106 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
j ings of the awakening bosom of Spring. Majestic are 
the remains of our old English forests, where, around 
the battered and weather-beaten stems of the primitive 
| oaks, the broad, fan-like leaves of the Fern spread ; 
showing how sincerely they still adhere to the ancient 
soil which first nourished them, and that, amid the 
great revolutions of departed ages, they still stand 
there,—true, but lowly emblems of Sincerity,—mark¬ 
ing out the spot where England’s mighty forests once 
spread. And in those solitudes, where human voice 
was then seldom heard, the tender and trembling 
| Harebell grew, ever waving its delicate cups if the 
hushed wind but breathed in its sleep. Fitly was it 
1 named the Happiness of Retirement—the beauty of 
solitude—the graceful inhabitants of still and lonely 
places; for when a silence hung over the unexplored 
depths of our woodland fastnesses, it was still there. 
It was one day, after a weary flight from a far-off 
foreign shore, that Love alighted with a sprig of grace¬ 
ful Fuchsia in his hand, and, sitting down beneath 
the shadow of a gigantic oak in a lonely forest-glade, 
he took up the broad-leaved Fern to fan and cool him¬ 
self, for the air around was hot. Then throwing it 
down across his bow, he stretched himself upon the 
