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; 
