58 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
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 over¬ 
whelmed with sorrow, that she had forgotten to 
waft her lightning-winged whisper to the Mount 
of Olympus; nor had they received any summons 
from the charioteer Love, who with folded wings 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 pri¬ 
meval 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 un¬ 
conscious of the savage solitude which surrounded 
her ; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that 
peered upon her unrobed loveliness 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 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 
