IN TROD UCTION. 
13 
Amid the broken and crumbling ruins over which 
Time has marched, he has only left the sculptured 
capital of some column or shattered pedestal, in 
which we can trace, among a hundred rude hiero¬ 
glyphics, the rough outline of some flower, which was 
either sacred to their religion or to their love. In 
the ruins of temples, whose origin even antiquity has 
forgotten, we trace in the life-like marble of the figures 
brows which are wreathed with blossoms, and in the 
broken fresco we find groups of maidens strewing the 
pathway which leads to the holy shrine with flowers; 
the carven altar is piled high with them; they garland 
the neck of the victim which their priests are about 
to sacrifice; and — we know no more. 
Ages have passed away since that procession moved 
— the shadows of two thousand years have settled 
down over the hills and valleys where those beautiful 
maidens first gathered the flowers of summer — history 
has left no record of their existence— the language in 
which they breathed their loves, their hopes, and their 
fears, has died away — even their name as a nation 
is forgotten : and all we know is, that their men looked 
noble, and their women beautiful; and that flowers were 
used in their sacred ceremonies ; and that all, saving 
the mute figures upon the marble, have long since 
2 
