282 POPULAR TALES OF FLOWERS 
clear crystal of 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 scarcely a tree threw down 
its chequered shadow to form a golden network upon the 
green-sward, he planted the Harebell, and the crimson 
Heather, to give a charm to Retirement and Solitude. 
Into the depths of the lonelitst woods he went, visiting 
deep dells and deserted dingles, v ^re 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 Mari- 
gold, 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, whilst 
ever the golden star shone there, it should be the image 
of Joys to Come. 
From flower to flower he flew on his peaceful pilgrim- 
age — through them reconciling lovers who had long been 
estranged, and bringing back many a wandering affection 
that had often sighed for a fond heart to dwell within. 
Thus Love restored a language which, for undated 
centuries, 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, where 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 eves 
Antiquity has forgotten, we see 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 pathway 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 ta 
sacrifice — and, we know no more. 
