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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
of the Dale. Never did arm more exquisitely 
moulded or gracefully formed guide the reins of 
a milk-white palfrey; or forest-nymph more lovely 
cleave the morning air in her flight, than she who 
sat, sole queen of the chase, light as a bird upon her 
rounded saddle. The very hawk which was perched 
upon her wrist seemed to look into her face with 
love, and when he hovered high in the air in pursuit 
of the quarry he needed no other lure than the blue 
heaven of her eyes to bring him back again to his 
stand. Even in the banquet-hall of her father’s 
ancient castle, when the stormy and mail-clad sons 
of war sat around the board, talking of moats they 
had crossed, and turrets they had scaled, of the 
lances they had shivered, and the helmets their 
heavy battle-axes had cloven, if they but once heard 
her light foot upon the dais, their conversation was 
changed to that of love, instead of war,—such soft¬ 
ness breathed around the presence of the Daisy of 
the Dale. She seemed like the Spirit of Peace 
alighting in the midst of those armed warriors upon 
a mission of Love — as if the white folds of her 
floating tunic were a more impenetrable armour 
than the linked mail in which their sinewy limbs 
were sheathed, and the rim of Daisies which were 
twined within the silken braid that fettered her 
floating ringlets, a safer helmet than any that was 
ever wrought out of steel, three times whitened 
