The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
Titans. Even the chariot of Venus stood unyoked at the foot of the
mount; the silken traces lay loosely thrown together upon the
ground, and the white doves were idly hovering round in the air;
for the weeping goddess was so overwhelmed with sorrow, that she
had forgotten to waft her light-winged whisper to the Mount of
Olympus; nor had they received any summons from the charioteer
Love, who lay sleeping upon a bed of Roses, with his bow and arrows
by his side.
In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval world, whose
echoes had never been startled by the blows of a descending axe,
nor a branch rent from their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded
bolts of the Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his
anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beauty still continued
to sit, as if unconscious of the savage solitude which surrounded
her; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her
unrobed loveliness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess in
the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the mighty and
storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and there flashed down in
rays of molten gold, making their gnarled and twisted stems look as
if they had just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like
furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a blackened
avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of the consuming lightning
had ages agone marched. Every way, where the lengthened shadows of
evening began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a more
savage look, which was heightened by the noise of some
deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and thundering through the
thicket; the growl of the tiger was also heard at intervals, as he
retreated farther into the deepening darkness of the dingles,
mistaking the blazing sunset for some devouring fire. But the eyes
of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover,--she felt only his
chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and deeper into the warm
heart on which she pressed it, and over which her tears fell,
slower or faster, just as the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or
subsided, and sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids that
overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her immortal heart before
been swollen by such an overflowing torrent of grief. But the
warmth of her kisses, which would almost have awakened life in a
statue of marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; and
her sighs, which came sweeter than the morning air when it first
arises from its sleep among the Roses, stirred not one of the
clotted ringlets which softened into the yielding whiteness of her
heavenly bosom,--
“She looked upon his lips, and they are pale;
She took him by the hand, and that was cold;
She whispered in his ear a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woful words she told.”
She would have given her immortality but to have heard those lips
murmur and complain, as they had done a few hours before--to have
seen those eyes again burning with disdain, as they flashed back
indignantly the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as he
had that very morning stood, in all the pride of youthful manliness
and beauty, when he looked down, blushing and abashed, as he held
his boar-spear in his hand, when she threw the studded bridle over
her own rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked up his
ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, while his long tail
streamed out like a banner, and his proud eye dilated, and his
broad nostrils expanded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud
to be led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured the
Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly in her arms, how
he tried to conceal his face, this way, and that way, among the
flowers, whenever she attempted to press his lips,--
“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple.”
She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from her embrace,
and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, which had snapped the rein
that secured it to the branch of a neighbouring oak, and started at
full speed down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy she
again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, weary with the
fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling down, she then
“Took him gently by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band:
So white a friend engirt so white a foe;
A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.”
And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again,
as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she
fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek--his kisses upon her
lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he
bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred
endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when
she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered
kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any
resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and,
darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the
ground.
As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and
every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved
form, told her what the hand of death had done, and that those
very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever
darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud,
wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and
fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the
golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to
his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying
to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge
of the forest--of gods and goddesses passing through the air--of
golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they
cleft their rapid way--and the flapping of dark, immortal wings,
between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden
clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded
summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of
the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the
approaching twilight,--for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal
foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in
that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and
desolate,--where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead
Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of
the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping
Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot
of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,--wan, and cold, and
speechless,--was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden
chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver
and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness
settled down upon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose
and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of
the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white,
were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had
fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never
before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a
ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the
red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white
apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the
ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the
drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote
that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the
long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before
white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.
Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:
As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers,
Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers,
An opening Rose of purest white
She marked with eye that beamed delight,
Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drew
From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue.
_Carey._
The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She
would be crowned Queen of the Flowers by the most unpoetical. The
emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose
mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is
as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could
have been chosen.
I have cherished
A love for one whose beauty would have charmed
In Athens. And I know what ’tis to love
A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil
Of an unblemished loveliness, still find
Charms of a higher order, and a power
Deeper and more resistless. Had I found
Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream
Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown
As a dull pebble from them, I had loved
Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame
Of less devotion.
_Percival._
* * * * *
There’s no miniature
In her face, but is a copious theme,
Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.
What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies
Contending with the roses in her cheeks,
Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!--
Or unto what can I compare her neck,
But to a rock of crystal? Every limb
Proportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatness
Add lustre to the richness of her habit,
Not borrowed from it.
_Massinger._
PEONY.... _Anger_.
The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues.
It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is
almost destitute of scent.
I am burned up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom’s strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom’s storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,
To anger’s dark and stormy sea.
_J. W. Eastburne._
* * * * *
Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.
_Shakspeare._
NETTLES.... _Cruelty_.
Nettles may be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often,
while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting
plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing
an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the
vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish
fancy looked upon them as cruel.