40 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
which were ever bowing down and kissing the pearly 
whiteness of her feet. How the snowy petals of 
this pale princess of the waters might recall the 
Purity of Heart of her he loved, how he might trace 
the outline of her beautiful brow in the golden 
crown of the flower, see in the silver-skirted ripples 
the moving forms of her attendants, and, catching 
another glimpse of the yellow Broom, and the 
rounded Blue-bell, conjure up the Humility and 
Constancy, and Purity of his own queen; and, 
taking heart, strike some sad, sweet note on the 
silent harp, which had hitherto lain neglected beside 
him, and see rising before him a thousand homes, 
which no misbelieving Dane had ravished, and a 
kingdom freed from the desolating hand of the 
invader. How, on a future day, some proud 
Plantagenet might have heard the legend from 
the sweet lips of the fair Saxon he had espoused, 
and he might mount the humble Broom in his 
haughty helmet, his cheek blanching while he gazed 
over the possessions he had gained by plunder and 
power, as he thought how, in former days, the 
recovery of a kingdom had been planned, and won 
back, by a brave and houseless king; whose throne 
was then a solitary heath, canopied by a blue and 
bounded sky, and his attendants only the sur¬ 
rounding flowers. 
Who can tell what sad feelings hung about the 
