50 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
of the Lake,” resting her crowned head on a green 
throne of velvet, and looking down into the depths 
of her own sky-reflecting realms, watching the 
dance, as her attendant water-nymphs keep time to 
the rocking of the ripples, and the dreamy swaying 
of the trailing water-stems. Whether or not this 
Queen of the Waters retires to her own crystal 
dominions after sunset, and sleeps in her silver 
palace beneath the ripples, seems to be a matter of 
doubt amongst botanists. To an old angler like 
myself, who has lost many a hook, and had his lines 
entangled, amongst their stems after they had sunk 
below the waters, there can be no doubt at all ; 
but whether this might be the case in very shallow 
streams, or “ made ponds,” is another matter; my 
experience is confined to ancient delfts and old out- 
of-the-way meres and places, that yet retain their 
ancient Saxon names, where the true English 
Water-lilies still grow. The bard of Erin says,— 
“ Those virgin lilies all the night 
Bathing their beauties in the lake. 
That they may rise more fresh and bright, 
When their beloved sun’s awake.” 
The “Bonny BroomV ig familiar to every lover 
of the country, and cannot be mistaken for the 
gorse or furze, even in the dark ; for, although their 
flowers are very similar, there is a difference in 
the latter, which is soon “ felt.” The Broom is 
