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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
crimson clouds, above the rim of the distant 
horizon. Bride of the wood—beloved of the green- 
waving trees! even the giant oak enfolds thee with 
a fond embrace, and hugs thee in its iron arms with 
a gentle pressure. The hooked bramble wooeth 
thee to twine lovingly between its thorns, and the 
graceful hazel uplifteth thee on high in its green arms, 
as if to show thy beautiful tiara of flowers to the 
surrounding underwood. Around the green elm dost 
thou ring thy lovely arms, and breathest thy sweet 
breath in the bosom of the hoary hawthorn, when 
all its milk-white blossoms have wandered away, or 
lie withering at the roots of the many-hued flowers 
of Summer. Over wide solitudes, where the gorse, 
and the broom, and the fern, stretch far,—where 
the tangling brier, and the piercing sloe, and the 
armed holly, bid defiance to the footstep of the 
wayfarer,—there dost thou sit, with thy fair face 
looking out from thy turret surrounded with leaves, 
like a lovely lady imprisoned in some impregnable 
castle, that stands in the midst of a savage and 
impenetrable forest. 
It was soon after the creation of the world, when 
the hand of Nature had roughed out its mighty 
work ; had thrown the mountains ruggedly together, 
and broad-cast the flowers over the hills and valleys, 
that lesser powers were appointed to arrange them 
in order and harmony;—when winged attendants 
