 
 
 greensward, and, playing idly with one of his arrows, 
 he thoughtlessly cut down the blue Harebells and tall 
 white Daisies which grew around him, with the point 
 of his weapon, until startled from his musing and 
 listless mood by the sound of the bugle-horn, and the 
 baying of dogs in the distance, he sprang up hurriedly 
 from his velvet couch, gathered together his bow and 
 arrows, and a handful of flowers at random, and flew 
 off into another solitude, far away from the clamorous 
 din of the hunters. It was then that his eye first 
 alighted upon the group of flowers which he had in 
 his hand. On the broad, green, background of the 
 Fern rested the sky-dyed Harebells ; before these, like 
 a cluster of stars, spread the white Daisies, while over 
 all drooped the scarlet cups of the Fuchsia, in elegant 
 festoons ; and he smiled as he looked at the graceful 
 finish which the drooping Fuchsia gave to the wild 
 flowers that represented Innocence and Retirement, 
 and the broad Fern that grew up of its own accord, a 
 true image of Old Sincerity. 
 
 Through the dew of many a spring morning, ere 
 the sun had climbed above the summit of the distant 
 hill, while only the skylark beat the blue and vaulted 
 dome of heaven, and with her song wakened the 
 
108 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 sleeping landscape, had Love wandered forth alone, 
 to watch the Daisies unfold ; and so deeply was he 
 enamored of their innocence, he all day long had often 
 sat upon the sloping hill-side, that he might behold 
 them wave to and fro,— now turning their golden 
 bosses toward the sun, then bending forward and 
 showing the green cup from which sprang each pink 
 and pearly rim, that starred them round like a halo of 
 light. Until the gray twilight would he linger there, 
 and watch the buds fold themselves up for the night; 
 and when the pale white moon rounded up above the 
 dark line of trees that crowned the hill, he would watch 
 the flooded light break over the scene, and breathe a 
 blessing on the lovely flowers while they slept. 
 
 Oh, Love ! why didst thou not linger behind to 
 see that gay cavalcade pass ? for there was a form 
 which thou mightest have mistaken, hadst thou not 
 known her, for Diana the huntress of the woods; for 
 never did the morning, as it looks down upon the 
 thousands of beautiful eyes which open beneath it, 
 light up two such floating orbs of love, as those which 
 glittered beneath that swan-white brow, and swain 
 under the nut-brown ringlets of the Daisy of the Dale. 
 Never did arm more exquisitely moulded and grace- 
 
 L 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 109 
 
 ful guide the reins of a milk-white palfrey, or forest- 
 nymph more lovely cleave the morning air in her 
 flight, than she who sat sole queen of the chase, light 
 as a bird upon her rounded saddle. The very hawk 
 which was perched upon her wrist seemed to look into 
 her face with love, and when he hovered high in the 
 air in pursuit of the quarry, he needed no other lure 
 than her eyes to bring him back again to his stand. 
 Even in the banquet-hall of her father’s ancient castle, 
 when the stormy and mail-clad sons pf war sat around 
 the board, talking of moats they had crossed, and 
 turrets they had scaled, of the lances they had shiv¬ 
 ered, and the helmets their heavy battle-axes had 
 cloven, if they but once heard her light foot upon the 
 dais, their conversation was changed to that of love, 
 instead of war, — such softness breathed around the 
 presence of the Daisy of the Dale. She seemed like 
 the Spirit of Peace alighting in the midst of those 
 armed warriors upon a mission of love — as if the 
 white folds of her floating tunic were a more impene¬ 
 trable armor than the linked mail in which their 
 sinewy limbs were sheathed, and the rim of Daisies 
 which were twined within the silken braid that fet¬ 
 tered her floating ringlets, a safer helmet than any 
 
110 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 that was ever wrought out of steel, three times 
 whitened in the red heat of the blinding furnace; for 
 it was such beauty as she possessed that first softened 
 down the fierce spirit of English chivalry, and tamed 
 the savage grandeur of feudal warfare. The remem¬ 
 brance of her beauty alone had saved her father’s 
 fortress from the burning brand of the besiegers, 
 when the castle was beleaguered during the wars 
 between the rival houses of York and Lancaster. 
 
 On the battlements the cross-bowmen had perished 
 one by one, shot down by the unerring aim of the 
 archers who were assembled without the moat, and 
 
 whose arrows went whistling through every opening 
 
 • 
 
 of the embrasures, wherever a defender appeared. 
 The gates of the outer barbican were already carried, 
 the chains by which the draw-bridge was uplifted had 
 been severed by the stout blows of a battle-axe, and 
 had fallen down with a thundering and heavy crash 
 across the deep waters of the moat, while throughout 
 the chambers of the inner keep, echoed at intervals 
 the measured sound of the mighty battering-ram, as 
 it threatened at every blow to carry from their hinges 
 the iron-studded doors which swung between the gray 
 old towers; the last defence that stood between the 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 1H 
 
 besiegers and the castle. But if every blow which 
 shook that ancient archway went through the heart 
 of the fair inhabitant within, nor did it fall less lightly 
 on that of one of the young assailants without, knock¬ 
 ing against his armor, while, under the stern eye of 
 his unbending father, he hesitated for a moment to 
 obey his commands, as he stood with his foot upon the 
 scaling-ladder, which was already planted before the 
 tall turret. He felt the wreath of Daisies, that was 
 crushed and concealed beneath the weight of his hau¬ 
 berk, and fastened behind his gorget with a white silk¬ 
 en band, biting into his flesh, like so many barbed 
 arrow-heads of pointed steel; and when he had gain¬ 
 ed the summit, and leaped upon the undefended bat¬ 
 tlements of the turret, by the strength of his own 
 youthful arm, and the aid of a mighty lever, he hurled 
 back the scaling-ladder with the beseigers upon it, 
 which snapped in two as it fell thundering upon the 
 drawbridge, ‘then lay, broken and floating, upon the 
 waters of the moat. “Rash boy!” exclaimed his 
 father, as he looked up, the flashing anger of his eye 
 somewhat softened as he stood astonished at so daring 
 and unexpected a deed, “An I once gain possession of 
 the gates, I will put the strongest donjon-keep between 
 
112 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 thee and that pale-faced maiden for whose sake thou 
 hast done this.” But the young lover waited not a 
 moment to listen to what he said, for, flying to the 
 chamber of his mistress, he pointed out the way by 
 which the might escape ; telling her that his trusty 
 squire and page were awaiting, with swift and sure¬ 
 footed steeds, at the secret postern behind the castle; 
 that it was her alone his father sought to capture, that 
 he might prevent their being united; and so, after a 
 few tears, a few smiles, a few sighs, and unnumbered 
 kisses, he succeeded in carrying off the Daisy of the 
 Dale. The few followers that remained alive sallied 
 with her out of the narrow postern, and went forth 
 without a murmur to share the weal or wo of their 
 beloved mistress ; for her father was then afar off, 
 fighting under the banner of his lawful sovereign. 
 
 Picture the rage and the astonishment of the old 
 knight, when he had succeeded in beating the battered 
 doors off their hinges, and discovered that'the bird he 
 sought to capture had flown, and that his son was no¬ 
 where to be found. Thrice did he order the castle to 
 be burnt, and razed to the ground; then, ere a brand 
 was lighted, countermanded the charge in the same 
 breath ; for as he stalked suddenly from chamber to 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 113 
 
 hall, he everywhere met with some object that recalled 
 the remembrance of youthful days, when, sworn in the 
 solemn bond of friendly brotherhood with her father, 
 they bad in their younger years been the first to 
 plunge into the foremost ranks of battle together. He 
 reached her bower, or tiring-room, and saw the velvet 
 cushion, the open missal, and the ivory crucifix, — the 
 coif adorned with Daisies, which, in her haste, she had 
 thrown upon the floor, while over all was suspended 
 the portrait of her mother. And as he sat down in 
 the high-backed and heavy oaken chair, he rested 
 with one hand on the hilt of his ponderous sword, and 
 pressing to his brow the gauntleted palm of the other, 
 exclaimed, u Pretty sweeting ! I have done thee wrong 
 thus to drive thee from thy bower, even at the very 
 moment, perchance, when thou wert at thy devotions. 
 Well, well ! after all he has but done as I myself 
 would — I have won the empty casket, and he has car¬ 
 ried off the prize ; and to win it, the brave young dog 
 would no more have minded cracking my old crown 
 with the scaling-ladder, than a red squirrel minds 
 splitting open a ripe hazel-nut to get at the kernel 
 within. By Saint Swithin! how the mailed rascals 
 
 tumbled into the moat! I could have laughed, if I had 
 
 8 
 
114 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 not been an angered, to have seen Black Ralph swim¬ 
 ming like a duck in his heavy armor; and as for 
 Hubert, my henchman, I scarce could draw the helmet 
 off his ears, so tightly was it fitted on when he pitched 
 with his head upon the drawbridge. By our Lady ! 
 he is a bold and a daring knave, and hath as great a 
 love for this Daisy as ever Chaucer had, maugre all 
 the choice rhymes he hath made about it.” And the 
 worthy old knight laughed so heartily, as he pictured 
 his followers splashing about in the moat, that his 
 visor slipped down, and he was compelled to call on 
 his esquire, to unbuckle the fastenings of his helmet. 
 
 Pass we over the long, ride of the young lovers, 
 followed by their attendants, through the wild avenues 
 of the forest, the couch which the knight made among 
 the broad-leaved Fern when the Daisy of the Dale 
 was weary, and the blue Harebells that nodded about 
 her beautiful head while she slept. Love was their 
 guide, and lighted their way through the darksome 
 forest-paths — guiding them over many a wild wold 
 and lonely moor, until he brought them beneath the 
 walls of the city where her father was encamped. 
 Wroth was that old knight when he heard that his 
 castle was besieged, and he vowed, by the blood of the 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 
 
 blessed Martyr of Canterbury, that from dungeon-floor 
 to turret-steep, lie would not leave one stone above the 
 other when he reached the stronghold of his enemy. 
 But when the wars of the Roses were over, the king 
 wrote a li broad letter,” with his own hand, to which 
 he affixed his royal seal, and dispatched it by a mes¬ 
 senger ; and instead of foes, the two old knights be¬ 
 came friends, even as they were in the days of their 
 youth. And the sounds which startled Love in the 
 forest were the monarch and his retainers, and the two 
 old knights, and their followers, and a great concourse 
 of people, who had sallied out from the castle, and 
 were going to hunt the noblest hart they could find in 
 the thicket, and to honor by their presence the mar¬ 
 riage ceremony of “ The Daisy of the Dale.” 
 
 The Daisy was Chaucer’s favorite flower; and 
 never since hath bard done it such reverence as the 
 venerable father of English poetry. All worship, 
 saving his own, is that of words only; his is the ado¬ 
 ration of a heart which overflowed with love for the 
 Daisy. He tells us how he rose with the sun to watch 
 this beautiful flower first open, and how he knelt be- 
 
116 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 side it again in the evening to watch its starry rim 
 close; that the Daisy alone could allure him from his 
 study and his books, and, when he had exhausted all 
 his stores of beautiful imagery in its praise, his song 
 was ever ready to burst out anew, as he exclaimed, 
 “ Oh, the Daisy, it is sweet!” for his sake it ought to 
 have been selected as the emblem of Poetry, and 
 throughout all time called “Chaucer’s flower.” For 
 our part, we never wander forth into the fields in spring 
 to look for it, without picturing Chaucer, in his old 
 costume, resting on his “elbow and his side,” as he 
 many a time had done, paying lowly reverence to this 
 old English flower, which he happily called “ The 
 Eye of Day.” 
 
 The Harebell we have already alluded to as belong¬ 
 ing to the order of Campanula, and it has been well 
 chosen, in floral language, as the emblem of Happy 
 Retirement. It is one of the most beautiful of all our 
 autumnal Nvildflowers, adorning the sides of woods 
 and shady places with its delicate bells of blue, clear 
 and pure as ever hung upon the azure face of heaven. 
 
 The Fuchsia we leave to the florist; neither its 
 name, nor the quality it is chosen to represent, have 
 any English sound about them. Taste, saving in 
 
THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 117 
 
 allusion to the palate, to us has long smacked of dilet¬ 
 tantism—it was a good word before so many good- 
 natured twaddlers rendered it common ; middle-tint 
 admirers and murderers of Mozart, and pretty verse- 
 makers, have so crowded the temple-gates of Taste, 
 that many, who really possess it, are ashamed of own¬ 
 ing to so amiable a weakness, and flatly declare that 
 taste they have none. Mem .—Our shaft is only feath¬ 
 ered at Pretenders, to which class the fair sex but 
 seldom belong. 
 
 The very name of the Fern calls up the forest, 
 where it still lives on, though ages ago the mighty 
 oaks have been felled; there it still spreads, true to its 
 native soil, the hardy image of deep-rooted Sincerity. 
 Even where forests have been uprooted, and the stately 
 deer swept away, still the fan-like Fern throws its 
 dark-green arms over the spot, unchanged by the 
 changes of long centuries. It is associated with our 
 oldest fairy legends,—creations of some old forgotten 
 poet’s fancy, that in 
 
 “ The middle-summer’s spring, 
 
 Met on hill, in dale, forest, or by mead, 
 
 By favored fountain, or by rushy brook, 
 
 Or on the beached margin of the sea, 
 
 And danced their ringlets to the whistling wind.” 
 
118 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And our simple ancestors believed that they had but 
 to find the true “Fern seed,” and carry it about with 
 them, to become invisible. What would not a fond 
 lover give for a packet of this fabulous seed, that he 
 might at any hour steal unperceived into the presence 
 of his mistress ? But, alas ! the secret was carried 
 away with the fairies, when they were driven, with 
 bell, book, and candle, from the green and daisied 
 meadows of merry England. 
 
DAISIES. H9 
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 “ The daisy it is sweet.”—C haucer. 
 
 ’T was when the world was in its prime, 
 
 When meadows green and woodlands wild 
 Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time, 
 And every where the Daisies smiled ; 
 
 When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed, 
 
 While lovers sang each other’s praises, 
 
 As in embower’d lanes they wooed, 
 
 Or on some bank white o’er with Daisies: 
 While Love went by with muffled feet, 
 
 Singing, “The Daisies they are sweet.” 
 
 Unfettered then he roamed abroad, 
 
 And as he willed it past the hours— 
 
 Now lingering idly by the road, 
 
 Now loitering by the wayside flowers ; 
 
 For what cared he about the morrow ? 
 
 Too young to sigh, too old to fear— 
 
 No time had he to think of sorrow, 
 
 Who found the Daisies every where ; 
 
120 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 Still sang he, through each green, retreat, 
 
 “ The Daisies they are very sweet.’’ 
 
 With many a maiden did he dally, 
 
 Like a glad brook that turns away—- 
 Here in, there out, across the valley, 
 
 With every pebble stops to play; 
 
 Taking no note of space nor time, 
 
 Through flowers, the banks adorning, 
 
 Still rolling on, with silver chime, 
 
 In star-clad night and golden morning. 
 
 So went Love on, through cold and heat, 
 Singing, “The Daisy’s ever sweet.” 
 
 ’T was then the flowers were haunted 
 With fairy forms and lovely things, 
 
 Whose beauty elder bards have chaunted. 
 
 And how they lived in crystal springs, 
 
 And swang upon the honied bells ; 
 
 In meadows danced round dark green mazes, 
 Strewed flowers around the holy wells. 
 
 But never trampled on the Daisies. 
 
 They spared the star that lit their feet, 
 
 The Daisy was so very sweet. 
 
LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. 121 
 
 LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. 
 
 YOUR FIDELITY AND CANDOR HAVE WON MY 
 AFFECTION. 
 
 Emblems. 
 
 WALLFLOWER— fidelity. W r HITE VIOLET— candor. WOOD¬ 
 BINE —AFFECTION. 
 
 Sweet Bhapes were there—the Spirits of the Flowers: 
 
 Sent down to see the summer-beauties dress, 
 
 And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers; 
 
 Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess, 
 
 And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers ; 
 
 The very flowers seemed eager to caress 
 Such living sisters,—and the boughs, long-leaved, 
 
 Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms heaved. 
 
 Fairest lady of the wildwoocl—tall white watcher 
 of the forest! thou art the first to wave thy sun-dyed 
 fingers, and tell to the fragrant flowers which sleep be¬ 
 neath thy feet, that the God of Day has once more 
 wheeled up his golden chariot, and unrolled his ban- 
 
122 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ner of crimson clouds, above the rim of the distant 
 horizon. Bride of the wood — beloved of the green- 
 waving trees ! even the giant oak enfolds thee with a 
 fond embrace, and hugs thee in his iron arms with a 
 gentle pressure. The hooked bramble wooeth thee -to 
 twine lovingly between its thorns, and the graceful 
 hazel uplifteth thee on high in his green arms, as if to 
 show thy beautiful tiara of flowers to the surrounding 
 underwood. Around the green elm dost thou ring thy 
 lovely arms, and breathest thy sweet breath in the 
 bosom of the hoary hawthorn, when all its milk-white 
 blossoms have wandered away. Over wide solitudes, 
 where the gorse, and the broom, and the fern, stretch 
 far, — where the tangling briar, and the piercing sloe, 
 and the armed holly, bid defiance to the footstep of the 
 wanderer, — there dost thou sit, with thy fair face look¬ 
 ing out from the surrounding turret of leaves, like a 
 lovely lady imprisoned in some impregnable castle, 
 that stands in the midst of a savage and impenetrable 
 forest. 
 
 It was soon after the creation of the world, when the 
 hand of Nature had roughed out its mighty work, had 
 thrown the mountains ruggedly together, and broad¬ 
 cast the flowers over the hills and valleys, that lesser 
 
LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. 
 
 123 
 
 powers were appointed to arrange them in order and 
 harmony ; when winged attendants were placed over 
 the woods, and fair forms drew out the lines in which 
 the bending water-courses were to run, while the most 
 beautiful spirits that kept watch and ward in the gar¬ 
 dens of heaven, were sent down to superintend, and 
 give the finishing strokes of beauty to the flowers. 
 From many that were gaudy in color and graceful in 
 form, they took away the fragrance, transferring their 
 perfume to lowlier flowers, whose loveliness would have 
 been overlooked, had not sweetness been added to 
 their beauty. 
 
 The blossom of the Woodbine was thrown aside, 
 pale and neglected, until one fair spirit took it up, and 
 breathed into it an odor which she had brought from 
 the opening blossoms of Eden ; another took up her 
 palette, on which was spread out every hue of the rain¬ 
 bow, and gave to the pallid Woodbine a gold and 
 crimson hue; while a third squeezed into its cup a 
 drop of the sweetest honey ; and a fourth, around 
 whose slender waist were twined trailing stems of every 
 
 I 
 
 form, took out the longest, and fastened to it the head 
 of the beautiful Woodbine : rising up when s,he had 
 finished, and twisting it gracefully around her, until 
 
124 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the sun-stained flower rested upon the parted amber of 
 her ringlets, as she exclaimed, “ I will exalt this flower 
 over every blossom of the wild woodland ; whatsoever 
 ye plant it shall still overtop, until its fragrant head is 
 buried and lost amid the green foliage of the trees. 
 All the sweet odors of summer shall float around its 
 feet, and it shall receive homage from every flower of 
 the forest.” 
 
 “Stop, beautiful sister,” said another fair spirit, 
 pointing upward with her white finger and an arch 
 look, as she rose from the high pile of flowers by which 
 she was surrounded ; “ seest thou that old gray naked 
 rock, which stood like a lonely ruin, even amid the 
 silence and darkness of Chaos? For many a day had I 
 looked upon it with an eye of pity, as it stood there, 
 grand in its very solitariness, majestic in its own deso¬ 
 lation, and looking noble though bearing the impress 
 of ruin. Hovering around it in the early sunbeams of 
 morning, I thought how even its cold aged bosom 
 would be comforted if I threw but a handful of flowers 
 there, and I guessed aright. Sister, look up, and be¬ 
 hold how beautifully those wild Wallflowers wave ; 
 even the banded bee hath winged his way to that 
 dizzy height, allured by their surpassing sweetness. I 
 
 L 
 
LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. 125 
 
 will not dispute with thee the tall sovereignty over the 
 flowers of the forest, but wherever a gray ruin rears, 
 though it reaches even to the foot of the low, dark 
 thunder-clouds, there shall the fragrant Wallflower 
 wave,—humble, but high over all,—the everlasting 
 emblem of Fidelity throughout all change.” 
 
 “Nor shall its influence end there,” said the super¬ 
 intending spirit, rising like a tall angel as she spoke, 
 from amid her sister spirits of the flowers ; “I will give 
 it a greater power: it shall stand up like a landmark 
 between the past and the present—it shall recall 
 images of beauty which have faded away — and, 
 throughout unnumbered ages, stand like a saare mor- 
 alist, proclaiming to the children of men how fleeting 
 is all earthly splendor; it shall lift the mind to the 
 contemplation of an imperishable immortality, and 
 raise the thoughts to another world, where beauty de- 
 cayeth not, and where the blushing cheek of Happiness 
 is never touched by the pale finger of Sorrow. Wher¬ 
 ever the Woodbine is seen, it shall denote Affection, — 
 the devotedness of a fond heart, that clings unto what 
 it loveth until it dies ; but it shall not outlive the 
 object to which it is wedded, for when once untwined 
 from its affectionate embrace, it shall wither, and pine, 
 
126 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 and die away, and be no more. Not so with the Wall¬ 
 flower : when all beside have perished and decayed, 
 when the carved and vaulted roof has mouldered 
 away, when the tall turret has fallen, stone by stone, 
 and crumbled into dust, it shall still wave above the 
 mound of buried ruins, like Beauty bending over, and 
 silently contemplating Desolation ; the emblem of 
 faithfulness in adversity, the garland with which Time 
 shall enwreath the gray piles of silent and untrodden 
 ruins, which, in his devastating march he has over¬ 
 turned.” 
 
 As many of the flowers thus passed through their 
 hands, they gave to them some new charm which they 
 had never before possessed; sometimes varying and 
 mingling their fragrances together, and throwing a 
 warm, pearly flush, over what was before of a pale and 
 deathly hue. They gave a pale blush to the blossoms 
 of the Hawthorn, and pressed the white roses to their 
 cheeks, until they left on them every tinge, from the 
 warm tint of beauty to the lily-whiteness of their own 
 swan-like necks. Into some of the Violets they looked, 
 until they partook of the hue of their own deep-blue 
 eyes; and others, which were before of a dark purple, 
 they buried in their own snowy bosoms, until they 
 
LEGEND OF THE SPIRIT-FLOWERS. 127 
 
 faded into a pearly white, then laughingly planted 
 them again in the ground, causing them for ever to 
 partake of the candor, and sweetness, and innocence 
 of the tender hearts on which they were first nursed, 
 and the gentle spirit by whose purity their color was 
 changed. Round the Daisy, whose edge before was a 
 white unbroken rim, they clipped the ridge into the 
 star-like silver which it now wears, and called it the 
 Eye of Day. They picked up the smallest Primroses 
 they could find, and, planting them upon one stem, 
 spotted their centres with the deepest crimson, and 
 thus formed the Cowslip. They swept up all the 
 waste and sweetest blossoms that had blown together, 
 crushing them in the hand until they formed a solid 
 clump of cream-colored flowers, and so made the 
 meadow sweet, that the fields might still be laden with 
 the perfume of May, when the bloom had flown from 
 off the Hawthorn, and resolved itself into one of Sum¬ 
 mer’s unseen perfumes. They made the large marsh 
 Marigold to plant beside high-banked streams, that in 
 the water the deep gold of the flowers might be re¬ 
 flected, giving them a sun of their own to throw its 
 cheerful and yellow light upon the ripples, in these 
 deep, shadowy, and out-of-the-way places, which the 
 
128 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 sunshine of heaven but seldom visits. And unto all 
 these they gave presiding powers, emblems, and vir¬ 
 tues, and mysterious meanings; many of which Love 
 never recovered again, when he set out on his pil¬ 
 grimage to visit the Shrines of the Flowers. And 
 ever as they formed the flowers, and strung the beaded 
 buds together upon the stems, and perfumed the petals 
 with odors which they had gathered in the gardens of 
 heaven, their voices blended together as they chaunted 
 the lays brought from another world. 
 
 SONG OP THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. 
 
 Sister, sister, what dost thou twine ? 
 
 I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine ; 
 
 I have streak’d it without like the sunset hue, 
 
 And silver’d it white with the morning dew : 
 
 And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows 
 From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose, 
 That’s sweeter than mine—that’s sweeter than mine : 
 I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine. 
 
 White watcher of blossoms, what weavest thou ? 
 
 I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough ; 
 
LEGEND OF THE SPIRIT-FLOWERS. 129 
 
 I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush 
 Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning’s faint blush ; 
 And the odors they breathe of, to me were first given 
 By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven : 
 
 And Love, should he ever remember the tale, 
 
 Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale. 
 
 Beautiful spirit, why dost thou sigh ? 
 
 Sad thoughts float about me, like clouds on the sky, 
 Of the false vows that may on these blossoms be sworn. 
 Of the rose that will wither, and leave but the thorn : 
 Of hopes that may live after Love is long dead, 
 
 Like the stem left behind when the flower is shed. 
 
 And that is the cause why I sigh—why I sigh— 
 
 To think that the heart must be broken, to die. 
 
 Sister, sister, what hast thou found, 
 
 Half hidden amid the green leaves on the ground ? 
 
 They are the dim Violets, daughters of Spring, 
 
 Deeper dyed than the blue of the butterfly’s wing ; 
 
 Yet modest as Love in the bud of the Rose, 
 
 When the green can no longer its blushes enclose : 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 All the perfumes I’ve tried in the buds that I wreathe, 
 Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they 
 breathe. 
 
 Beautiful spirit, why dost thou weep ? 
 
 For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep ; 
 For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red, 
 That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead : 
 For the beautiful lips they will to it compare, 
 
 For the cheeks that will fade, be they never so fair ; 
 They are mortal, sweet sister : here Death severs love ; 
 Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above. 
 

 
 
 
 
i 
 
THE QUEEN OE MAY. 
 
 131 
 
 THE QUEEN OF MAY. 
 
 HOPE AND DESIRE BREAK MY REPOSE, AND HAVE 
 CALLED FORTH THIS DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 Hmblems. 
 
 HAWTHORN— hope. WHITE JONQUIL— desire. CONVOL¬ 
 VULUS — REPOSE. TULIP — DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 ’Twas May-day morn, nor had a lovelier day 
 From out the eastern chambers e’er been given; 
 
 . The lark had left the heath and flown away, 
 
 Singing, into the clear blue dome of heaven 
 The bee went round to tell the flowers ’twas May. 
 
 The beautiful Hawthorn has been selected, as well 
 as the Snowdrop, for the emblem of Hope ; and there 
 are few hut can recall with delight the healthy fra¬ 
 grance which has cheered them, while wandering be¬ 
 tween the green hedgerows of England. Our old 
 poets, as if despairing to find a fitting name for this 
 fragrant blossom, have called it May, after one of the 
 
132 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 pleasantest months in the whole year; for to them 
 that word recalled the season of poetry—the month of 
 flowers, and was fraught with associations of all that 
 is bright and beautiful in the earth : for there aie but 
 few objects that strike the eye with greater delight 
 than the rural hedgerows which stretch for miles 
 throuo-hout our country, and are at the close of spring 
 flushed over with the pink-white blossoms of May. In 
 the olden time our ancestors did homage to this season 
 of flowers; and went out with songs and music to 
 “bring home May.” They erected arbors of green 
 branches, they selected 3. beautiful maiden and clown¬ 
 ed her Queen of May, they placed her upon a throne 
 of flowers, they -wreathed her brow with blossoms, and 
 danced around her, and they hung the tall, tapering 
 Maypole with gay garlands of variegated colors. Even 
 kings and queens left their palaces, the proud baion 
 rode out from under the dark-browed archway of his 
 feudal castle, the fair lady deserted her bower, and the 
 brave knight, with his plumes dancing in the wind, 
 mounted on his prancing war-horse, rode beside the 
 white palfry of his lady-love, and so they went foith, 
 throwing their titles and dignities for once aside, to 
 “ do observance to the May.” 
 
I 
 
 THE QUEEN OF MAY. 133 
 
 Surely we err in calling these the dark and barbaric 
 ages, while they paid such worship to the flowers. 
 Although they might lack the light of that knowledge 
 which has since broken out and illuminated the earth, 
 still they had a fine taste for the beautiful—a simple and 
 earnest adoration for the lovely flowers of the field ; and 
 wherever such a feeling exists, whether in the palace 
 or in the cottage, it points out a refined mind, an ele¬ 
 gant perception, and a heart alive to all that is pure 
 and beautiful. How natural that so sweet-scented 
 and common a blossom should be selected as the 
 image of Hope ! for who could behold it without trust¬ 
 ing that there were still better days in store? The 
 disappointed or separated lover, while wandering in 
 the cool shadows of green lanes, would, as he inhaled 
 its fragrance, feel a new kind of joy breaking through the 
 dark despondency of the heart, and hear Hope again 
 whisper that the time might come, when she, whose 
 presence had hallowed with love every pathway he 
 traversed, should again be his companion, and make 
 those rural rambles the happiest hours of his existence. 
 The fair maiden, pale with love,—the citadel of whose 
 heart had been stormed and won, only to be deserted 
 and left desolate,—might find some comfort while 
 
134 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 wandering forth among the hedges crowned with May 
 — some momentary pleasure in the remembrance of 
 what had been; and fondly hope that he who had 
 crushed her heart, would return again, sorrowful and 
 contrite, and heal the aching wound which he had 
 made. Amid this sad hope she would send forth a 
 sigli over the landscape, as she gazed upon some 
 thatched and tranquil cottage, which stood half buried 
 amid the dreamy rustling of the trees, coveting so 
 calm a retreat, centred amid the beauties of nature, 
 and surrounded by sequestered paths which led to the 
 homes of hundreds of flowers : for such sweet solitudes 
 does Grief pine for. Such retiring places are sought 
 after by wounded love, who looks for companionship 
 among: the mute flowers, and breathes her sorrows 
 and her hopes into the listening blossoms, as if believ¬ 
 ing that the ministering spirits which are sent down 
 to comfort and cheer the broken-hearted, have taken 
 up their abode amid these green and silent retreats; 
 as if she there hoped to find that repose which has so 
 Ion^ been broken, and to rest after her love had been 
 wrecked, on the very shore where she trusted to find 
 such secure anchorage. Nor is the sweetness of Lo\ e 
 found alone in the possession, no more than pleasure 
 
THE QUEEN OF MAY. 
 
 135 
 
 can for ever exist without the alloy of pain ; for as a 
 brief separation enhances the happiness and anticipa¬ 
 tion of the meeting — as a gentle shower throws a rich¬ 
 er odor over the summer landscape, so do the many 
 fears which ever hang like blossoms upon the tender 
 spray of Love, tremble before every breath that blows, 
 lest it should sweep off some cherished bloom. And 
 ever upon the ear falls the melancholy truth of “all 
 that’s fair must fadethat Love is ever driven back 
 to its infancy, for long ere it is permitted to attain per¬ 
 fection, it droops and dies ; like roses, which no sooner 
 burst out into full bloom, than they wither ; that there 
 is no beyond, no choice but to die, or look back and 
 sigh to “ become a bird again,” and live over the same 
 brief life : and such is the doom of all earthly love. 
 
 It was a clear, bright morning in spring, one of 
 those mornings in which Summer seems to have 
 stepped forth from her golden chamber before her time, 
 as if to look upon her great garden the earth, to see 
 how her buds and blossoms are progressing. High in 
 the centre of the open village-green, towering above 
 the aged elm, whose weather-beaten stem was sur¬ 
 rounded by rustic seats, rose the tall Maypole, hung 
 with gaudy garlands, in which fluttered ribands of as 
 
136 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 many dyes as there were varied hues in the flowers, 
 amid which they were twined. At the foot of the 
 Maypole stood a rustic throne of trellis-work, covered 
 with flowers and branches of Hawthorn blossoms, 
 drooping in many a graceful form ; and on it was seat¬ 
 ed the Queen of May, her beautiful brow crowned with 
 a simple wreath of wild roses; while, hand in hand, 
 young men and village maidens formed a circle around 
 her, and, with smiling faces, timed their feet to the 
 music of an old-fashioned country dance. At a distance 
 stood the wealthy squire, surrounded by his family, his 
 face beaming with smiles, as he gazed upon the merry 
 group before him, and pointed proudly to his youngest 
 daughter, who sat crowned the Queen of May. For 
 ages past had some high-born daughter of the hall laid 
 aside her dignity for the day, and condescended to pre¬ 
 side over their May games. Many a proud beauty who 
 now slept in the dark vault beneath the chancel pave¬ 
 ment, had, in the rose-bloom of youth and loveliness, 
 left her old ancestral hearth and mounted the flowery 
 throne on the village green, to do reverence to May ; 
 but never before had there stepped out, from that long 
 gallery of departed beauties, one lovelier than she who 
 now sat the crowned queen of the month of flowers. 
 
THE QUEEN OF MAY. 137 
 
 Hers was a face which recalled the immortal sculpture 
 of ancient Greece; and you might have fancied, but 
 for the pearly flush which softened into the peach-like 
 velvetness of her cheeks, and the smile which ever 
 played about the parted rosebuds of her lips, that her 
 head and neck had been chiseled from the whitest 
 marble, with just such a warmth thrown over it as 
 sometimes flushes the pearl-white blossoms of the 
 Hawthorn. The silken flow of her nut-brown hair 
 was parted Madonna-wise in front, beautifully broken 
 by the damask coronet of wild roses, which here and 
 there went rounding off, or was half buried in the 
 dark back-ground of her tresses, like a bird partly hid¬ 
 den among the blossoms amid which it sings : a mild, 
 tender light played about the softened sunshine of her 
 hazel eyes, throwing a brightness over the heaven 
 from which they beamed, and a happiness over every 
 countenance, which reflected back the smiling sweet¬ 
 ness of their cheering lustre, like the sunshine stream¬ 
 ing upon a bed of open primroses, and causing the 
 pale yellow of the modest flowers to “ give back gold 
 for gold.” Around the ivory pillar of her neck hung a 
 band of rosebuds, beautifully twisted into a silken 
 riband; the warm marble of her arms was orna- 
 
138 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 men ted with bracelets of flowers, and the belt which 
 circled her slender waist was covered with bunches of 
 Hawthorn blossoms. She looked as if the Goddess of 
 Flowers had newly alighted upon the earth, and as¬ 
 cended that throne to preside over her worshipers. In 
 her hand she held a sceptre, covered with the choicest 
 flowers of spring; and as she raised or lowered it, so 
 the dancers proceeded or halted, in a moment, in the 
 midst of their merry measure. A handsome-looking 
 young gentleman stood gazing upon the scene, with 
 his horse’s bridle thrown negligently over his arm, 
 while he timed the measure of the dance, with the 
 butt-end of his riding-whip, upon the ground. The 
 Queen of May lowered her flowery sceptre, and, stop¬ 
 ping the dance, beckoned one of the village maidens 
 to approach — when, whispering something in her ear, 
 she took the band of rosebuds from her neck and 
 placed it in the hands of the dancer, who exchanged a 
 few words with five of her fair companions, and they 
 went trippingly up to the young gentleman, and, 
 throwing the wreath of roses around him, brought him 
 prisoner before the Queen of May. Laughing, he 
 knelt down and kissed the white hand which was 
 extended toward him ; then took his seat beside her 
 
THE QUEEN OF MAY. 
 
 139 
 
 on the throne of flowers. Then the music again 
 sounded, and the light-footed dancers whirled round 
 the dizzy maze, now joined by the jolly old English 
 squire, who made the earth shake again beneath the 
 tread of his heavy top-bools. A few bottles of the 
 choicest wine had been brought from the cellars of the 
 hall, and the corks were drawn by a servant in old- 
 fashioned livery, and, amid loud huzzas, the healths 
 of the King and Queen of May were drank by the 
 happy villagers. Another dance, in which the queen 
 and her lover joined, being over, the squire and his 
 family retired through the ancient iron gates of the 
 lodge, and were soon lost in the long avenue which 
 led to the hall, leaving the merry villagers to end their 
 May-day game among themselves. They selected a 
 new May queen, by cutting a quantity of sprigs from 
 a rosebush, amid which only one bud was placed ; 
 this, together with the sprays which contained only 
 leaves, was concealed in the palm of the hand, while 
 the stalks or stems only were left visible, and she who 
 was fortunate enough to draw out the rosebud, was 
 proclaimed Queen of the May, and placed upon the 
 flowery throne which her sovereign sister had just 
 abdicated. 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 140 
 
 Alas ! this innocent old English holiday has now 
 all but passed away; no one now serenades the 
 “ sweet slug-a-beds” in the early morning, as they did 
 in the days of Herrick, bidding them rise up and put 
 “on their foliage, and come forth like the spring-time, 
 fresh, and green, and sweet as Flora,’’ and not stop to 
 adorn themselves with jewels, for the dews of morning 
 were waiting to cover them all over with pearls. 
 There is no longer that devotion which gave to each 
 house a bough ; May-day and May-games are but like 
 flowers thrown into the sea of Time, and cast by the 
 waves upon the long straggling shores, below the dim 
 cliffs, whose heights are only overlooked by Memory. 
 
 The White Jonquil, or’Poet’s Narcissus, is found 
 in most gardens, and is well known by the rich crim¬ 
 son rim which marks the golden cup in its centre. 
 Although linked with the did heathen mythology, and 
 the name of the foolish youth who became enamored 
 of his own shadow as he saw it reflected in the waters, 
 still this poetical flower is allied to our true English 
 family of Daffodils, and is often mentioned by our 
 early dramatists. It might have been turned to better 
 
THE QUEEN OF MAY. 
 
 use, in floral language, than it is ; but being just ad¬ 
 missible, and not requiring any over-exertion of fancy 
 to see that Narcissus had a Desire to love some one 
 who resembled himself, we must allow it to pass. The 
 White Jonquil possesses the sweetest fragrance of all 
 this class of flowers, and one which ought to be num¬ 
 bered among the sweetest perfumes which breathe 
 from the sweet and parted lips of May. 
 
 The Convolvulus, or Bindweed, is known to every 
 one ; from the pale pink flower that clings to the reeds 
 or corn, to the long festoons which throw their large, 
 white, hollow cups over every hedgerow. The Blue 
 Convolvulus, which we see so commonly twined 
 around door-porches, and beneath window-sills, con¬ 
 stantly closes ito flowers about four o'clock, and such 
 a regular “go-to-bed,” as it is called in the country, is 
 no bad emblem of Repose. The Convolvulus and the 
 Briony both twine contrary ways, one to the sun, and 
 the other from it; nor can these positions be changed ; 
 attempt to alter them, and in a few hours they will 
 either resume their former spiral course, or begin to 
 wither, and soon die. Something very beautiful might 
 be woven out of this fact, and a new legend added to 
 our wild flowers ; and had I not given the preference 
 
142 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 in this group to the May, and occupied my space with 
 a description of its sweetness and beauty, I should have 
 wandered wherever fancy had led me, in pursuit of 
 some old-world love-story connected with the Convol¬ 
 vulus. 
 
 Few know that there is a beautiful fragrant Yellow 
 Tulip which grows wild in our own pastoral England, 
 and which may often be found in full flower, in the 
 warm beds of chalk-pits, about the end of April, or 
 early in May. It gives pleasure to me, a true lover 
 as I am of my own country, to know, that we are 
 neither indebted to Turks nor turbans for the origin of 
 this splendid wild-flower, which was, no doubt, more 
 plentiful in the days of our old Elizabethean poets, 
 
 and which is mentioned in Ben Jonson’s “ Pan’s Anni- 
 
 * 
 
 versary ” by the very name it still bears. The gaudy 
 Tulip of our gardens is ill chosen as the emblem of a 
 Declaration of Love ; nor is it at all necessary in the 
 floral alphabet, when the Rosebud (a thousand times a 
 more fitting representative) denotes a Confession of 
 Love, and in both cases the sense and meaning are the 
 same. Some have selected the Rosebud as the em¬ 
 blem of a girl, — the language of flowers needs neither 
 girl, boy, nor infant; Love is ever young, and the 
 
THE QUEEN OF MAY. 143 
 
 flowers that denote age grow not in his garden. In 
 our catalogue of the flowers of affection at the end of 
 this volume, we have thrown out numberless weeds 
 which have too long encumbered the flowers in the 
 garden of Love. The Tulip, however, is just admis¬ 
 sible, and, like many an indifferent word which has 
 crept into our English dictionaries, must, like the fly 
 in amber, retain its place, because we find it there. 
 Scores of others, which have really no meaning in 
 them, nor bear any resemblance to the qualities they 
 have been chosen to represent, I have rejected with an 
 unmerciful hand, and allowed them no place in my 
 “Poetical Language of Flowers.” 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 now MAY WAS FIRST MADE. 
 
 As-Spring upon a silver cloud 
 Lay looking on the world below, 
 
 Watching the breezes as they bowed 
 The buds and blossoms to and fro, 
 
 She saw the fields with Hawthorns walled : 
 
 Said Spring, “ New buds I will create.” 
 
 She to a Flower-Spirit called, 
 
 Who on the month of May did wait, 
 
 And bade her fetch a Hawthorn-spray, 
 
 That she might make the buds of May. 
 
 Said Spring, The grass looks green and bright, 
 The Hawthorn-hedges too are green, 
 
 I 11 sprinkle them with flowers of light, 
 
 Such stars as earth has never seen ; 
 
 And all through England’s girded vales, 
 
 Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams, 
 Where woodlands dip into the dales, 
 
 Wher e’er the Hawthorn stands and dreams, 
 Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day, 
 
 I ’ll light each nook with flowers of May. 
 
HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE. 145 
 
 Like pearly dew-drops, white and round. 
 
 The shut-up buds shall first appear, 
 
 And in them be such fragrance found, 
 
 As breeze before did never bear ; 
 
 Such as in Eden only dwelt, 
 
 When angels hover’d round its bowers, 
 
 And long-haired Eve at morning knelt 
 In innocence amid the flowers : 
 
 While the whole air was, every way, 
 
 Fill’d with a perfume sweet as May. 
 
 And oft shall groups of children come, 
 
 Threading their way through shady places, 
 From many a peaceful English home, 
 
 The sunshine falling on their faces ; 
 
 Starting with merry voice the thrush, 
 
 As through green lanes they wander singing, 
 To gather the sweet Hawthorn-bush ; 
 
 Which, homeward in the evening bringing 
 With smiling faces, they shall say, 
 
 “ There’s nothing half so sweet as May.” 
 
 10 
 
146 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And many a poet yet unborn 
 
 Shall link its name with some sweet lay, 
 And lovers oft at early morn 
 
 Shall gather blossoms of the May ; 
 
 With eyes bright as the silver dews, 
 
 Which on the rounded May-buds sleep, 
 And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse 
 A sunshine o’er the watch they keep, 
 Shall open all their white array 
 Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May. 
 
 Spring shook the cloud on which she lay, 
 And silver’d o’er the Hawthorn spray, 
 Then shower’d down the buds of May. 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 
 
 147 
 
 CUPID AND PSYCHE. 
 
 YuUK. AN HER CAUSES ME PAIN, YOUR FRIENDSHIP AND 
 LOVE ARE AN EVERLASTING PLEASURE. 
 
 Sinlilems. 
 
 GORSE— anger. MARIGOLD— PAIN, or grief. ACACIA— friend¬ 
 ship. SWEET PEA —EVERLASTING PLEASURE. 
 
 “ Fly, Zephyrus ! on top of yonder mount 
 My fair love sits ; on thy soft swelling wings 
 Let Psyche ride : you, Voices, that attend me, 
 
 Dance in the air, like wantons, to entice 
 My love to dwell in Cupid’s paradise; 
 
 Music, with ravishing tones enchant her ears: 
 
 She that doth Cupid wed, thus shall she live.” 
 
 The Queen’s Musk , 1615. 
 
 In that primitive and patriarchal age, when wealth 
 consisted in the possession of flocks and herds, and the 
 early fathers pitched their tents and made their homes 
 wherever the sweetest herbage could'"be found for their 
 
148 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 cattle, or the clearest streams went murmuring along 
 through miles of beautiful pastoral sceneryit was 
 then that Love, during his pilgrimage to the shrines 
 of the flowers, chanced to alight in one of those gieen 
 valleys, which opened out every way, beyond the long 
 avenues of venerable oaks, that threw their shady 
 arms over the smooth and flowery plains of Arcadia. 
 Below the oaks spread many a long underwood of La- 
 grant Acacias, of every hue which the queenly Rose 
 wears through the endless changes of her diversified 
 at ti r e—from the deep crimson to the warm white, as 
 it deepens upward, tint into tint, till you cannot tell 
 where the first faint blush commences, nor trace the 
 almost imperceptible shades it passes through, until it 
 settles down into a deepen crimsom than was ever 
 woven into those richly-dyed curtains, which the hand 
 of Evening draws across the sky, when the sun has 
 descended into his golden chamber beneath the ocean. 
 Around the stems of the Acacias gracefully twined 
 every variety of the Sweet, and Everlasting Pea, while 
 their fragrant flowers of white, and red, and puiple, 
 showed like thousands of winged butterflies, which 
 had alighted amid those emerald leaves and curled 
 tendrils, as if to rest awhile, before they sallied forth to 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 149 
 
 visit those green and flowery valleys, which slept in 
 the sunshine on every hand. Whichever way Love 
 turned his eye, to where the greensward spread, or the 
 upland sloped downward to the edge of the stream, he 
 beheld cattle browsing, and saw nymphs and swains 
 attending their flocks, while their low, sweet pipings 
 filled all the valley with music. Here a beautiful 
 bevy of white-footed maidens, tripping lightly to the 
 oaten reed of the shepherd, as he sat upon the twisted 
 root of some antique oak, while his flock grazed in the 
 distance, seeming to take no note of the dancers. 
 T. here, half concealed beneath the embowering Acacia, 
 sat two fond lovers, toying with each other; she timed 
 the distant music with her crook idly upon the ground, 
 while he was twisting the Sweet Pea in the clusters 
 of her hair, or hanging its green tendrils here and 
 theie among the rolling folds of her darker ringlets. 
 Further on a group was gathered around two shep¬ 
 herds, who were contending for a milk-white lamb ; 
 the prize stood bleating before them, garlanded with 
 flowers, and they strove, like rival nightingales, each 
 trying to overwhelm the other by the power of its song 
 as they chaunted aloud the happiness which abounds 
 in pastoral life, and sung the praises of the beautiful 
 
150 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 nymph which each secretly adored. Love stood by 
 unperceived, and listened; and his immortal heart 
 glowed within him while he heard one of them sing 
 the praises of Psyche — the bashful, the beautiful; 
 Psyche, the milk-handed—the star-eyed — the shy 
 fawn ; which but the sound of a footstep frightened 
 away, — the nymph whose motions were more graceful 
 than the flowers of the Acacia, that drooped and swung 
 in the breeze,-—who never spoke but what the very air 
 seemed to hold in its breath, as if to listen to the music 
 of her sweet voice,—who never appeared but the flocks 
 left off grazing to look upon her, — nor ever moved with¬ 
 out the flowers bending their heads as if to follow her; 
 Psyche, on whose head the timid butterflies alighted, 
 around whose parted lips the'bees flew murmuring, as 
 if they wanted to deposit the honey which they bore 
 to the rich stores that were hidden wdthin them; 
 Psyche, who garlanded the ivory of her neck with the 
 trailing flowers of the Pea-blossom, until the parted 
 buds flew back from her shoulders like wings, as she 
 ran along, followed by the butterflies, when they went 
 out to play together. Love leant upon his bow enrap¬ 
 tured, and resolved within himself that he would And 
 out where this beautiful flower of Arcadia concealed 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 
 
 151 
 
 herself, for he soon learnt that her abode was unknown 
 to the shepherds, who had but caught a passing 
 glimpse of her beauty. Over many a pasture and 
 many a plain did Love wander in search of Psyche, 
 through long avenues of mighty oaks, and fragrant I 
 arbors of Acacia, parting the trailing tendrils of the 
 vetches with his pointed arrow as he forced his way 
 between them, until at length he came to where a wide 
 field of Marigolds stood, with their heads all turned 
 toward a green bower, formed by Acacias, and 
 mantled over with the flowers of the Everlast¬ 
 ing Pea. 
 
 Noiseless as a blossom which just moves before the 
 gentle breath of a bird, did Love approach that flowery 
 arbor; and he dropped his bow and arrows in mute 
 amazement, as he gazed breathless upon the vision of 
 beauty which slept in the green shadow of the em¬ 
 bowering leaves. Neither the Graces, nor the Hours, 
 nor the loveliest forms which hovered around the sum¬ 
 mit of Olympus, and waited upon the dreaded divin¬ 
 ities,—not Hebe, in whose countenance all the beauty 
 of youth was centered, came near to the indescribable 
 loveliness of that sleeping nymph of Arcadia. And as 
 Love gazed upon her, he knew that he had discovered 
 
152 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 a form more beautiful than any of the flowers he had 
 hitherto knelt beside. 
 
 He listened to the low murmurs which escaped from 
 the opening rose-buds of her lips, and he heard her 
 pray to be wedded to a love that might never perish, 
 to an essence that could never know decay, were it 
 but a moving shadow of immortality she cared not, if 
 even she never beheld the substance of the divinity 
 she loved. “ Make me but the remotest point,” sighed 
 Psyche, in her sleep, “that forms a portion of the 
 starry circle which the star eternally shines upon, the 
 furthest that is lighted by the radiance on which it 
 waits, feeling itself, nevertheless, as if a portion of that 
 star, although only admitted there like a worshiper 
 on whom the bright elfulgejice falls. Let me become 
 a part of the lightest down that feathers the edge of 
 an immortal wing, so that I may but feel that I am a 
 part of that immortality ; or, if I must perish, give me 
 a brief career of beauty, crowd the space of a year into 
 a single day, and, like the butterfly, send me forth 
 winged,—a divinity floating above the flowers,—that I 
 may before I die taste of the existence of the gods, and 
 catch, like them, the ethereal air, which hath never 
 beaten upon the bosom of the earth.” 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 153 
 
 Love knelt down beside her, and breathing between 
 the parted honey of her lips, in kisses whispered that 
 her prayer was answered ; and from that hour she was 
 a partaker of the divinity of Love. “And this power 
 shalt thou possess,” continued Love, “so long as thou 
 canst withhold thine eyes from mine; for if once my 
 image is mirrored in the floating orbs of thy beauty, 
 from that moment shalt thou again become mortal, 
 and subject to that death which overtakes the daugh¬ 
 ters of the earth : for such was the doom uttered by 
 the Thunderer on Olympus, on all who should covet 
 an immortal love. So fondly do I adore thee,” con¬ 
 tinued Love, “that I will bear thee away to a cave, 
 where Jupiter once sheltered a fair mortal like thyself, 
 from the jealous eyes of Juno, where it shall ever be 
 light as noonday when I am absent, but dark as the 
 hollow bed in the midst of a mountain, into which the 
 air of heaven never breathed, when I visit thee, in all 
 the immortality of my love.” Love bore her away 
 to the beautiful cavern which had opened at the bid¬ 
 ding of Jupiter, under one of ihe mountains of Arca¬ 
 dia; it went arching far away; the entrance was 
 concealed under masses of rugged underwood, while 
 all around stretched an impenetrable barrier of gorse- 
 
154 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 bushes, their sharp-pointed spears half hidden by the 
 deep gold of the blossoms with which they were over¬ 
 hung. As a bird bears the feathered seed in its beak, 
 even so lightly did Love fly along, enclosing the beauti¬ 
 ful form of Psyche in his embrace, while her white 
 arm was twined, as if for security, around his neck. 
 A score times was she about to raise her eyes and look 
 into Iris face, when she recalled the doom of death 
 which she knew she must endure ; and as she remem¬ 
 bered the fiat of the Thunderer, she clung more close¬ 
 ly to Love, and embraced more firmly the divinity that 
 clasped her in his arms. Once only did she catch a 
 glimpse of his countenance as they passed over a clear 
 stream, and although it was but a momentary glance, 
 she saw in it a beauty which belonged not to earth, 
 and she knew that it was an immortal who loved 
 her.' 
 
 For many a day did Love and Psyche dwell togeth¬ 
 er in that beautiful cavern, which was roofed with sil¬ 
 ver spars, and paved with the choicest flowers; while 
 
 all around were piled twisted and crimson shells, and 
 
 i 
 
 huge pearls, just as they had grown ; and diamonds 
 that, in Love’s absence, threw around a light brighter 
 than day. Still Psyche was unhappy, for she had not 
 i_ 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 
 
 15S 
 
 yet looked into her lover’s face. Clear-mirrored, at 
 the end of the grotto stood a fountain, smooth and 
 bright as glass ; if she held but one of her silken hairs 
 in her fingers it was reflected back, and in it she could 
 see her own face in the beaded pupils of her matchless 
 eyes. Beside the fountain stretched a bed of golden- 
 colored moss, and as she had long before persuaded 
 Love not to withdraw the light when he was present, 
 so did she now entice him to repose upon the golden 
 moss, where she could see his image reflected in the 
 basin of the fountain, without drawing down upon 
 herself the doom of death. And now she could gaze 
 upon him for hours, with her eyes bent downwards in 
 that clear mirror, while he was so enraptured with her 
 matchless beauty, that his glance but seldom wandered 
 from her sweet countenance ; and so imprinted were 
 his features upon her memory, that on every yielding 
 substance she had drawn out the faithful features of 
 Love. He who had eyes for her alone was a long 
 time before he discovered these accurate images of 
 himself, and when he did, his first exclamation was, 
 “Sweet Psyche, what hand hath done this?” For¬ 
 getting Love’s warning for the moment, she looked up 
 into his face and answered, “ Mine, sweet Love ! I but 
 
15G 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 copied the image from my heart, where it had been so 
 long engraven, and transferred it there.” Love gazed 
 upon her in mute amazement, and whilst he looked, 
 her face beamed with a brightness which belonged to 
 heaven—not a shadow of death passed over it; for 
 she had gazed into a fountain in which the face of 
 Jove had many a time been mirrored, and after the 
 death of Leda, whom he had long secreted in that hid¬ 
 den grotto, he vowed by his divinity, that whatever 
 countenance was next reflected in that fountain, should 
 become immortal, nor ever know death. Nor was it 
 until an after-day that Venus discovered this secret, 
 when she found that Psyche overcame every difficulty, 
 and lived on in spite of all she suffered; for never had 
 the Goddess of Beauty dreaded a rival among the Im¬ 
 mortals, until she beheld the lovely countenance of 
 Psyche. Her labors and her sufferings are found in 
 many an old legend ; her patience and her tears were 
 known only to Love ; and it was during her rambles 
 through the world, while she was driven from the as¬ 
 sembly of the gods, that she wandered many a weary 
 mile hand-in-hand with Love, when he set out to learn 
 the long-lost Language of the Flowers. 
 
 And ever after, in commemoration of their love, the 
 
CUPID AND PSYCHE. 157 
 
 Acacia was transplanted to the garden of the gods, and 
 the Everlasting Pea trailed about the bowers of Olym¬ 
 pus ; while the Marigold was changed to a worshiper 
 of the sun, hung with grief, and pain, and sorrow, in 
 his absence, but when present, turning to the God of 
 Day with its golden smile of love. Ages have passed 
 away since the mouth of that cool cavern was closed 
 for ever : for numberless years was it guarded bjr the 
 angry Gorse, and never dare either nymph or swain 
 venture within sight of those golden-headed spears, 
 after that cavern had been hallowed by the presence 
 of Love. Altars were erected in those valleys, and 
 yeaned lambs offered up to the immortal nymph, 
 whom they believed often came back in the form of a 
 butterfly, to visit the green glades of Arcadia ; and 
 many a piece of ancient sculpture, half buried with 
 flowers, has been found in the vale of Arcadia, repre¬ 
 senting Oupicl and Psyche enfolded in each other’s 
 arms. 
 
158 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 THE VALE OF ARCADIA. 
 
 It was a pleasant vale in the olden time, 
 
 When peaceful shepherds piped along the plains, 
 
 And the young world was in its golden prime, 
 
 When the green groves rung back their rustic strains, 
 When the old forest was their only town, 
 
 Their streets the flowery glades, their temples moun¬ 
 tains brown. 
 
 A winding stream flowed through that verdant valley, 
 And pleasant music its sweet waters made, 
 
 As with the drooping flowers it there did dally, 
 
 Or, lower down, amid'the pebbles played, 
 
 Then brawled along through many a mossy maze, 
 Here lit with struggling beams, there dark with droop¬ 
 ing sprays. 
 
 And sunny slopes of green and flowery ground, 
 
 Went stretching far along the water’s edge, 
 
 Seeming to listen to that slumberous sound ; 
 
 For nought there moved save when the reedy sedge 
 
THE VALE OF ARCADIA. 159 
 
 Bowed to its shadow in the stream beneath, 
 
 Or some light ripple stirred the lily’s pearly wreath. 
 
 A velvet sward, its length deep-rimmed with flowers, 
 Wound by the stream, and formed a pleasant walk, 
 Shaded by boughs, sweet summer-woven bowers, 
 
 In which the leaves did oft together talk, 
 
 Now to themselves, then to the brook below, 
 
 Just as the fitful winds in fancy seemed to blow. 
 
 Sometimes a cloud, that seemed to have lost its way, 
 Went sailing o’er the ridge of sable pines, 
 
 Steeping their topmost boughs in silvery gray, 
 
 Or “glinting” downward on the purple vine, 
 
 Till their broad leaves threw back a moonlight gleam, 
 And then a shadow swept o’er valley, tree, and stream. 
 
 Sweet were the sounds that through Arcadia flowed : 
 
 The gentle lambs bleated all summer long, 
 
 The spotted heifer from the thicket lowed, 
 
 The nightingale struck up her starlight song, 
 
 A mournful coo the hidden ringdove made, 
 
 Now high, now low, now list, just as the branches 
 swayed. 
 
160 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And Love and Psyche dwelt amid those bowers, 
 And there he first found how her gentle heart 
 Drew sweet emotions from the perfumed flowers. 
 
 Till of her soul they had become a part; 
 
 And how, when summer’s buds had passed away, 
 Thei v Aagrance still within her parted lips did lay. 
 

 
 
 

ELLEN NEYI7.LE. 161 
 
 ELLEN NEVILLE 
 
 I AM TOUR CAPTIVE, AND HOPE TO POSSESS SUCH 
 LASTING BEAUTY. 
 
 35 lit fa l C m S. 
 
 PEACH-BLOSSOM— love’s captive. SNOWDROP— hope. 
 STOCK— LASTING BEAUTY. 
 
 “ Why did she love him 1 she would answer still, 
 
 1 Is human love the growth of human will ?’ 
 
 To her he might be gentleness; the stern 
 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern; 
 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.” 
 
 Byron’s Lara. 
 
 It was toward the close of the civil wars, when 
 the storm which had long shaken England was some¬ 
 what assuaged, and the cavalry of Cromwell had all 
 but trampled under foot the last remains of the royal 
 
 army,—when wealthy estates were daily confiscated, 
 
 11 
 
POETICAL ^inGCAGE ut FLOWERS 
 
 i V'JZ 
 
 and the heir of many a noble race slept his long sleep 
 upon the battle-field,—that young Marchmont, who 
 had risen to the rank of general in the army of the 
 Commonwealth, came to take possession of the ancient 
 manor-house of the Nevilles, armed with the broad 
 seal of Cromwell and hia pa:Lament: for the last of 
 the Nevilles had died a warrior’s death, and fallen, 
 fighting nobly, at the battle of Marston IVioor. 
 
 While yet clothed in deep mourning for the death 
 of her brother, Ellen Neville received the commands 
 of the stern Protector to resign for ever the home of 
 her forefathers into the hands of a stranger. A strict 
 inventory had been taken of every article which the 
 house contained, and, saving her own wardrobe and 
 a miniature of her mother, she left the hearth of her 
 ancestors a homeless and pennyless orphan. The 
 shadows of evening were settling down upon the old 
 park, when, followed by her attendant, Phoebe, she 
 walked with sad heart down the long avenue of an¬ 
 cient elms, in the direction of the lodge. It was still 
 very early in the spring, and, before quitting the park- 
 gates, she stooped down and gathered two or three 
 pale Snowdrops, and then, with a heavy sigh, quitted 
 the park, while the massy iron gates swang behind 
 
ELLEN NEVILLE. 
 
 163 
 
 her as if with a heavy and complaining sound. She 
 turned round to take a farewell look, just as the sink¬ 
 ing sun flashed redly upon the carven escutcheon of 
 her ancestors which surmounted the gates. Phoebe 
 stooped down to pick up one of the Snowdrops which 
 her beautiful mistress had unconsciously dropped, and, 
 presenting her with it, said, “ Take heart, my dear 
 lady; this flower is the emblem of Hope, and some¬ 
 thing tells me that you will yet live to see happier 
 days.” The Lady Ellen took the proffered flower, 
 smiling faintly through her tears as she thanked her 
 attendant, and they then threaded their way in the 
 direction of the thatched grange, in which the honest 
 farmer’s wife lived who had nursed her in her infancy. 
 
 Although General Marchmont had risen to such 
 eminence in the parliamentary army, it was neither 
 by adhering to the strict Puritanic habits of the Round- 
 heads, nor rendering himself a tool in the hands of 
 Cromwell, or a time server to any of his emissaries; 
 for he was one of those who drew the sword through 
 conscientious motives against King Charles, and his 
 own bravery had called forth the thanks of parliament, 
 
 and his praises had been recorded before the face of 
 
 ' 
 
 the whole army. The mansion which he inherited 
 
164 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 through a long line of ancestors, with all it contained, 
 had been burnt to the ground by the Royalisls, during 
 the commencement of the wars which so long deso¬ 
 lated England. Even the very woods that sheltered it. 
 had been cut down for fuel by the Cavaliers when 
 they encamped in the neighborhood: — all that re¬ 
 mained of his ancient estate was the broad lands, 
 blackened over by the traces of the consuming fire. 
 He was one of those who wished to overturn the old 
 monarchy through the purest of motives—who from 
 his soul believed King Charles to be a tyrant, an op¬ 
 pressor, and an enemy of his people—and who, like 
 the noble-hearted patriot Hampden, made up his mind 
 to sacrifice both estate and life, when he rushed into 
 the struggle, to do battle for the good of his fellow- 
 men. 
 
 More than one of the confiscated estates which be¬ 
 longed to the Royalists had before been offered to him, 
 as a compensation for the losses he had sustained 
 through the wars, but these he had steadily refused, 
 from honorable motives, when he asceitained that the 
 heirs were still alive, although in exile , noi could he 
 be induced to take possession of the ancient manor- 
 house of the Nevilles, until the most solemn assurance 
 
ELLEN NEVILLE. 165 
 
 was given him that not one of the family was then 
 left alive upon the face of the earth ; nor did he know 
 that such a person as Ellen Neville ever existed in the 
 world, for she had been educated in a remote part of 
 the country; neither was it long before the eve of her 
 brother’s death that she had, since her youthful days, 
 dwelt under the ancient roof of her forefathers. Thus, 
 when General Marchmont took possession of the 
 splendid old mansion, as a gift from those who then 
 ruled the nation, and a reward for his unimpeached 
 valor, he was led to believe that he had only accepted 
 a gift which would have fallen to the nation, or, at 
 best, slumbered for long years in the Court of Chan¬ 
 cery, until some unknown and undreamed-of claimant 
 had risen up, and groped his way toward it, through 
 the dark and uncertain avenues of the law. So he 
 entered those walls with no other feelings than those 
 of sorrow for the ancient possessors who were dead. 
 Care had been taken to remove all the old domestics, 
 and, with the exception of a parliamentary agent, who 
 had been sent down to take an inventory of the prop¬ 
 erty, no one beside knew that the young lady in deep 
 mourning was the Lady Neville, for she had never ac¬ 
 costed one of them before her departure, nor quitted 
 
166 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the apartments which had been allotted to her dur¬ 
 ing the confiscation, saving to ramble in the ancient 
 garden. 
 
 Ellen Neville was too well versed in the changes 
 which those stormy times produced, to be at all aston¬ 
 ished at what had happened, for she knew that she but 
 suffered as others had done who had fallen from their 
 high estate ; and although in heart a staunch Royalist, 
 she had heard so much said in praise of the young 
 general—of his valor, his losses, the sacrifices he had 
 several times made when he thought another would 
 be injured by the offers made to him by parliament,— 
 that such rumors at last almost seemed to reconcile 
 her to her lot. Two or three ancient footpaths crossed 
 the park, and led to distant villages in various direc¬ 
 tions ; and by the time that another spring had deep¬ 
 ened into summer, she had so far overcome her old 
 scruples, that, through the entreaties of Phoebe and 
 the persuasions of her old nurse, she now and then 
 ventured out to walk forth into the park j and on one or 
 two occasions had entered the spacious garden, which 
 was endeared to her by a thousand memories, that 
 recalled the happy days of her girlhood. The gardener 
 was a young man, who, during the civil wars, had 
 
ELLEN NEVILLE. 
 
 167 
 
 belonged to the regiment which the general com¬ 
 manded, but had now laid aside his sword and helmet 
 to tend the flowers and overlook the spacious gardens. 
 And never would he allow Phoebe to depart, when in 
 attendance on her beautiful young mistress they trav¬ 
 ersed together the ancient pleasance, without persuad¬ 
 ing her to accept a splendid bouquet, in the formation 
 of which he displayed considerable taste. Phoebe 
 gladly received the gift, for she soon perceived that 
 the flowers were treasured all the more by the Lady 
 Ellen, through having grown in the garden which 
 from childhood she had ever considered as her own ; 
 and thus, while the dowers lasted, they frequently 
 visited the grounds of the old manor-house. 
 
 It was one day, while Phoebe was gossiping as usual 
 with the young gardener, that the Lady Ellen had 
 wandered alone down one of the long, pleached ave¬ 
 nues, at the end of which stood the old familiar sum¬ 
 mer-house, where she had passed many a happy hour 
 when a girl, in the society of her mother ; and that, 
 while she sat there musing on old times, and old by¬ 
 gone scenes, all teeming with sweet and sorrowful rec¬ 
 ollections, she was startled by the appearance of a tall, 
 handsome-looking gentleman, who approached without 
 
168 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS 
 
 observing her, so deeply was he absorbed in the con¬ 
 tents of the open book which he held in his hand. 
 Nor was it until the slight rustling made by her heavy 
 silk dress arrested his attention, as she arose from her 
 seat, that he seemed aware of the beautiful vision 
 which thus burst so suddenly upon him. He became 
 mute and motionless in a moment, as the lady in the 
 enchanted chair he was then reading about in the 
 “ Mask of Comus,” which he only that very day re¬ 
 ceived, by a special messenger, from the hand of 
 Milton himself; nor was his embarrassment a jot re¬ 
 moved when she apologized, in tones sweet as those of 
 an angel, for having thus unconsciously intruded 
 upon his retirement. In the very pains he took to 
 assure her that her presence was a pleasure, and 
 would be so at all times, and all seasons, whenever 
 she chose to wander over the ancient plantations, the 
 beauty of which he only regretted were so seldom vis¬ 
 ited by any saving himself; there was such a tone of 
 sweet persuasion about his voice, such a kindness in 
 the manner in which he invited her to consider the 
 garden as her own, while ever she was in it, and, 
 above all, such an admiration of herself lighted up his 
 looks as he spoke, that no marvel a young lady like 
 
ELLEN NEVILLE. 169 
 
 herself, who for more than twelve months had scarcely- 
 seen any one saving the rustic inhabitants of the farm¬ 
 house, should listen with pleasure to the conversation 
 of one who was every way her equal, and whose name 
 had never been mentioned but with respect, even by 
 the Royalists, against whom he had drawn his sword. 
 With such ease did he glide from one subject to an¬ 
 other, that, to the great astonishment of Phoebe when 
 she came up, she found them seated side by side in 
 the old summer-house, he reading, and the Lady Ellen 
 listening with delight to the beautiful passages which 
 he kept quoting from the “ Mask of Comus.” Many a 
 happy hour did the general and the Lady Ellen after¬ 
 wards spend together; he remaining in entire igno¬ 
 rance respecting her rank and station, saving that her 
 whole family, with the exception of herself, had per¬ 
 ished during the wars; but as any further allusion 
 to the subject seemed to cause the lady pain, the young 
 general kindly forbore to question her. 
 
 As the winter approached, the affairs of the nation 
 called General Marchmont up to London, to meet the 
 assembled parliament, and during that period he fre¬ 
 quently corresponded with the Lady Ellen, for her 
 image was ever uppermost in his thoughts; and no 
 
170 POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 sooner did the early spring come, and he was released 
 from his duties, than he hastened back on the wings 
 of love to the ancient manor-house. The Lady Ellen 
 was walking in the pleached alleys of the garden 
 when he alighted from his steed, and bearing, as he 
 did, about him the marks of haste and travel, he hur¬ 
 ried to pay his respects to her before he entered the 
 hall. As he took her hand, he thought that she had 
 never before appeared so beautiful. After a long con¬ 
 versation, during which time flew by unheeded, he 
 looked at the few pale Snowdrops which she held be¬ 
 tween the whiteness of her fingers, and the small sprig 
 of a hardy biennial Stock, which had flowered before 
 its time, and said, with a smile, while his voice was 
 tremulous with the earnestness of his emotion, “Sweet 
 lady, you now hold the emblems of Hope and Beauty 
 in your hand and, gathering a bunch of blossoms 
 from the Peach, which already bloomed upon the old 
 garden-wall, he added, “You are, like myself, well 
 versed in the meanings which the old poets have at¬ 
 tributed to the flowers. Sweet lady mine, place this 
 before the Snowdrop, then read me the sentence, that 
 I may know whether or not you have forgotten the 
 Language of Flowers which we studied together last 
 
ELLEN NEVILLE. 
 
 171 
 
 summer.” She paused a moment, smiled, looked 
 down, and said, c£ Tliey mean, I am your Captive, and 
 Hope to possess such-” then she blushed, and re¬ 
 
 mained silent. He confessed his love, and was accepted. 
 
 When the general discovered the young lady’s rank, 
 he shrank back from his engagement; and, dearly as 
 he loved her, from motives of honor, refused her prof¬ 
 fered hand: nor was it until he clearly saw that their 
 union alone would again establish her securely in her 
 property, and prevent it from falling into the hands of 
 one of Cromwell’s favorites, that he could be persuaded 
 to become her husband. “ If you love her,” said Gene¬ 
 ral Ireton, “you will best prove it by making her your 
 wife; for there are already half-a-dozen hungry cor¬ 
 morants ever besieging his highness, and, much as he 
 admires you, if he once perceives your honor leaning 
 too much towards this fair Royalist, he will take up 
 his pen, and at one stroke sweep away the old manor- 
 house, and all its broad lands, from both her and you 
 for ever.” Ellen’s tears and Ireton’s persuasions were 
 too much for even General Marchmont’s honest scru¬ 
 ples ; and the same sun that shone upon the morning 
 of his wedding-day, saw the faithful Phoebe led to the 
 altar by the honest gardener. 
 
1 72 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 “ Once more I see thee bend 
 Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
 
 Like an unbidden guest.”—W ordsworth. 
 
 As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood, 
 
 And on her golden anchor leant, 
 
 Watching below the angry flood, 
 
 While Winter, ’mid the dreariment 
 Half-buried in the drifted snow, 
 
 Lay sleeping on the frozen ground, 
 
 Not heeding bow the’wind did blow, 
 
 Bitter and bleak on all around : 
 
 She gazed on Spring, who at her feet 
 Was looking on the snow and sleet. 
 
 Spring sighed, and through the driving gale 
 Her warm breath caught the falling snow, 
 And from the flakes a flower as pale 
 Did into spotless whiteness blow ; 
 
THE SNOWDROP. 173 
 
 Hope, smiling, saw the blossom fall, 
 
 And watched its root strike in the earth : 
 
 “I will that flower the Snowdrop call,” 
 
 Said Hope, “in memory of its birth: 
 
 And through all ages it shall be 
 In reverence held, for love of me.” 
 
 “ And ever from my hidden bowers,” 
 
 Said Spring, “ it first of all shall go, 
 
 And be the herald of the flowers, 
 
 To warn away the sheeted snow ; 
 
 Its mission done, then by thy side 
 All summer long it shall remain. 
 
 While other flowers I scatter wide, 
 
 O’er every hill, and wood, and plain, 
 
 This shall return, and ever be 
 A sweet companion, Hope, for thee.” 
 
 Hope stooped and kissed her sister Spring, 
 
 And said, “For hours, when thou art gone, 
 
 I’m left alone without a thing 
 That I can fix my heart upon; 
 
174 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ’Twill cheer me many a lonely hour, 
 
 And in the future I shall see 
 Those who would sink raised by that flower ; 
 
 They’ll look on it, then think of thee : 
 And many a sadful heart shall sing, 
 
 The Snowdrop brinsfeth Hope and Spring.” 
 
I 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. l~0 
 
 TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 YOUR YOUHFULNESS CAUSES ME TO FEAR THAT YOU 
 MAY CHANGE : ONCE UNITED, I SHALL BE NO 
 LONGER PENSIVE. 
 
 IHmblcms. 
 
 % 
 
 CROCUS— youthfulness. PIMPERNEL —change. LANCASTER 
 ROSE— UNITED. COWSLIP— PENSIVENESS. 
 
 “ ’Twas a happy thought to mark the hours 
 By the opening and the folding flowers; 
 
 Yet is not life in its real flight 
 Marked even thus on earth, 
 
 By the closing of one Hope’s delight, 
 
 Ere another Hope hath birth 7 ” 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Happy was that age when Love and Beauty kept 
 no other record of time than what they found in the 
 opening and closing of the flowers,—when the day 
 was measured by the rising and setting of the sun, 
 
17G POETICAL LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
 
 and the hours marked in the unfolding and shutting 
 of the blossoms. Morning and evening the village 
 maiden kept no other milking time, than by the wak¬ 
 ing and sleeping of the Daisy. The mower, as he 
 strode forth, with his scythe over his shoulder, to cut 
 down the summer flowers, hastened his step if he saw' 
 that the cup of the Convolvulus had expanded ; and 
 when his arm was weary, turned to the hedge, over 
 which it trailed in many a fantastic line, for the 
 close of his day’s labor was marked by the shutting 
 of the Bindweed. The rustic beauty, before she 
 went forth to Wake, or Feast, or donned her holi¬ 
 day attire, went out and peeped at the scarlet Pimper¬ 
 nel ; and if its starry petals were closed, she knew that 
 the showers would soon descend, and, sighing, laid 
 aside her Sunday garments, until she could see the 
 purple spot at the bottom of the expanded flower. 
 
 They knew that Winter was awakening from his 
 •long sleep, when the Snowdrop and the Crocus ap¬ 
 peared ; they dated the coming of Spring from the yel¬ 
 low dawning of Primroses upon the banks, and the 
 deep flush of Violets which lay like a purple cloud 
 upon the grass : and when the Roses and Honey¬ 
 suckles were in full bloom, they knew that Summer 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 177 
 
 had come in the beauty of her broad bloom of flowers ; 
 and when only a blossom was seen here and there 
 upon the Bramble, and the blue of the nodding Hare¬ 
 bell looked wan and pale, and the crimson flush of the 
 hardy Heath had faded from its cheek, they knew that 
 the solemn Autumn was at hand : for a thousand va¬ 
 ried hues proclaimed that the funeral pyre of Summer 
 was kindled, and all her flowers faded away to the 
 ashy gray, which only remains behind, when all her 
 beauty is extinguished. Then Childhood sallied forth, 
 with merry shout, and happy heart, and ran, until it 
 was compelled to stop through sheer weariness, to and 
 fro among the unnumbered flowers; shaking off, in its 
 eager flight, the loosened silver from the Daisy, and 
 the dusty gold from the deep yellow of the Buttercup. 
 Young lovers only numbered the many happy meet¬ 
 ings they had had together, by the days which the 
 milk-white Hawthorn remained in blossom, and the 
 many times they had heard the song of the cuckoo, 
 while seated beneath its fragrant shade. Old Age 
 dated the years it had lived by recalling how T many 
 times it had seen the Wild Rose blow r , and wandered 
 forth to gather the spotted blossoms of the golden Cow¬ 
 slip. They kept their record of marriages by the 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 flowers which then bloomed, and the solemn memory 
 of the dead by the fragrant blossoms which they 
 showered upon their graves. They recalled their joys 
 and sorrows by the seasons, and dated their success or 
 adversity by the coming in or going out of the flowers. 
 Not that the beating of Time’s gray wings sounded 
 the less solemnly upon their ears, or the flapping of his 
 hoary plumes passed the less unnoticed, because they 
 beat only upon a race who recorded his flight by the 
 sleeping and awakening of the flowers ; on the con¬ 
 trary, it prepared them for the great change which they 
 knew would some day, ere long, take place : and they 
 looked forward to their journey to another world with 
 a saddened pleasure, deepened the more by the re¬ 
 membrance of the beautiful flowers they were com¬ 
 pelled to leave behind, and half fearing that they 
 misrlit never love those so well, which would bloom for 
 ever, in that distant land of eternal light beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 They knew not the empty love, in which the heart 
 is no partaker, — the vows which they breathed were 
 intended to reach heaven, and to be registered there 
 amid all other holy things : for to them the Accusing 
 Spirit was not an empty name—they believed that its 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 179 
 
 all-seeing eye kept a severe watch over the plighted 
 troth of Love, and that the Recording Angel never 
 blotted out a single letter which stood beside his name, 
 who had broken the heart of a fond and confiding, 
 woman. Wealth had not then ploughed down and 
 dug out that deep abyss, every foot of which separates 
 us further from heaven; man wandered not in those 
 days in the dark, amid stumbling-blocks and wedges 
 of unfeeling gold, in that cold, cheerless atmosphere, 
 where Love would never be able to breathe, and Affec¬ 
 tion could never open the smallest of its beautiful 
 buds. For in that heart which pines only for riches, 
 Love can, at best, but find only a brief dwelling- 
 place—no blossom can ever come into full bloom 
 amid such darkness: Mammon alone dwells there : 
 he is the sole god of those cheerless dominions : and 
 ever doth he sit alone, with his aching head pil¬ 
 lowed upon a wedge of gold,—the cold, faint light of 
 the unfeeling riches that surround him makes him 
 shiver—he can find no warmth in his bright, icy dia- i 
 monds—he freezes in his mail of silver—and when it 
 is too late, learns that the warm and beating heart of 
 a loving-woman is the richest gem that the angels 
 ever dropped into the world ; that without her, Happi- 
 
180 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ness cannot exist: that there is no true Love where 
 she is not: that real Friendship lives nowhere long, 
 unless nursed within her gentle breast: that when 
 tender Pity returned to heaven, she threw her mantle 
 over the white shoulders of woman, and bade her ever 
 wear it for her sake : that Sorrow and Sincerity press¬ 
 ed her lips ere they soared away together, hand in 
 hand ; they left her not hidden by a curtain of gold, 
 but kneeling with her long hair unbound, and her 
 white, supplicating hands uplifted, praying for some 
 one to come and comfort her; that an angel, with 
 averted head, led forth man, then turned away, weep¬ 
 ing and silent: and all night, as he stood alone, sor- 
 rowinsr, beside the battlements of heaven, his immor- 
 tal heart smote him for what he had done. 
 
 It was one day, as Time sat musing in the midst of 
 his ruins, while his scythe lay idly by his side, and he 
 took no notice of the glass, as through it ebbed slowly 
 the ever-moving sand, that his thoughts turned to the 
 cities he had laid low, and the countries over which 
 he had marched, through many and many a century ; 
 and he marvelled within himself that the scenes which 
 he had ages ago made desolate, should, in spite of his 
 inroads, have again recovered their beauty, and in 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 place of the solitude and dreariment which he had left 
 behind, be fragrant with the breath of a thousand 
 flowers and alive with the hum and murmuring of 
 bees. “ I will destroy the flowers,” said Time; “they 
 rob all my ruins of their solemnity, and no one can 
 think of desolation wherever they are seen to wave: 
 before me they spring up, and behind me they arise, 
 in the very footsteps where I have left the marks of 
 death, decay, and desolation : they bloom in the silent 
 aisles of the very abbeys which I have unroofed; and 
 where I have swept away every trace of the massy and 
 ornamented roofs of the dead, there they come and 
 wave.” And as he sat upon the base of the ruined 
 column, he began to sharpen his scythe ; but just as 
 he was about to commence the work of destruction, one 
 of the wandering Spirits of the Flowers rose up before 
 him, and placed her hand upon his arm. “Wilt thou 
 spoil the beauty of thine own workmanship ?” said the 
 fair Spirit of the Blossoms: “what greater victory 
 wouldst thou wish to win over the power of man, than 
 that which thou hast already obtained ? Thou pass- 
 est over his mighty works, and they ciumble at thy 
 touch into the dust: thou hast but to sit down and 
 look upon the masses of masonry which he has piled 
 
1S2 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 together, and, beneath thy silent gaze, they moulder 
 slowly away. It is over thy workmanship that we 
 scatter the flowers, to show that thou hast ended what 
 he but began ; we but pile up a monument on those 
 silent shores, where the pride of man is wrecked. 
 Would thy work be less complete if all was blank and 
 desolate? would weary leagues of brown and barren 
 land show the traces of thy^ power ? or would they not 
 look like spots over which thy wings had never 
 waved ? It is the peace and beauty which again 
 reigns over the places thy hand hath made desolate, 
 that hallow the solitude, and point out that, although 
 Nature cannot restore what thou hast overthrown, she 
 can still beautify what remains behind.” 
 
 Time mused a moment, then took up his scythe 
 
 * 
 
 and hurried away, leaving the beautiful Spirit to do as 
 she pleased with the flowers. 
 
 And ever since that period they have grown about 
 the gray ruins which Time hath left behind, and 
 waved upon the roofless walls which have decayed be¬ 
 neath his mouldering touch, and would, long ago, 
 have crumbled into dust, but for the flowers, which 
 held the weather-beaten battlements together. Over 
 many a mound, beneath which the foundations of for- 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 183 
 
 gotten abbeys lie buried, does the crimson-spotted and 
 pensive Cowslip still wave, and the early Crocus unfold 
 its golden sheath to catch the cheering sunshine of 
 Spring. To Time was given power over the works of 
 man, but over those of Nature he holds no sway ; 
 from the very flowers that perish others as beautiful 
 spring up, and the oak sheds the acorns from which 
 arise other trees. Temples and palaces he overturns, 
 and they arise no more; nor can we ever know' the 
 forgotten graves which he has obliterated, and tram¬ 
 pled into the dust. In the undated summers of thepast, 
 Youth and Beauty wandered over the same flowery 
 meadows which w 7 e delight in rambling through now ; 
 sunshine and shadow 7 swept over the long grass; and 
 fknvers, like those v r e still look upon, bov'ed idly in 
 the breeze before their eyes, as they yet do before our 
 own. Could they traverse the same spots again in 
 the coming summer, saving the altered hedgerow, and 
 the rustic stile, they would behold no change : the 
 the Crocus, and the Cowslip, the Bluebell, Buttercup, 
 and Daisy, would still stand dreaming among the 
 green grass, as they did a thousand years ago ; the 
 hoary Hawthorn would throw out as sweet a fra¬ 
 grance, and the hidden Violet betray the bed where its 
 
IS4 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 blue sisters slept, by the delicacy of its unaltered per¬ 
 fume : for Time would not have left a trace of his 
 footmarks upon the flowers. The same sunshine 
 which lighted up the silver of the Daisy, and deepened 
 the pale gold of the Primrose, when Chaucer went 
 forth to do “ observance to the May,” sleeps upon them 
 in the sweet spring of our own time ; and although he 
 would find no traces of the castles in which he was 
 ever a welcome guest, his favorite flowers would be 
 there to greet him with a silent welcome, as they did 
 in the days of old, when he went forth to listen to the 
 song of the nightingale. And those Roses which, 
 between the wars of the rival houses of York and Lan¬ 
 caster, caused blood enough to be shed to make the 
 white for ever red, would be found blowing as peace¬ 
 fully in a few old gardens as if the blast of war had 
 never been heard in the world; bearing about them 
 no traces of the strife and the struggle which the grave 
 has for ever hushed, nor a mark of the finger of Time 
 upon the unsullied bloom of their buds. Nor could 
 the eye that then beheld them tell that a flower had 
 changed: for, as they looked on tile morning of battle, 
 and on the evening of the same day, when the sun 
 sunk over a field crimson with blood, so do they look 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 185 
 
 now; nor can the keen eye of Time, who discerneth 
 the decay of all things, see any change in the flowers. 
 
 The fond, warm heart of lovely woman ceaseth to 
 beat—the liquid ruby no longer danceth through the 
 streaked violets of her blue veins—the opening roses 
 of her sweet and parted lips are closed for ever—the 
 silver melody of her harp-toned voice is heard no more 
 —the heaven of her eyes, the loveliest mirror in which 
 the face of man was ever imaged, is darkened—and 
 she, the most beautiful flower that was ever formed by 
 the hand of Heaven, sleeps unconsciously below; 
 while the flowers bloom and fade a thousand times 
 above her grave, yet their beauty cheereth not, neither 
 doth their perfume gladden, the angel of earth that 
 slumbereth beneath. Over the blossoms above Time 
 hath no power: but the sweet bud which lieth buried 
 deep down, belongeth for a season unto him and Death, 
 and to us can never again be restored. And what 
 careth Time for other flowers ? he carrieth away those 
 which are twined around our hearts,—he teareth the 
 bleeding tendrils asunder: the vast cities and huge 
 temples are not his only prey, for from the beginning 
 he became a partner with Death, and they have ever 
 since divided all but the flowers between them. 
 
186 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 But let us not mourn: for from that hour when the 
 spirit of Abel went wailing over the bowers of Eden, 
 in the dim twilight of the early world, were the im¬ 
 mortal gates of heaven thrown open ; and Time and 
 Death looked aghast upon each other, as they heard 
 those golden doors swing wide, and caught a glimpse 
 of the first mortal that passed through the cold gates 
 of Death to that bright abode of eternal sunshine, and 
 those boundless gardens filled with never-dying flow¬ 
 ers. From that moment they knew that their power 
 extended not beyond the grave; that but for a brief 
 space the beauty of mortality should close, like a flow¬ 
 er that folds itself up and sleeps, while all the land 
 around is dark, then opens again beneath a new morn¬ 
 ing, which had never before dawned upon ,the world ; 
 whose golden beams would throw around it an im¬ 
 mortal halo, and give neither Time nor Death again 
 power over the drooping bud which those sunrays had 
 touched. It was then that Love alighted upon the 
 earth, and proclaimed to all that the hearts which re¬ 
 mained true and faithful to each other, should be uni¬ 
 ted again after Death had severed them ; that true 
 love was immortal, and never could die; that on this 
 cold, changeable earth, Happiness never arrived to its 
 
TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 187 
 
 pure perfection ; for here Love was ever in its infancy, 
 chilled by the fear of Death, and nipped by the biting 
 winds of many sorrows ; and that those who treasured 
 a true, unchanged, and devoted heart through all 
 these trials, should hereafter enjoy an unbroken eter¬ 
 nity of Love. And Love pointed to the flowers, which 
 the rains of Autumn beat down, and the bleak winds 
 of Winter blew upon, showing how, from all these 
 trials, they sprung up into a new life, — fairer than be¬ 
 fore they faded, sweeter than when they perished ; and 
 that such should be the reward hereafter, foi those, 
 who endured without repining, who waited and served 
 in patience, whom neither prosperity nor adversity 
 could change, but went on for ever loving unto the 
 end, whose love was “love for evermore.” That for 
 all such were immortal garlands woven in the gardens 
 above, — over which neither Death nor Time had 
 powerfor they bore with them a divinity that ne\ ei 
 could be affected by Time, nor perish, even for a brief 
 space, like the flowers. 
 
188 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY. 
 
 It was a valley filled with sweetest sounds, 
 
 A languid music haunted every where, 
 
 Like those with which a summer-eve abounds, 
 
 From rustling corn and song-birds calling clear, 
 Down sloping uplands, which some wood surrounds, 
 With tinkling rills just heard, but not too near, 
 
 And low of cattle on the distant plain, 
 
 And peal of far-off bells, now caught, then lost again. 
 
 It seem’d like Eden’s angel-peopled vale, 
 
 So bright the sky, so soft the streams did flow ; 
 
 Such tones came riding on the musk-wing’d gale, 
 
 The very air seem’d sleepily to blow ; 
 
 And choicest flowers enamell’d every dale, 
 
 Flushed with the richest sunlight’s rosy glow: 
 
 It was a valley drowsy with delight, 
 
 Such fragrance floated round, such beauty dimmed the 
 sight. 
 
 o 
 
 i. 
 
THE HAPPY VALLEY. 
 
 189 
 
 The golclen-belted bees hummed in the air, 
 
 The tall, silk grasses bent and waved along; 
 
 The trees slept in the sleeping sunbeam’s glare, 
 
 The dreamy river chimed its undersong, 
 
 And took its own free course without a care: 
 
 Amid the boughs did lute-tongued songsters throng, 
 And the green valley throbbed beneath their lays, 
 While echo echo chased, through many a leafy maze. 
 
 Sweet shapes were there, the Spirits of the Flowers, 
 Sent down to see the summer-beauties dress, 
 
 And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers ; 
 
 Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess, 
 And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers: 
 
 The very flowers seemed eager to caress 
 Such living sisters; and the boughs, long-leaved, 
 Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms 
 heaved. 
 
 One through her long loose hair was backward peeping, 
 Or throwing, with raised arm, the locks aside; 
 Another high a pile of flowers was heaping, 
 
 Or looking Love askance, and, when descried, 
 
190 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 
 Her coy glance on the bedded greensward keeping ; 
 
 She pulled the flowers to pieces as she sighed, 
 
 Then blushed like timid daybreak, when the dawn 
 Looks crimson on the night, and then again’s with¬ 
 drawn. 
 
 One, with her warm and milk-white arms outspread, 
 On tip-toe tripped along a sunlit glade; 
 
 Half turned the matchless sculpture of her head, 
 
 And half shook down her silken circling braid ; 
 
 She seemed to float on air, so light she sped; 
 
 Her back-blown scarf an arched rainbow made, 
 
 She skimmed the wavy flowers, as she passed by, 
 
 With fair and printless feet, like clouds along the sky. 
 
 One sat alone within a shady nook, 
 
 With wildwood songs the lazy hours beguiling; 
 Or looking at her shadow in the brook, 
 
 Trying to frown, then at the effort smiling — 
 
 Her laughing eyes mocked every serious look ; 
 
 ’T was as if Love stood at himself reviling : 
 
 She threw in flowers, and watched them float away, 
 Then at her beauty looked, then sang a sweeter lay. 
 
THE HAPPY VALLEY. 
 
 191 
 
 Others on beds of roses lay reclined. 
 
 The regal flowers athwart their full lips thrown. 
 And in one fragrance both their sweets combined, 
 
 As if they on the self-same stem had grown; 
 
 So close was rose and lip together twined, 
 
 A double flower that from one bud had blown, 
 
 Till none could tell, so sweetly were they blended, 
 Where swelled the curving lip, or where the rose 
 bloom ended. 
 
 One, half asleep, crushing the twined flowers, 
 
 Upon a velvet slope like Dian lay ; 
 
 Still as a lark that mid the daisies cowers ; 
 
 Her looped-up tunic, tossed in disarray, 
 
 Showed rounded limbs too fair for earthly boweis 
 They looked like roses on a cloudy day, 
 
 The warm white dulled amid the colder green; 
 
 The flowers too rough a couch that lovely shape 
 screen. 
 
 Some lay like Thetis’ nymphs along the shore, 
 
 With ocean-pearl combing their golden locks, 
 
 And singing to the waves for evermore ; 
 
 Sinking like flowers at eve beside the locks, 
 
1-92 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 If but a sound, above the muffled roar 
 
 Of the low waves, was heard. In little flocks 
 Others went trooping through the wooded alleys, 
 
 Their kilties glancing white, like streams in sunny 
 valleys. 
 
 They were such forms as, imaged in the night, 
 
 Sail in our dreams across the heaven’s steep blue ; 
 When the closed lid sees visions streaming bright, 
 
 Too beautiful to meet the naked view, 
 
 Like faces formed in clouds of silver light: 
 
 Women they were ! such as the angels knew— 
 
 Such as the Mammoth looked on, ere he fled, 
 
 Scared by the lovers’ wings, that streamed in sunset red. 
 
INDEX 
 
 OF THE 
 
 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ABSENCE— Wormwood. Its derivation signifies, without 
 sweetness ; and so far may Absence be put down as 
 the bitterness of Love. 
 
 ACCOMMODATING DISPOSITION —Red Valerian. 
 Will grow on old walls, ruins, or almost anywhere ; 
 hence its floral signification. 
 
 AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE — Rosemary. 
 “ That’s for Remembrance: I pray you, love, remem¬ 
 ber says the sweet Ophelia. And who would wish 
 to change the emblem of a flower which Shakspeare 
 has made immortal ? 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT —Michaelmas Daisy. Which blows 
 when the flowers of summer have faded : coming un¬ 
 aware, like a pleasant thought. 
 
 AMIABILITY — White Jasmine. Its sweetness, and 
 beauty, and star-like flowers, bear about them a re¬ 
 semblance to an amiable lady. Gilbert White saw 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 INDEX OF THE 
 
 this in the drooping form of the silver-stemmed Birch, 
 when he called it the “ Lady of the Wood.” He would 
 have added ££ Amiable,” had it been starred with beau¬ 
 tiful flowers like the Jasmine. 
 
 ANGER— Gorze, Furze , or Whin. A pretty, though 
 formidable plant, armed up to the very gold of the 
 flowers, and piercing those who approach not its beauty 
 carefully. 
 
 ARTS— Acanthus. Worthily placed in honor of Callim¬ 
 achus, who is said to have formed from its beauty 
 the capital of the Corinthian column, as he saw it 
 growing over the grave of a young maiden. 
 
 ASSIGNATION— Pimpernel. Its regularity in opening 
 and shutting is well selected as denoting an appoint¬ 
 ment between lovers, who are supposed to trust more 
 to the bright sunshine and sweet flowers, and the feel¬ 
 ings of their own hearts, than the measured minutes 
 of Time. It also denotes change in the weather, as 
 the flowers always close before rain. By country peo¬ 
 ple it is called the Shepherd’s Weather-glass. 
 
 BASHFULNESS —The Maiden's-Blush Rose. One of 
 the most beautiful and delicate of all the queenly class 
 
 of roses. 
 
 BEAUTY —The Rose. Its very name is beautiful: and 
 more than two thousand years ago it was worshiped 
 by the poets, and called the Queen of Flowers. 
 
 BELIEF —Passion Flower. Has become strangely woven 
 with our faith, from a fancied resemblance to a cross 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 195 
 
 and a crown, although it requires a great effort of the 
 imagination to call up either the one or the other. 
 Still its very name, in some measure, renders it sacred 
 to Faith and Belief. 
 
 CANDOR —While Violet. See Legend of the “Flower- 
 Spirits,” pages 126, 127. 
 
 CHASTITY —Orange Blossom. These flowers are com¬ 
 monly worn now by the young bride ; though we know 
 not why the Orange Blossom was selected as the em¬ 
 blem of Chastity, The custom of wearing it at wed¬ 
 dings, we believe, first originated in France. 
 
 CONFESSION— Moss-rosebud. A beautiful and poetical 
 representation of the first confession of love, and so 
 alluded to by our old poets; Rosebuds having for ages 
 been emblems of youthful love. 
 
 CONSOLATION— Poppy. Denotes sleep, rest, repose; 
 all of which are well represented in its drowsy proper¬ 
 ties and influence. 
 
 CONSTANCY— Canterbury-bell. Which we have already 
 described. See “ Old Saxon Flowers,” page 69. 
 
 COQUETRY —Yellow Day-Lily. Calied by the French 
 “ the Beauty of a Day ;” who reigning, as she generally 
 does, over so many admirers, coquettes with all with¬ 
 out loving one. 
 
 CRUELTY —Stinging Nettle. Wounds the hand that 
 presses it ever so gently. However dull the compre¬ 
 hension of a lover might be, he could not well fail to 
 understand the meaning of this plant. 
 
196 
 
 INDEX OF THE 
 
 DECEITFUL CHARMS —Thorn Apple. A gorgeous 
 shrub, scarcely equalled in beauty, although its per¬ 
 fume is considered unhealthy; hence its meaning in 
 floral language. 
 
 DECLARATION OF LOVE— Tulip. So received ; 
 
 though far inferior to the Rosebud as an emblem of 
 the tender passion. 
 
 DELICACY— Bluebottle. A beautiful flower that grows 
 in the corn-fields, and is second to none in the delicacy 
 of its coloring. 
 
 DESERTION— Love-lies-Bleeding. Like the Forget-me- 
 Not, conveys a meaning in its very name. 
 
 DESIRE— Jonquil , or Poefs Narcissus. See Legend of 
 the t; Queen of May,” page 140. 
 
 DEVOTED AFFECTION —Honeysuckle or Woodbine. 
 A beautiful adaptation of a sweet wild flower to a 
 poetical sentence, and called by the French the “ Links 
 of Love,” from its clinging to the object it adorns. 
 See Legend of the “ Flower-Spirits,” page 124. 
 
 DEVOTED ATTACHMENT— Heliotrope. See “ Flow¬ 
 ers of Thought,” page 100. 
 
 DIFFICULTY— Blackthorn. Which is so armed with 
 
 sharp and piercing thorns, that it is diflicult to gather 
 the blossoms without tearing the hand. 
 
 DISAPPOINTED LOVE— Willow. Shakspeare made 
 Othello’s maid, poor Barbara, go about the house hang¬ 
 ing her head aside, and singing, “ Oh, willow, willow!” 
 for he she loved proved false. 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 197 
 
 DISSENSION —The Stalk from which the Flower is broken 
 off. This is a better emblem than a broken straw, and 
 more expressive. 
 
 DOUBT —Blossom of the Apricot. Which requires gentle 
 rains, and warm, bright, sunshiny weather, to bring the 
 fruit to perfection. 
 
 ELEGANCE— Acacia. There is something about the 
 
 form of these beautiful flowers, as they droop and wave 
 in the breeze, that conveys an idea of elegance and 
 neatness, without being gaudy. They conjure up the 
 image of a lady chastely and not garishly attired. The 
 Yellow Acacia is also the emblem of Friendship. 
 
 ENCHANTMENT— Vervain. Supposed to have been 
 
 used by the wizards of old in their spells, omens, &c. ; 
 but that power is now transferred to the bewitching 
 face of woman. 
 
 ENVY— Bramble. Tears and rends everything it can 
 
 cling to, and is the dread of fair ladies who venture to 
 ruralize in old forests thick with underwood. The 
 Briar and Thorn are old emblems of Pain, Envy, and 
 Suffering, and are frequently alluded to by our poets. 
 
 ESTEEM— Sage. So called, no doubt, in floral language, 
 because the sages and philosophers of old were held in 
 high esteem for their gravity and-wisdom. 
 
 EVERLASTING PLEASURE —Sweet Pea. See*Legend 
 of “ Cupid and Psyche,” page 148. 
 
19S 
 
 IXDEX OF THE 
 
 FALSEHOOD —Deadly Nightshade. The fruit of which 
 produces poison and death, and cannot be pointed out 
 too soon to the innocent and unwary, that they may be 
 prevented from gathering it. 
 
 FIDELITY IX MISFORTUNE— Wallflower. A beau¬ 
 tiful emblem. See Legend of the “ Flower-Spirits, 
 page 124. 
 
 FIRST EMOTIONS OF LOVE— Lilac. Its fragrance, 
 and the fresh and healthy look of its blossoms, which 
 are among the first to unfold in the spring, are well 
 chosen as the representatives of early love. 
 
 FORESIGHT— Dandelion. The schoolboy’s clock and 
 
 oracle in every village : for who, when young, has not 
 blown its tufted down away, and at every breath sent 
 a wish after the feathered seeds of the Dandelion ? 
 
 FORGET ME NOT— Forget-me-Not. Nothing can be 
 more expressive than its name. See page 47, and 
 Poem, page 55. 
 
 FORSAKEN —Pi • imrose. We have selected the Primrose 
 in honor of Milton, who says, “ And the rathe Prim¬ 
 rose that forsaken dies and for the sake of the Bard 
 of Paradise such a meaning ought it ever to bear, in¬ 
 stead of the Anemone. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP— Ivy. Denotes something true and last¬ 
 ing, and not to be changed by the beating of the wintry 
 wieds. It is a much better emblem of Friendship than 
 the Acacia, which some have chosen. 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 GLORY —Laurel. Was used by the ancients to crown 
 those heroes who returned from the wars victorious. 
 Chaucer, our oldest English poet, says— 
 
 “ He rode home crown’d with laurel, like a conqueror.” 
 
 GRATITUDE— Agrimony. A sweet, lowly plant, adorned 
 with small, beautiful, golden-colored flowers, that up- 
 cone like a pile of stars. It is greatly valued by the 
 herb-gatherers in the country, and considered by many 
 to make much better tea than half the rubbish which 
 is sold under that name. 
 
 GRIEF or PAIN— Marigold. Often alluded to by our 
 ancient poets, as bowing its head and mourning for the 
 absence of the sun. 
 
 HAPPY RETIREMENT —Wild Harebell. See “ Daisy 
 of the Dale,” page 115. 
 
 HOPE —Hawthorn. See Legend of the “ Queen of May,” 
 page 131, and Poem of “How May was first made,” 
 
 page 144. 
 
 HOSPITALITY— Oak. In former days the ancients 
 were wont to entertain their guests beneath a tree. 
 Under the Oak of Mamre, Abraham welcomed the 
 
 angels. 
 
 HUMILITY— Broom. See Legend of “ Old Saxon Flow¬ 
 ers,” page 69. 
 
 ILL-NATURE— Crab-blossom. “As sour as a crab,” is 
 an old English saying,—hence its signification. 
 
200 
 
 INDEX OF THE 
 
 IMMORTALITY Amaranth. One of the flowers which 
 was fabled to grow in the gardens of the gods. Milton 
 mentions it among those which blow in heaven, and 
 makes the angels in their adoration cast down 
 
 “ Their crowns, inwove with amaranth and gold : 
 
 Immortal amaranth,—a flower which once, 
 
 In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
 
 Began to bloom,—but soon, for man’s offence, 
 
 To heaven removed.” 
 
 IMPATIENCE— Balsam. Which when touched is said 
 to throw the seeds out of the capsules with great force ; 
 and from this quality it is selected to express irritation 
 or ingratitude. 
 
 INDEPENDENCE— Wild-plum Blossom.. One of the 
 oldest and hardiest of our English forest fruits, which 
 grows wild in hundreds of hedges, and cannot be 
 trained in gardens or orchards. It seems to love best 
 those rugged and solitary nooks which have never been 
 cultivated by the hand of man since the creation, and 
 is well chosen as an emblem of Independence. 
 
 INDIFFERENCE— Candy-tuft. So it stands in all floral 
 alphabets, because its blossoms are scentless. 
 
 ING-RATITUDE— Buttercup. So called in the Language 
 of Flowers, because it is supposed to injure the cattle 
 that feed upon it; and no honey can be gathered from 
 the gaudy gold of its flowers. 
 
 INNOCENCE— Daisy. See “Daisy of the Dale,” page 
 115, and Poem, 119. 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 INSINUATION — Bindweed , or Larger Convolvulus. 
 Wliick forces its way through every open space it can 
 find between the branches, until you can scarcely dis¬ 
 cover another leaf beside its own, so closely are its 
 long, trailing stems twisted along the boughs it has 
 insinuated itself among. 
 
 LASTING- BEAUTY— Stock, or Gillyflower , for the latter 
 is the old name of this truly English flower, which our 
 ancestors also called July flower. It flourished in the 
 gardens of the old baronial castles hundreds of years 
 ago, and time and cultivation have rather added to, 
 •than diminished its Deauty : and it is, therefore, well 
 deserving of the appellation of Lasting Beauty. 
 
 LOVE— Myrtle. See Legend of the “ Forget-me-Not,” 
 
 page 53. 
 
 LOVE’S CAPTIVE— Peach-blossom. Every one who has 
 beheld the rich bloom of the Peach must have been 
 captivated by its beauty, whether seen on the velvet 
 cheek of the fruit, or the delicate hue of its blossoms. 
 
 MATERNAL LOVE— Moss. The soft, green, velvet 
 
 covering of many a spot which would otherwise be 
 brown and barren j it grows around and slielteis the 
 stem of many a delicate flower, which would otherwise 
 perish, and gives warmth to many a chilly nook ; and 
 so may fancy stretch, link by link, until it traces in it 
 a resemblance to Maternal Love. 
 
INDEX OP THE 
 
 MESSAGE— Iris. So called from the messenger of Juno, 
 one of the Oceanides 5 also after the rainbow. There 
 are about fifty varieties of the Iris. 
 
 MODESTY —Blue Violet. See “Violet of the Valley,” 
 page 37, and “ Flowers of Love,” page 39 . 
 
 MUSIC— Reeds. Pan, the god of Shepherds, is said to 
 have first formed the Arcadian pipes from Reeds, which 
 he called Syrinx, in honor of a beautiful nymph who 
 was changed into a Reed. 
 
 NEGLECTED BEAUTY— Meadow-sweet. My prede¬ 
 
 cessors have been pleased to make this beautiful and 
 fragrant flower, which is called the Queen of the Mea¬ 
 dow, and whose perfume is sweet as that of the Haw¬ 
 thorn, the emblem of Uselessness. In contradistinc¬ 
 tion to the meaning they have assigned to it, I have 
 dared to christen it the “Neglected Beauty;” for a 
 sweeter flower blows not in all the green meadows of 
 pastoral England, and ’Neglected Beauty it shall ever 
 represent to me, for it has been too long overlooked. 
 Miss Twamley, in her u Wild Flowers,” says—and 
 honor to her for saying it,—“ Its tall, red-tinted stems, 
 handsome, jagged leaves, and foam-like flowers, so rich 
 in scent, and so very beautiful, well deserve the title 
 so often bestowed upon it of “ Queen of the Mea¬ 
 dows.” The French and Italian names have both the 
 same meaning—‘ Meadow-Queen.’ It fills the summer 
 air with a scent like new-mown hay and hawthorn.” 
 Fair readers ! shall this sweet flower, so admirably ad- 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 vocated by a lady, any longer stand disgraced as the 
 emblem of Uselessness, or will you not rather step 
 forward and defend it as a Neglected Beauty, until 
 some happier emblem is chosen 1 Just fancy one of 
 your own sweet selves, for want of an advocate, so 
 thrown back and insulted ! 
 
 NEGLECTED LOVE— Laurustinus. See Legend of the 
 “ Eorget-me-Not,” page 54. 
 
 PATIENCE— Dock. The haunter of every Avayside, where 
 it flourishes in spite of dust and every footstep that 
 tramples it down. 
 
 PEACE— Olive-branch. One of the oldest emblems on 
 
 record. 
 
 PENSIVENESS— Cow dip. Called by our old poets the 
 Sweet Nun of the Fields, and immortalized in Shak- 
 speare’s “ Midsummer Night’s Dream.” 
 
 PERFECTION— Wild Strawberry. The beautiful flowers 
 of which may often be seen trailing about the banks of 
 our woodsides and hedgerows. 
 
 PITY_ Andromeda. A beautiful flower, found by Linnaeus 
 
 growing on a rock, and reminding him of the lovely 
 nymph, whom Perseus rescued from the sea-monster. 
 It is an appropriate emblem of Pity. 
 
 POETRY— Eglantine , or Sweet Briar. I will not pause 
 to inquire why, for Poetry is a thorny sweetness, and 
 those who touch it must not mind a prick or two. 
 Even if the world admire not its flowers, there is a 
 
204 
 
 INDEX OP THE 
 
 sweetness about its very leaves j and to be nestled near 
 them in a green nook is to enjoy a pleasure which 
 needs no praise to enhance it. As Touchstone says of 
 Audrey, in “As you Like It,”—“ Though a poor 
 thing, it is mine own and the Sweet Briar, Rose, or 
 Eglantine, has ever been a favorite flower with the 
 English poets. So we accept the emblem for want of 
 a better. 
 
 POWER —Crown Imperial. So called by Shakspeare in 
 the “ Winter’s Tale.” It is also, as its name suggests, 
 the emblem of majesty. 
 
 PREFERENCE— Apple-blossom. See Legend of “IIow 
 
 the Rose became Red,” page 88. 
 
 PURE LOVE— Pink. See “ Violet of the Valley,” 
 
 page 44. 
 
 PURITY OF HEART —White Water-Lily. See “Old 
 Saxon Flowers,” page 68 
 
 RECON CILIATION— Ilazel. The best waj^ for young 
 lovers to make up a quarrel is to walk into a beautiful 
 wood, and seat themselves upon the flowers under the 
 transparent leaves of the Ilazel, for there they will 
 soon become reconciled. 
 
 REFUSAL— Snapdragon. So called from the closing lips 
 of the flower, which will not open until rudely pressed. 
 
 RE ORE I— Asphodel. A flower that in ancient times was 
 planted around the graves of the dead, and which was 
 supposed to grow in the gardens of Elysium. Its real 
 signification is regret and sorrow for the dead. 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 205 
 
 REPOSE— Convolvulus. See Legend of the “ Queen of 
 May,” page 141. 
 
 RETURN OF HAPPINESS —Lily of the Valley. See 
 Legend of “ How the Rose became Red,” page 86. 
 
 RICHES— Corn. The most useful representation of 
 wealth. 
 
 RUDENESS— Bur. It is a favorite amusement among 
 country girls to pelt their rustic swains with the bur¬ 
 dock, and that coat must be very threadbare to which 
 they will not adhere. It is a rude and rustic way of 
 making love. 
 
 SADNESS— Withered Leaves. An apt emblem in love as 
 well as in nature, telling us that the beauty and bright¬ 
 ness of summer is departed. 
 
 SEPARATION —A Sprig of the Rose-tree from which the 
 bud is plucked. 
 
 SILENCE— White Rose. See Legend of the “ Daisy of 
 the Dale,” page 97. 
 
 SIMPLICITY —White Rosebud. A chaste and beautiful 
 emblem of simple innocence. 
 
 SINCERITY— Fern. See Legend of the i£ Daisy of the 
 Dale,” page 117. 
 
 SNARE or DECEIT— Catchfly. This white flower may 
 be found in almost every sandy field in June ; and 
 many a poor fly that is attracted to it by its odor, finds 
 death amid its entangling leaves. 
 
 SOLITUDE— Heath. See “ Flowers of Thought,” page 98. 
 
206 
 
 INDEX OF THE 
 
 SORROW—Y ew. One of the oldest monuments that our 
 ancestors erected above the dead. 
 
 SYMPATHY— Thrift. A good old English name, which 
 means more than can be expressed in half-a-dozen 
 words, and ought never to be forgotten by young lovers; 
 for thriftiness brings comfort, independence, and every¬ 
 thing which, with love, makes life happy; and should 
 misfortune come, it meets with more sympathy than 
 idleness and extravagance. 
 
 TASTE— Fuchsia. See Legend of the “ Daisy of the 
 Dale,” page 117. 
 
 THOUGHT — Pansy. See Legend of “Flowers of 
 Thought,” page 93. 
 
 TIME— White Poplar. The ancients traced in it a resem¬ 
 blance to Time, because its leaves are dark on one side 
 
 / 
 
 and bright on the other ; and for this they selected it 
 as the emblem of day and night. 
 
 TIMIDITY— Sensitive Plant. A flower so delicate that it 
 shrinks from the touch, and shuns even the strong 
 light of day, only expanding in its full beauty toward 
 the cool of the evening. There are two or three va¬ 
 rieties of this flower; one of which bears full, round, 
 pink blossoms, another white, and a third yellow. 
 Shelley has immortalized the sensitive plant in one of 
 his most beautiful poems. 
 
 TIES OF LOVE— Tendrils of Climbing Plants. Called by 
 the French, in floral language, “ The Chains of Love.” 
 
 TRUTH— The Wild Hyacinth or Bluebell of Spring. The 
 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 207 
 
 universal favorite of both old and young, that lights 
 up the dark recesses of the forest, and looks as if a 
 blue cloud had fallen from the face of heaven, and was 
 sleeping there. It is the earliest spring flower, that 
 bears old England’s favorite color of “ true blue.” 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS BEAUTY — Mignionette. A flower 
 
 whose sweetness all have inhaled. It is linked to a 
 long sentence in the Language of Flowers, and made 
 to express, “ Your qualities surpass your charms.” 
 But I have preferred making this little darling the 
 emblem of Unconscious Beauty, as equally expiessive 
 in the sense, and more emblematical of so sweet and 
 lowly a flower. 
 
 UNITED— -Lancaster Rose. Associated with history, and 
 the union that took place between the rival houses of 
 York and Lancaster, after the peace of England had 
 so long been broken by their wars. 
 
 YOUR LOOKS FREEZE ME —Ice-Plant. A most 
 expressive emblem. 
 
 YOUTHFUL HOPE— Snowdrop. In distinction to the 
 Hawthorn, which is the old emblem of Hope, I have 
 associated the Snowdrop with Youth, as it is the first 
 flower which blows upon the edge of winter. 
 
 YOUTHFULNESS— Crocus. Endeared to us as one of 
 the first flowers that breaks through the prison-house 
 of winter, throwing a golden light upon our garden 
 borders like the earliest sunshine of spring. It is well 
 chosen as the emblem of Youth. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 A. 
 
 Acacia : Elegance. 
 
 Acalea: Temperance. 
 
 Acanthus: The Arts. 
 
 Achilla Millefolia: War. 
 Aconite-leaved Crowfoot, or Fair 
 Maids of France: Lustre. 
 African Marygold : Vulgar Minds. 
 Agnus Castus: Coldness; to live 
 without Love. 
 
 Agrimony: Gratitude. 
 Almond-Tree; Indiscretion, Heed¬ 
 lessness. 
 
 Almond-Laurel: Perfidy. 
 
 Aloe: Imagination. 
 
 Althaea Frutex: Persuasion. 
 Alyssum (Sweet): Worth beyond 
 Beauty. 
 
 Amaranth: Immortality. 
 
 Amaryllis: Haughtiness, Pride. 
 Ambrosia: Love returned. 
 
 American Cowslip: You are my 
 Divinity. 
 
 American Elm: Patriotism. 
 American Linden: Matrimony. 
 American Starwort: Welcome to a 
 S tranger. 
 
 Andromeda: Pity. 
 
 Anemone: Your Frown I defy. 
 Anemone (Field): Sickness. 
 Anemone (Garden): Forsaken. 
 Angelica: Inspiration. 
 
 Angrec: Royalty. 
 
 Apocynum : Falsehood. 
 Apple-Blossom: Preference. 
 
 Apricot-Blossom: Doubt. 
 
 Arum or Wake-Robin : Ardor. 
 
 A Rose-leaf: I will not trouble you. 
 Asclepias : Cure for the Heartache. 
 Ash: Grandeur. 
 
 Ash-leaved Trumpet-Flower: Sep¬ 
 aration. 
 
 Aspen-Tree: Lamentation. 
 Asphodel: Regret. 
 
 Auricula: Painting. 
 
 Azalea: Your Blush has won me. 
 
 B. 
 
 Bachelor’s Button : I with the Mor¬ 
 ning’s Love have oft made Sport. 
 Balm of Gilead : Healing ; a Cure. 
 Balm (Gentle) : Pleasantry. 
 
 Balsam: Impatience. 
 
 Barberry: Sharpness, Sourness. 
 Basil: Hatred. 
 
 Bay-Berry: Instruction. 
 
 Bay-Leaf: I change but in dying. 
 Bay-Wreath: Reward of Merit. 
 Bear’s-Breech: Art. 
 
 Beech: Prosperity. 
 
 Belvidere : I declare against you. • 
 Bee-Ophrys: Error. 
 
 Betony: Surprise. 
 
 Bilberry: Treachery. 
 
 Birch: Gracefulness. 
 
 Bindweed: Insinuation. 
 
 Bird-Cherry, Hope. 
 
 Bird’s-Foot Trefoil: Revenge. 
 Bearded Crepis: Protection. 
 Black-Poplar: Courage. 
 
 Black-Thorn: Difficulty. 
 
210 
 
 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 Bladdernut-Tree: Frivolous Amuse¬ 
 ments. 
 
 Blue-Bottle: Delicacy. 
 Blue-Flowered Greek Valerian: 
 Rupture. 
 
 Blue Canterbury Bell: Constancy. 
 Bonus Henricus : Goodness. 
 Borage: Bluntness or Roughness 
 of Manners. 
 
 Box: Stoicism. 
 
 Bramble: Envy. 
 
 Branch of Currants: You please all. 
 Branch of Thorns: Severity, Rigor. 
 Broken Straw: Dissension, Rup¬ 
 ture. 
 
 Broom: Humility. 
 
 Bryony: Prosperity. 
 
 Buckbean: Flattery’s Smile; Calm 
 Repose. 
 
 Bud of a White Rose : A Heart ig¬ 
 norant of Love. 
 
 Bur: Rudeness. 
 
 Burgloss: Falsehood. 
 
 Burdock: Importunity. 
 
 Bundle of Reeds with their Pani¬ 
 cles : Music. 
 
 Buttercup: Ingratitude. 
 
 Butterfly-Ophrys: Gayety. 
 Butterfly-Weed: Let me go. 
 
 C. 
 
 Cabbage: Profit. 
 
 Calla (fEthiopica): Feminine Mod¬ 
 esty. 
 
 C ilycanthus: Benevolence. 
 Camomile : Energy in Adversity. 
 Campanula: Gratitude. 
 Canary-Glass: Perseverance. 
 Candy-Tuft: Indifference. 
 Canterbury (Blue) Bell: Constancy. 
 Cardamine: Paternal Error. 
 
 Cardinal’s Flower: Distinction. 
 Catalpa-Tree: Beware of the Co¬ 
 quette. 
 
 Catchfly: Deceit. 
 
 Cedar of Lebanon : Incorruptible. 
 Cedar-Tree: Strength. 
 
 Checkered Fritillary: Persecution. 
 Cherry-Tree: Good Education. 
 Cherry-Blossom : Spiritual Beauty. 
 Chestnut-Tree: Do me Justice. 
 China-Aster, or Chinese Stanvort: 
 Variety. 
 
 China or Indian Pink : Aversion. 
 China or Monthly Rose: Beauty 
 ever new. 
 
 Chinese Chrysanthemum: Cheer¬ 
 fulness under Adversity. 
 Cinquefoil: Parental Love. 
 
 Cistus, or Rock-Rose: Popular Fa¬ 
 vor. 
 
 Circaea: Fascination. 
 
 Clematis: Artifice. 
 Clove-Gillyflower: Dignity. 
 
 Cobcea : Gossip. 
 
 Cock’s Comb, or Crested Ama¬ 
 ranth : Singularity. 
 
 Colchicum, or Meadow-Saffron: 
 
 My best Days are past. 
 
 Coltsfoot: Justice shall be done 
 you. 
 
 Columbine: Folly. 
 
 Common Cactus, or Indian Fig: 1 
 burn. 
 
 Common Fumitory: Spleen. 
 Common Milfoil: War. 
 
 Common Reed: Complaisance. 
 Common Thistle: Importunity. 
 Convolvulus : Repose. 
 
 Corchorus: Impatiiyice of Absence. 
 Corn: Riches. 
 
 Cornelian Cherry-Tree: Durability. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 211 
 
 Coreopsis: Love at first Sight. 
 Coriander: Concealed Merit. 
 Coronilla: Success crown your 
 Wishes. 
 
 Cowslip: Pensiveness. 
 Crab-blossom : Ill-nature. 
 Cranberry: Hardiness. 
 
 Creeping Cereus: Horror. 
 
 Crocus: Youthfulness. 
 
 Cross of Jerusalem: Devotion. 
 Crown Imperial: Power. 
 Cuckoo-Pink: Ardor. 
 
 Cyclamen: Diffidence. 
 
 Cypress: Mourning. 
 
 Cypress and Marygold: Despair. 
 Cypress-Tree: Death and eternal 
 Sorrow. 
 
 D. 
 
 Daffodil: Deceitful Hope. 
 
 Dahlia: Heartless Beauty; Insta¬ 
 bility. 
 
 Daisy: Innocence. 
 
 Daisy (Garden): I partake your 
 Sentiments. 
 
 Daisy, Michaelmas: After-thought. 
 Daisy (White): I will think of it. 
 Damask Rose: Freshness of Com¬ 
 plexion. 
 
 Dandelion: Foresight. 
 
 Daphne Odora: Sweets to the 
 S weet. 
 
 Darnel, or Ray Grass : Vice. 
 Dew-Plant: A Serenade. 
 
 Dead Leaves: Sadness. 
 
 Deadly Nightshade: Falsehood. 
 Dignity in Misfortune: Rosebay. 
 Dittany: Birth. 
 
 Dock: Patience. 
 
 Dodder: Baseness. 
 
 Dragon-Plant: Snare. 
 
 Dried Flax: Utility. 
 
 E. 
 
 Ebony: Hypocrisy. 
 
 Eglantine, or Sweet Briar : Poetry 
 
 Elder: Zealousness. 
 
 Elm: Dignity. 
 
 Enchanter’s Nightshade: Fascina¬ 
 tion, Witchcraft. 
 
 Endive: Frugality. 
 
 Eupatorium: Delay. 
 
 Evergreen: Poverty. 
 
 Evergreen-Thorn: Solace in Ad¬ 
 versity. 
 
 Everlasting: Never-ceasing Re¬ 
 membrance. 
 
 Everlasting Pea : Lasting Pleasure. 
 
 F. 
 
 Fennel: Strength. 
 
 Fern: Sincerity. 
 
 Fern (Flowering): Revery. 
 
 Fig: Argument. 
 
 Fig-Tree: Prolific. 
 
 Filbert: Reconciliation. 
 
 Fir: Time. 
 
 Fir-Tree: Elevation. 
 
 Flax : I feel your kindness. 
 
 Flax-leaved Goldy-Locks: Tardi¬ 
 ness. 
 
 Flora’s Bell: You are without Pre¬ 
 tension. 
 
 Flower of an Hour : Delicate Beau¬ 
 ty. 
 
 Flowering Reed: Confidence in 
 Heaven. 
 
 Forget-me-not: Forget me not. 
 
 Fairy’s Glove, or Foxglove: I am 
 not changed—they wrong me. 
 
 Frankincense: The Incense of a 
 faithful Heart. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 212 
 
 Fraxinella: Fire. 
 
 French Honeysuckle: Rustic Beau¬ 
 ty. 
 
 French Marygold: Jealousy. 
 Frog-Ophrys: Disgust. 
 
 Full-blown Eglantine: Simplicity. 
 Fullers’ Teasel: Austerity. 
 
 Fuchsia: Taste. 
 
 G. 
 
 Garden Chervil: Sincerity. 
 
 Garden Marygold: Uneasiness. 
 Garden Ranunculus : You are rich 
 in Attractions. 
 
 Garden Sage: Esteem. 
 
 Garland of Roses : Reward of Vir¬ 
 tue. 
 
 Gentiana Fritillaria: Virgin Pride. 
 Geranium (Sorrowful): Melancholy 
 Spirit. 
 
 Gilly-Flower: Lasting Beauty. 
 Glory-Flower: Glorious Beauty. 
 Goats’ Rue: Reason. 
 
 Golden Rod: Precaution. 
 
 Gorse: Anger. 
 
 Goosefoot: Goodness. 
 
 Grape (Wild): Charity. 
 
 Grass: Utility. 
 
 Great Bindweed: Dangerous Insin¬ 
 uation. 
 
 Guelder Rose: Winter or Age. 
 
 H. 
 
 Harebell: Happy Retirement. 
 Hawkweed: Quicksightedness. 
 /Hawthorn: Hope: 
 
 Hazel: Reconciliation. 
 
 Heath: Solitude. 
 
 Helenia: Tears. 
 
 Heliotrope: Devoted Attachment. 
 Hellebore: Calumny. 
 
 Hemlock: You will cause my 
 Death. 
 
 Henbane: Imperfection. 
 
 Hepatica: Confidence. 
 
 Hibiscus: Delicate Beauty. 
 Hickory: Glory. 
 
 Hoarhound: Frozen Kindness. 
 Hollyhock: Fecundity. 
 
 Honesty: Honesty. 
 
 ^Honeysuckle: Devoted Affection 
 Hop: Injustice. 
 
 Hornbeam: Ornament. 
 Horse-Chestnut: Luxury. 
 Hortensia : You are cold. 
 Houstonia: Content. 
 
 Hoya: Sculpture. 
 
 Hundred-leaved Rose: Graces. 
 '/jHyacinth: Truth. 
 
 Hydranger: Boaster. 
 
 I. 
 
 Iceland Moss: Health. 
 
 Ice-Plant: Your Looks freeze me. 
 Indian Cress: Resignation. 
 
 Indian Jasmine : I attach myself to 
 you. 
 
 Iris: Messenger. 
 
 Ivy: Friendship. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jacob’s Ladder: Come down to me. 
 Japan Rose: Beauty is your only 
 Attraction. 
 
 Jessamine, or Jasmine: Amiable¬ 
 ness. 
 
 -'Jessamine (Virginian): Soul of my 
 Soul. 
 
 Jonquil: Desire. 
 
 Judas-Tree: Unbelief. 
 
 Juniper: Protection. 
 
 Justicia: The Perfection of Female 
 Loveliness. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 213 
 
 K. 
 
 Kennedia: Mental Beauty. 
 King-Cup: I wish I was rich. 
 
 L. 
 
 Laburnum: Pensive Beauty. 
 Lady’s Slipper : Win me and wear 
 me. 
 
 Larch: Boldness. 
 
 Larkspur: Levity. 
 
 Laurel: Glory. 
 
 Laurustinus: Neglected Love. 
 Lavender: Assiduity. 
 
 Lemon: Zest. 
 
 Lettuce: Cold-hearted. 
 
 Lichen: Solitude. 
 
 Lilac: First Emotion of Love. 
 Lilac (White): Youth. 
 
 Lily of the Valley: Return of Hap¬ 
 piness. 
 
 Lime or Linden Tree: Conjugal 
 Love. 
 
 Live Oak: Liberty. 
 
 Lobelia: Splendor. 
 
 Locust: Vicissitude. 
 
 London-Pride: Frivolity. 
 Lotus-Flower: Silence. 
 
 Love in a Mist: Perplexity. 
 
 Love in a Puzzle : Embarrassment. 
 Love lies Bleeding : Desertion. 
 Lucern: Life. 
 
 Lupine: Voraciousness. 
 
 Lychnis: Religious Enthusiasm. 
 Lythrum: Pretension. 
 
 M. 
 
 Madder: Calumny. 
 
 Madwort (Rock): Tranquillity. 
 Maiden-Hair: Discretion, Secrecy. 
 Maize: Plenty. 
 
 Magnolia: Peerless and Proud. 
 
 Mallow: Mild or sweet Disposition. 
 Manchineel-Tree: Falsehood. 
 Mandrake: Rarity. 
 
 Maple: Reserve. 
 
 Marjorum: Blushes. 
 
 Marshmallow: Humanity. 
 
 Marvel of Peru : Timidity. 
 
 Marygold: Grief or Pain. 
 
 Marygold (Small-Cape): Presage. 
 
 May Rose: Precocity. 
 
 Meadow Saffron: My best Days 
 are past. 
 
 Meadow-Sweet: Neglected Beauty. 
 Mercury: Goodness. 
 Mesembryanthemum: Idleness. 
 Mezereon: Love in a Snow-Wreath. 
 Michaelmas Daisy: Farewell. 
 Mignionette: Unconscious Beauty. 
 Milk-Vetch : Your Presence softens 
 my Pain. 
 
 Mimosa: Sensitiveness. 
 
 Mint: Virtue. 
 
 Mistletoe: I surmount all Difficul¬ 
 ties. 
 
 Mock Orange: Counterfeit. 
 
 Monk’s Hood: Knight-Errantry. 
 Moonwort: Forgetfulness. 
 
 Moschatel: Weak but winning. 
 
 . Moss : Maternal Love. 
 
 Moss-Rose: Pleasure without al¬ 
 loy. 
 
 Mossy Saxifrage : Maternal Love. 
 Motherwort: Secret Love. 
 
 Mountain-Ash: Prudence. 
 
 Mouse-Ear Chickweed : Ingenuous 
 Simplicity. 
 
 Moving Plant: Agitation. 
 Mulberry-Tree (White): Wisdom. 
 Mulberry-Tree (Black): I will not 
 survive you. 
 
 Mushroom: Suspicion. 
 
 _ 
 
214 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 Musk-Crowfoot: Weakness. x 
 
 Musk-Rose: Capricious Beauty. 
 Myosotis or Mouse-Ear: Forget- 
 me-not. 
 
 Myrobalan: Privation. 
 
 > Myrtle: Love. 
 
 N. 
 
 Narcissus (False): Delusive Hope. 
 Narcissus (Poets’): Egotism. 
 Nasturtium : Patriotism. 
 
 Nettle (Stinging): Cruelty. 
 Night-Blowing Cereus: Transient 
 Beauty. 
 
 Nosegay: Gallantry. 
 
 O. 
 
 Oak: Hospitality. 
 
 Oats : The witching Soul of Music 5 
 hers. 
 
 Oleander: Beware. 
 
 Olive-branch: Peace. 
 
 Orchis: A Belle. 
 
 Orange-Blossom: Chastity. 
 Orange-Tree: Generosity. 
 
 Osier: Frankness. 
 
 Ox-Eye: Obstacle. 
 
 P. 
 
 Palm : Victory. 
 
 Pansy, or Heart’s-Ease: Thought. 
 Parsley: Entertainment, Feasting. 
 Passion-Flower: Belief. 
 Patience-Dock: Patience. 
 Pasque-Flower: You are without 
 Pretension. 
 
 Pea: An appointed Meeting. 
 Peach-Blossom: Love’s Captive. 
 Pennyroyal: Flee away. 
 
 Peony: Bashful Shame. 
 Pepper-Plant: Satire. 
 
 Periwinkle: Sweet Remembrances. 
 Persimon : Bury me amid Nature’s 
 Beauties. 
 
 Persicaria: Restoration. 
 
 Peruvian Heliotrope: I trust in 
 thee. 
 
 Pheasant’s-Eve, or Flos Adonis: 
 
 Sorrowful Remembrances. 
 
 Phlox: Unanimity. 
 
 Pimpernel: Assignation. 
 
 Pine : Pity. 
 
 Pine-Apple : You are perfect. 
 
 Pink: Pure Love. 
 
 Plane-Tree: Genius. 
 
 Plum-Tree: Keep your Promises. 
 Plum-Tree (Wild): Independence. 
 Polyanthus: Confidence. 
 
 Potato : Beneficence. 
 
 Pomegranate: Foolishness. 
 
 Poppy: Consolation. 
 
 Prickly Pear: Satire. 
 
 Pride of China: Discussion. 
 Primrose: Forsaken. 
 
 Primrose (Evening) : Inconstancy. 
 Privet: Prohibition. 
 
 Purple Clover: Provident. 
 Pyramidal Bell-Flower : Gratitude. 
 Pyrus Japonica: Fairies’ Fire. 
 
 a. 
 
 Quamoclet: Busybody. 
 
 Queen’s Rocket: You are the 
 Queen of Coquettes. 
 
 R. 
 
 Ragged Robin: Wit. 
 
 Ranunculus : You are radiant with 
 Charms. 
 
 Red Bay: Love’s Memory. 
 
 Red Mulberry: Wisdom. 
 
 Red Shanks: Patience. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 215 
 
 Reeds: Music. 
 
 Rest-Harrow : Obstacle. 
 Rhododendron: Danger. 
 
 Rocket: Rivalry. 
 
 Rose: Beauty. 
 
 Rose (Wild): Simplicity. 
 
 Rose (Acacia): Elegance. 
 
 Rose (Lancaster): Union. 
 
 Rose (Maiden’s Blush): Bashful¬ 
 ness. 
 
 Rose (White): Silence. 
 
 Rosebud: Youthful Charms. 
 Rosebud (Moss): Confession of 
 Love. 
 
 Rosebud (White): Simplicity. 
 Roses (A Garland of): Reward of 
 Virtue. 
 
 Rosebay Willow-Herb: Celibacy. 
 Rose Campion: You are without 
 Pretension. 
 
 Rosemary: Remembrance. 
 Rose-scented Geranium: Prefer¬ 
 ence. 
 
 Rudbeckia: Justice. 
 
 Rue: Grace or Purification. 
 
 Rush: Docility. 
 
 S. 
 
 Saffron-Flower: Excess is Danger¬ 
 ous. 
 
 Saffron Crocus: Mirth. 
 
 Sage: Esteem. 
 
 Sardony: Irony. 
 
 Scabius: Unfortunate Attachment. 
 Scarlet Fuchsia: Taste. 
 
 Scarlet Ipomoea, or Indian Jas¬ 
 mine : I attach myself to you. 
 Scotch Fir: Elevation. 
 
 Sensitive Plant: Timidity. 
 Serpentine Cactus: Horror. 
 Service-Tree: Prudence. 
 
 Shaking S.aintfoin: Agitation. 
 
 Siberian Crab-Tree-Blossom: Deep¬ 
 ly interesting. 
 
 Side-saddle Flower: Will you 
 pledge me 1 
 
 Silver Fir: Elevation. 
 
 Small Bindweed: Obstinacy. 
 
 Small White Violet: Candor and 
 Innocence. 
 
 Snapdragon: Refusal. 
 
 Snowball: Thoughts of Heaven. 
 
 Snowdrop: Youthful Hope. 
 
 Sorrel: Wit ill-timed. 
 
 Southern-Wood: Jest or banter¬ 
 ing. 
 
 Spanish Jasmine: Sensuality. 
 
 Spider-Ophrys: Skill, Adroitness. 
 
 Spiderwort: Transient Happiness. 
 
 Spindle-Tree: Your Image is en¬ 
 graven on my Heart. 
 
 Spiked Speedwell: Resemblance. 
 
 Spirae Hypericum Frutex : Useless¬ 
 ness. 
 
 Sprig of the Rose (Flowerless): 
 Separation. 
 
 Squirting Cucumber: Critic. 
 
 St. John’s-wort: Superstitious 
 Sanctity. 
 
 Star of Bethlehem : The Light of 
 our Path : Follow me. 
 
 Stock, or Gilly Flower: Lasting 
 Beauty. 
 
 Stramonium (Common): Disguise. 
 
 Strawberry: Perfect Excellence. 
 
 Sumach: Splendor. 
 
 Sunflower: Smile on me still. 
 
 Swallowwort: Medicine. 
 
 Sweet Briar, or Eglantine: Poetry. 
 
 Sweet Flag: Fitness. 
 
 Sweet Pea: Pleasure. 
 
 Sweet Soltan: Felicity. 
 
216 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 Sweet-scented Tussilage: You shall 
 have Justice. 
 
 Sweet Violet: Modesty. 
 Sweet-William: Craftiness. 
 Sycamore: Woodland Beauty. 
 Syringa: Memory. 
 
 T. 
 
 Tamarisk: Crime. 
 
 Tansy: Resistance. 
 
 Teasel: Misanthropy. 
 
 Tendrils of Climbing Plants: Ties 
 of Love. 
 
 Ten-Weeks’-Stock: Promptitude. 
 Thistle: Austerity. 
 
 Thorn-Apple: Deceitful Charms. 
 Thrift: Sympathy. 
 
 Throatwort: Neglected Beauty. 
 Thyme: Activity. 
 
 Tremella Nostoc : Resolve the Rid¬ 
 dle- 
 
 Truffle: Surprise. 
 
 Tiger-Flower: For once may Pride 
 befriend me. 
 
 Tree of Life : Old Age. 
 
 Tuft of Moss: Maternal Love. 
 Tulip: Declaration of Love. 
 
 Turnip: Charity. 
 
 V. 
 
 Valerian (Red): Accommodating 
 Disposition. 
 
 Various-colored Lantana: Rigor. 
 Verbena: Sensibility. 
 
 Vernal Grass: Poor but happy. 
 Vervain: Enchantment. 
 
 Venus’s Car: Fly with me. 
 
 Venus’s Flytrap: Have I caught 
 you at last? 
 
 Venus’s Looking-Glass: Flattery. 
 Vine: Intoxication. 
 
 Violet (Blue): Modesty. 
 
 Violet (White) : Candor. 
 
 Virgin’s Bower: Artifice. 
 
 Virginian Spiderwort: Momentary 
 Happiness. 
 
 Volkamenica Japonica: May you 
 be happy. 
 
 W. 
 
 Wall-Flower: Fidelity in Misfor¬ 
 tune. 
 
 Wall-Speedwell: Fidelity. 
 Water-Lily: Eloquence. 
 
 Water-Lily (White): Purity of 
 Heart. 
 
 Walnut: Intellect. 
 
 Walking-Leaf: How came you 
 here? 
 
 Watermelon: Bulkiness. 
 Water-Star: Beauty combined with 
 Piety. 
 
 Wax-Plant: Susceptibility. 
 Wax-Myrtle: I will enlighten you. 
 Weeping-Willow: Melancholy. 
 Wheat: Riches. 
 
 White Jasmine: Amiableness. 
 White Lilac: Youth. 
 
 White Lily: Purity and Modesty. 
 White Mullein : Good Nature. 
 White Oak: Independence. 
 
 White Pink: Talent. 
 
 White Poplar: Time. 
 
 White Poppy : Sleep of the Heart. 
 White Rose: Silence. 
 
 White Rose (Dried): Death prefer¬ 
 able to Loss of Innocence. 
 
 White Rosebud: The Heart that 
 knows not Love. 
 
 Wild Rose: Simplicity. 
 
 Wild-Plum Blossom: Independ¬ 
 ence. 
 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 217 
 
 Wild Strawberry: Perfection. 
 
 Yellow Carnation: Disdain. 
 
 Willow: Disappointed Love. 
 
 Yellow Day-Lily: Coquetry. 
 
 Willow-Herb: Pretension. 
 
 Yellow Gentian: Ingratitude. 
 
 Winter-Cherry: Deception. 
 
 Yellow Iris: Flame. 
 
 Witch-Hazel: A Spell. 
 
 Yellow Rose: Infidelity 
 
 Withered Leaves: Sadness. 
 Wood-Sorrel: Joy. 
 
 Yew: Sorrow. 
 
 Wormwood: Absence. 
 
 Z 
 
 Y. 
 
 Yarrow: War. 
 
 Zinnia: Absence. 
 
 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 A. 
 
 B. 
 
 A Belle: Orchis. 
 
 Baseness: Dodder. 
 
 Absence: Wormwood, Zinnia. 
 
 Bashful Shame: Peony. 
 
 Accommodating Disposition: Red 
 
 Bashfulness: Rose; Maiden’s Blush. 
 
 Valerian. 
 
 Belief: Passion Flower. 
 
 Activity: Thyme. 
 
 Beauty: Rose. 
 
 Afterthought: Daisy, Michaelmas. 
 
 Beauty combined with Piety: Wa- 
 
 Agitation: Moving Plant. 
 
 ter-Star. 
 
 Amiability: Jessamine, or Jasmine. 
 
 Beauty ever new: China or Month- 
 
 An appointed Meeting: Pea. 
 
 ly Rose. 
 
 Anger: Gorse. 
 
 Beauty is your only Attraction: 
 
 Ardor: Cuckoo-Plant; Arum, or 
 
 Japan Rose. 
 
 Wake-Robin. 
 
 Beneficence: Potato. 
 
 Argument: Fig. 
 
 Benevolence: Calycanthus. 
 
 Art: Bear’s-Breach. 
 
 Beware: Oleander. 
 
 Artifice: Virgin’s Bower; Clematis. 
 
 Beware of the Coquette: Catalpa- 
 
 A Spell: Witch-Hazel. 
 
 Tree. 
 
 Assiduity: Lavender. 
 
 Birth: Dittany. 
 
 Assignation: Pimpernel. 
 
 Bluntness of Manners: Borage. 
 
 Attachment: Scarlet-flowered Ipo- 
 
 Blushes: Marjorum. 
 
 moea. 
 
 Boaster: Hydranger. 
 
 Austerity: Fullers’ Teasel; Thistle. 
 
 Boldness: Larch. 
 
 Aversion: China or Indian Pink. 
 
 Bulkiness: Watermelon. 
 
218 LANGUAGE 
 
 Bury me amid Nature’s Beauties : 
 Persimon. 
 
 Busybody: Quamoclet. 
 
 C. 
 
 Calumny: Hellebore, Madder. 
 Candor and Innocence: Sweet 
 White Violet. 
 
 Capricious Beauty: Musk-Rose. 
 Celibacy: Rosebay Willow-Herb. 
 Charity: Wild Grape, Turnip. 
 Chastity: Orange-Flower. 
 Cheerfulness in Adversity : Chinese 
 Chrysanthemum. 
 
 Cold-hearted: Lettuce. 
 
 Coldness, To live without Love: 
 Agnus Castus. 
 
 Comedown to me: Jacob’s Ladder. 
 Complaisance: Common Reed. 
 Concealed Merit: Coriander. 
 Confession of Love: Rosebud; 
 Moss. 
 
 Confidence: Hepatica, Polyanthus. 
 Confidence in Heaven : Flowering 
 Reed. 
 
 Conjugal Love: Lime or Linden 
 Tree. 
 
 Consolation of Sleep : Poppy. 
 Constancy : Canterbury Bell 
 Content: Houstonia. 
 
 Coquetry: Yellow Day-Lily. 
 Counterfeit: Mock Orange. 
 Courage: Black Poplar. 
 
 Craftiness: Sweet-William. 
 
 Crime: Tamarisk. 
 
 Critic: Squirting Cucumber. 
 Cruelty: Nettle. 
 
 Cure (A): Balm. 
 
 Cure for the Heartache: Asclepias. 
 
 D. 
 
 Danger: Rhododendron. 
 
 OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Dangerous Insinuation: Great 
 Bindweed. 
 
 Death and eternal Sorrow: Cypress 
 Tree. 
 
 Death preferable to Loss of Inno¬ 
 cence : White Rose (Dried). 
 Deceit: Catchfiy. 
 
 Deceitful Charms: Thorn-Aople. 
 Deceitful Hope: Daffodil. 
 Deception: Winter-Cherry. 
 Declaration of Love: Tulip. 
 
 Deeply Interesting: Siberian Crab- 
 Tree-Blossom. 
 
 Delay: Eupatorium. 
 
 Delicacy: Blue-Bottle. 
 
 Delicate Beauty: Hibiscus. 
 
 Delicate Pleasure : Sweet Pea. 
 Delusive Hope: False Narcissus. 
 Desertion: Love-lies-Bleeding. 
 Desire: Jonquil. 
 
 Despair: Marigold and Cypress. 
 Devoted Affection: Honeysuckle. 
 Devotion : Cross of Jerusalem. 
 Devoted Attachment: Heliotrope. 
 Difficulty: Black Thorn. 
 
 Diffidence: Cyclamen. 
 
 Dignity: Clove-Gillyflower. 
 Discretion, Secrecy: Maiden-Hair. 
 Disappointed Love: Willow. 
 Disdain: Yellow Carnation. 
 Disguise: Common Stramonium. 
 Disgust: Frog-Ophrys. 
 
 Dissension : Pride of China. 
 Dissension,Rupture: Broken Straw, 
 Distinction : Cardinal’s Flower. 
 Docility: Rush. 
 
 Do me Justice: Chestnut-Tree. 
 Doubt: Apricot-Blossom. 
 Durability: Cornelian-Cherry-Tree. 
 
 E. 
 
 Early Youth: Primrose. 
 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 219 
 
 Egotism: Poets’ Narcissus. 
 
 Folly: Columbine. 
 
 Elegance: Acacia. 
 
 Foolishness: Pomegranate. 
 
 Elevation: Fir-Tree. 
 
 Foresight: Dandelion. 
 
 Eloquence: Iris, Water-Lily. 
 
 Forgetfulness: Moonwort. 
 
 Embarrassment: Love in a Puzzle. 
 
 Forget me not: Forget-me-not. 
 
 Enchantment: Vervain. 
 
 For once may Pride befriend me: 
 
 Energy in Adversity : Camomile. 
 
 Tiger-Flower. 
 
 Ennui: M oss. 
 
 Forsaken: Primrose. 
 
 Entertainm 'nt, Feasting: Parsley. 
 
 Frankness : Osier. 
 
 Envy: Bramble. 
 
 Freshness of Complexion: Damask 
 
 Error: Bee-Ophrys. 
 
 Rose. 
 
 Esteem: Sage. 
 
 Friendship: Acacia Rose; Ivy. 
 
 Excess is Dangerous: Saffron- 
 
 Frivolity: London Pride. 
 
 Flower. 
 
 Frivolous Amusements: Bladder- 
 nut-Tree. 
 
 F. 
 
 Frozen Kindness: Hoarhound. 
 
 Fair within, though cold in seem- 
 
 Frugality: Endive. 
 
 ing: The Dew-Plant. 
 
 G. 
 
 Falsehood: Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 Fancy’s Fire: Night-Blowing Ce- 
 
 Gayety: Butterfly-Ophrys. 
 
 reus. 
 
 Gallantry: Nosegay. 
 
 Farewell: Michaelmas-Daisy. 
 
 Generosity: Orange-Tree. 
 
 Fascination: Enchanter’s Night- 
 
 Genius: Plane-Tree. 
 
 shade. 
 
 Glorious Beauty: Glory-Flower. 
 
 Fecundity: Hollyhock. 
 
 Glory: Laurel. 
 
 Felicity: Sweet Soltan. 
 
 Good Education: Cherry-Tree. 
 
 Feminine Modesty: Calla Ethiopi- 
 
 Good Nature : White Mullein. 
 
 ca. 
 
 Goodness: Good Henry; Goose- 
 
 Fidelity: Wall-Speedwell. 
 
 foot. 
 
 Fidelity in Adversity: Wall-Flower. 
 
 Gossip: Cobcea. 
 
 Finesse: Sweet-William. 
 
 Graces: Hundred-Leaved Rose. 
 
 Fire: Fraxinella. 
 
 Gracefulness: Birch. 
 
 First Emotion of Love: Lilac. 
 
 Grandeur: Ash. 
 
 Fitness: Sweet Flag. 
 
 Gratitude: Agrimony. 
 
 Flame: Yellow Iris. 
 
 Grief or Pain : Marigold. 
 
 Flattery’s Smile: Buckbean. 
 
 H. 
 
 Flattery: Venus’s Looking-Glass. 
 
 Flee away: Pennyroyal. 
 
 Happy Retirement: Harebell. 
 
 Fly with me: Venus’s Car. 
 
 Hardiness: Cranberry. 
 
 Follow me; The Light of our Path: 
 
 Hatred: Basil. 
 
 Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Haughtiness or Pride : Amaryllis. 
 
220 
 
 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Have I caught you at last? Venus’s 
 Flytrap. 
 
 Healing; A Cure: Balm of Gilead. 
 Health: Iceland Moss. 
 
 Heartless Beauty: Dahlia. 
 
 Honesty: Honesty. 
 
 Hope: Hawthorn. 
 
 Horror: Serpentine Cactus. 
 Hospitality: Oak. 
 
 How came you here ? Walking- 
 Leaf. 
 
 Humanity : Marshmallow. 
 Humility: Broom. 
 
 Hypocrisy: Ebony. 
 
 I. 
 
 I am not changed—they wrong me: 
 
 Fairy’s Glove, or Foxglove. 
 
 I attach myself to you: Scarlet 
 Ipomcea, or Indian Jasmine. 
 
 I burn : Common Cactus. 
 
 I change but in dying : Bay-Leaf. 
 
 I declare against you: Belvidere. 
 Idleness: Fig Marigold. 
 
 I feel your kindness : Flax. 
 
 Ill-nature: Crab-blossom.* 
 Imagination: Aloe. 
 
 Immortality: Amaranth. 
 
 Impatience: Balsam. 
 
 Impatience of Absence : Corchorus. 
 Imperfection: Henbane. 
 Importunity: Common Thistle; 
 Burdock. 
 
 Inconstancy: Evening Primrose. 
 Incorruptible: Cedar of Lebanon. 
 Independence : White Oak ; Wild 
 Plum-Blossom. 
 
 Indifference: Candy-Tuft. 
 Indiscretion, Heedlessness: Al- j 
 mond-Tree. 
 
 Infidelity: Yellow Rose. 
 
 Ingenuous Simplicity: Mouse-Ear 
 Chickweed. 
 
 Ingratitude: Yellow Gentian; But¬ 
 tercups. 
 
 Injustice : Hops. 
 
 Insinuation : Bindweed. 
 
 Innocence: Daisy. 
 
 Inspiration: Angelica. 
 
 Instruction: Bay-Berry. 
 
 Intellect: Walnut. 
 
 Intoxication: Vine. 
 
 I partake your Sentiments: Gar¬ 
 den Daisy. 
 
 Irony: Sardony. 
 
 I surmount all Difficulties: Mistle¬ 
 toe. 
 
 I trust in thee: Peruvian Helio¬ 
 trope. 
 
 I will enlighten you: Wax-Myrtle. 
 
 I will not survive you: Black-Mul¬ 
 berry-Tree. 
 
 I will not trouble you: A Rose-leaf. 
 I will think of it: White Daisy. 
 
 I with the Morning’s Love have oft 
 made Sport: Bachelor’s Button. 
 
 I wish I were rich: King-Cup. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jealousy: French Marigold. 
 
 Jest or bantering : Southern-Wood. 
 Joy: Wood-Sorrel. 
 
 Justice: Rudbeckia. 
 
 Justice shall be done you: Colts¬ 
 foot. 
 
 K. 
 
 Keep your Promises : Plum-Tree. 
 Knight-Errantry: Monk’s Hood. 
 
 L. . 
 
 Lamentation: Aspen-Tree. 
 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 221 
 
 Lasting Beauty: Stock, or Gilly- 
 Flower. 
 
 Lasting Pleasure: Everlasting Pea. 
 Liberty: Live Oak. 
 
 Life: Lucern. 
 
 Let me go : Butterfly-Weed. 
 
 Levity : Larkspur. 
 
 Love: Myrtle. 
 
 Love at First Sight: Coreopsis. 
 Love in a Snow-Wreath: Mezere- 
 on. 
 
 Love Returned: Ambrosia. 
 
 Love’s Captive: Peach-Blossom. 
 Love’s Memory : Red-Bay. 
 
 Love Match : London Pride. 
 
 Lustre: Aconite-leaved Crowfoot. 
 Luxury • Horse-Chestnut. 
 
 M. 
 
 Majesty and Power: Crown Impe¬ 
 rial. 
 
 Maternal Love: Moss. 
 
 Matrimony: American Linden. 
 May you be happy: Volkamenica 
 Japonica. 
 
 Medicine: Swallowwort. 
 
 Meekness with Dignity: Plumbago. 
 Melancholy: Weeping Willow. 
 Melancholy Spirit: Sorrowful Ge¬ 
 ranium. 
 
 Memory: Syringa. 
 
 Mental Beauty: Kennedia. 
 Messenger : Iris. 
 
 Mirth: Saffron Crocus. 
 Misanthropy: Teasel. 
 
 Modesty: Violet. 
 
 Momentary Happiness : Virginian 
 Spiderwort. 
 
 Mourning: Cypress. 
 
 Music: Bundles of Reeds with 
 Panicles. 
 
 My best Days are past: Meadow 
 Saffron. 
 
 My Heart bleeds for you : Camellia 
 Japonica. 
 
 My Regrets will follow you to the 
 Grave: Asphodel. 
 
 N. 
 
 Necessitude: Locust. 
 
 Neglected Beauty: Meadow-Sweet. 
 Neglected Love : Laurustinus. 
 Never-ceasing Remembrance: Ev¬ 
 erlasting. 
 
 O. 
 
 Obstacle : Ox-Eye ; Rest-Harrow. 
 Obstinacy : Small Bindweed. 
 
 Old Age: Tree of Life. 
 
 Ornament: Hornbeam. 
 
 P. 
 
 Painting: Auricula. 
 
 Parental Love : Cinquefoil. 
 Paternal Error: Lady’s Smock. 
 Patience : Dock. 
 
 Patriotism: Nasturtium. 
 
 Peace: Olive. 
 
 Peerless and Proud : Magnolia. 
 Pensive Beauty: Laburnum. 
 Pensiveness: Cowslip. 
 
 Perfect Excellence: Strawberry. 
 Perfidy : Almond-Laurel. 
 Perplexity : Love in a Mist. 
 Persecution: Checkered Fritillary. 
 Perseverance: Canary Glass. 
 Persuasion: Althaea Frutex. 
 
 Pity : Andromeda. 
 
 Pleasure without Alloy: Moss Rose. 
 Plenty: Maize. 
 
 Poetry : Sweet Briar, or Eglantine. 
 Poor but happy : Vernal Grass. 
 
222 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Popular Favor: Cistus. 
 
 Poverty: Evergreen Clematis. 
 Power: Crown Imperial. 
 Precaution: Golden Rod. 
 
 Precocity: May-Rose. 
 
 Preference: Rose-scented Gerani¬ 
 um ; Apple-Blossom. 
 
 Presage: Small-Cape Marigold. 
 Pretension: Willow-Herb, Lyth- 
 rum. 
 
 Privation: Myrobalum. 
 
 Profit: Cabbage. 
 
 Prohibition: Privet. 
 
 Prolific: Fig-Tree. 
 
 Promptitude : Ten-Weeks’-Stock. 
 Prosperity: Bryony. 
 
 Protection: Juniper. 
 x Provident: Purple Clover. 
 
 Prudence: Service-Tree, Mountain 
 Ash. 
 
 Purification or Grace : Rue. 
 
 Purity and Modesty : White Lily. 
 Pure Love: Pink. 
 
 Purity of Heart: Water Lily, 
 (White). 
 
 a. 
 
 Quicksightedness: Hawkweed. 
 
 R. 
 
 Rarity: Mandrake. 
 
 Reason: Goat’s Rue. 
 Reconciliation: Filbert. 
 
 Refusal: Snapdragon. 
 
 Religious Enthusiasm: Lychnis. 
 Remembrance: Rosemary. 
 
 Repose: Convolvulus. 
 Resemblance: Spiked Speedwell. 
 Reserve: Maple. 
 
 Resignation: Indian Cress. 
 Resistance: Tansy. 
 
 Resolve the Riddle: Tremella Nos- 
 toc. 
 
 Restoration: Persicaria. 
 
 Return of Happiness: Lily of the 
 Valley. 
 
 Revenge: Birdsfoot Trefoil. 
 
 Revery: Flowering Fern. 
 
 Reward of Virtue: A Garland of 
 Roses. 
 
 Reward of Merit: Bay-Wreath. 
 Riches : Cora ; Wheat. 
 
 Rigor: Various-colored Lantana. 
 Rivalry: Rocket. 
 
 Rosebay : Dignity in Misfortune. 
 Royalty : Angrec. 
 
 Rupture, Dissension: Broken 
 Straw. 
 
 Rustic Beauty: French Honey¬ 
 suckle. 
 
 Rudeness: Bur. 
 
 S. 
 
 Sadness: Dead Leaves. 
 
 Satire: Pepper-Plant. 
 
 Sculpture : Hoya. 
 
 Secrecy, Discretion: Maiden-Hair. 
 Secret Love: Motherwort. 
 Sensibility: Verbena. 
 
 Sensitiveness: Mimosa. 
 
 Sensuality: Spanish Jasmine 
 Separation : Sprig of the Rose. 
 Flowerless. 
 
 Soul of my Soul: Virginian Jas¬ 
 mine. 
 
 Serenade: Dew-Plant. 
 
 Severity : Branch of Thorns. 
 Sharpness, Sourness: Barberry. 
 She will be Fashionable: Queen’s 
 Rocket. 
 
 Sickness: Field Anemone. 
 
 Silence: White Rose. 
 
LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 223 
 
 Simplicity: Rosebud, (White.) 
 Sincerity : Fern ; Garden Chervil. 
 Singularity: Crested Amaranth.' 
 Skill, Adroitness: Spider-Ophrys. 
 Sleep of the Heart: White Poppy. 
 Smile on me still: Sunflower. 
 Snare: Dragon-Plant, Catch-Fly. 
 Solace in Adversity: Evergreen 
 Thorn. 
 
 Solitude: Heath. 
 
 Sorrow : Yew. 
 
 Sorrowful Remembrances: Phea¬ 
 sant’s Eye, or Flos Adonis. 
 Spiritual Beauty: Cherry-Tree- 
 Blossom. 
 
 Splendor: Lobelia; Sumach. 
 Spleen: Common Fumitory. 
 Stoicism: Box. 
 
 Strength : Cedar-Tree; Fennel. 
 Submission: Grass. 
 
 Success crown your Wishes : Coro- 
 nilla. 
 
 Superstitious Sanctity : St. John’s- 
 wort. 
 
 Surprise: Betony; Truffle. 
 Susceptibility: Wax-Plant. 
 Suspicion: Mushroom. 
 
 Sweet or Mild Disposition: Mal¬ 
 low. 
 
 Sweet Remembrances: Periwinkle. 
 Sweets to the Sweet: Daphne Odo- 
 ra. 
 
 Sympathy: Thrift. 
 
 T. 
 
 Talent: White Pink. 
 
 Tardiness: Fla- - eaved Goldy- 
 
 Locks. 
 
 Taste: Scarlet Fuchsia. 
 
 Tears : Helenium. 
 
 The Arts: Acanthus. 
 
 The Heart that knows not Love: 
 White Rosebud. 
 
 The Incense of a faithful Heart : 
 Frankincense. 
 
 The Light of our Path, Follow me: 
 
 Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 The Perfection of Human Loveli¬ 
 ness : Justicia. 
 
 The witching Soul of Music, hers: 
 Oats. 
 
 Thought: Pansy. 
 
 Thoughts of Heaven: Snowball. 
 Ties of Love: Tendrils of Climb¬ 
 ing Plants. 
 
 Time: White Poplar. 
 
 Timidity: Marvel of Peru ; Sensi¬ 
 tive Plant. 
 
 Token: Laurustinus. 
 
 Tranquillity : Rock-Madwort. 
 Transient Happiness: Spiderwort. 
 Treachery: Bilberry. 
 
 Treason: Whortleberry. 
 
 Truth: Hyacinth. 
 
 U. 
 
 Unanimity: Phlox. 
 
 Unconscious Beauty: Mignionette. 
 Unbelief: Judas-Tree. 
 
 Uneasiness: Garden Marigold. 
 Unfortunate Attachment: Scabius. 
 Union: Rose, (Lancaster.) 
 Uselessness: Spirae Hypericum 
 Frutex. 
 
 Utility: Dried Flax; Grass. 
 
 V. 
 
 Variety: China-Aster. 
 
 Vice : Darnel or Ray Grass. 
 Victory: Palm. 
 
 Virgin Pride: Gentiana Fritillaria. 
 Virtue: Mint. 
 
224 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Voluptuousness: Tuberose. 
 Voraciousness: Lupin. 
 
 Vulgar Minds: African Marigold. 
 
 W. 
 
 War: Common Milfoil; Yarrow. 
 Weak but Winning: Moschatel. 
 
 Weakness: Musk-Crowfoot. 
 Welcome to a Stranger : American 
 Starwort. 
 
 Will you pledge me'? Sidesaddle- 
 Flower. 
 
 Win me and wear me: Lady’s Slip¬ 
 per. 
 
 Winter: Guelder-Rose. 
 
 Wisdom: White Mulberry-Tree. 
 Writ: Ragged Robin. 
 
 Wit ill-timed: Sorrel. 
 
 Woodland Beauty: Sycamore. 
 Worth beyond Beauty: Alyssum 
 (Sweet). 
 
 Y. 
 
 You are cold : Hortensia. 
 
 You are my Divinity: American 
 Cowslip. 
 
 You are Perfect: Pine-Apple. 
 
 You are radiant with Charms: Ra¬ 
 nunculus. 
 
 You are the Gtueen of Coquettes: 
 Queen’s Rocket. 
 
 You are without Pretension : Flo¬ 
 ra’s Bell; Pasque Flower; Rose 
 Campion. 
 
 You please all: Branch of Currants. 
 
 You puzzle me: Love in a Mist. 
 
 Your Blush has won me : Azalea. 
 
 Your Frown I defy : Anemone. 
 
 Your Image is engraven on my 
 Heart: Spindle-Tree. 
 
 Your looks freeze me: Ice-Plant. 
 
 Your Presence softens my Pain: 
 Milk-Vetch. 
 
 You shall have Justice: Sweet- 
 scented Tussilage. 
 
 Youth: White Lilac. 
 
 Youthfulness; Crocus. 
 
 Youthful Charms: Rosebud. 
 
 Youthful Hope: Snowdrop. 
 
 You will cause my Death: Hem¬ 
 lock. 
 
 Z. 
 
 Zealousness: Elder. 
 
 Zest: Lemon. 
 
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