IO 
Introd uc tion. 
“ They are not half so bright 
As childhood’s roses were! ” 
Miss Pardoe, in the “ City of the Sultan,” describes an interest¬ 
ing ceremony, which she beheld some Turkish children perform¬ 
ing, at a time of excessive drought:—“ At dusk, the village 
children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of 
wild flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to 
one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of suppli¬ 
cation.” Inspired by the sight, the talented authoress composed 
a kindred hymn, thus ending: 
“Allah! Father! hear us ! 
We bring Thee flowers, sweet flowers, 
All withered in their prime ; 
No moisture glistens on their leaves, 
They sickened ere their time. 
And we, like them, shall pass away, 
Ere wintry days are near, 
Should’st Thou not hearken as we pray— 
Allah ! Father !—hear! ” 
But childhood soon fleets away with its transient troubles and 
heedless mirth, and token-flowers are now sought for, to tell of 
deeper feelings, and more passionate hopes and fears, than yet 
have stirred the heart. Love! love, the lord of all, asserts his 
right to rule : he is a most despotic monarch, and 
“Like Alexander he would reign; 
And he would reign alone.” 
Now it is that the blushing cheek and bashful downcast eye 
show that another willing slave is brought into the bondage of 
“Love—beautiful and boundless love !—who dwellest here below, 
Teaching the human lip to smile—the violet to blow.” 
and now it is, as Eliza Cook tells us, that 
“ Some liken their love to the beautiful rose, 
And some to the violet sweet; ” 
for each one seeks to typify his passion by the most beautiful 
emblem he can discover, and for such, instinctively turns to 
the lovely offspring of Flora, amid whose numerous and varied 
delicacies he speedily finds a symbol with which he may depict 
all the nameless longings of his heart. “ Flowers have their 
language,” says an able writer: “ theirs is an oratory that speaks 
