62 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
As picture after picture rose before her of what 
bad been, and every close pressure of the cold, in¬ 
animate, but still dearly-loved form, told her what 
death was, and that those very “ hopes and fears 
which are akin to love,” were now for ever 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 in the act of 
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, 
between which many a beautiful divinity was 
seated. The golden clouds of sunset gathered 
red and ominously 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 Adonis, 
