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Young flies for his utmost consolation to the day of judgment, when “Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o’er creation;” when earth, stars, and sun are swept aside, Dr. Young and similar “ornaments of religion and virtue” passing of course with grateful “applause” into the upper region.
The principle is one already noted, action balancing action in contrary direction. What of the nymphs of Corot, or the laveuses bending at the margin of the lake, the plowman homeward plodding o’er the lea, the shepherd on the distant moor, the woodsman in the forest, the farmer among his fields. We associate our vision of the scene with theirs.
Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O’er one another they’re crashing; Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear’st not, sister—’ ‘Hark!’ said Belle, ‘hark!’
And now louder roared the howling wind and brighter the glaring lightning flashed, while fiercer grew the conflict in Fanny’s bosom. Her faith was weak, and well nigh blotted with tears of human weakness. But He, whose power could stay the storm without, could also still the agony within, and o’er the troubled waters of that aching heart there fell a peaceful calm.
Her words were soothing, and o’er his darkened mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining. Before the morning dawned he had resolved that if there still was hope for him he would find it. Many a time during the succeeding days he prayed in secret, not that Fanny might be spared, but that he might be reconciled to God. His prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a changed man.
Ay, truly; and by whom?—the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o’er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well—his speed and power? But where is Morfydd?
It takes most of the poetry out of Faust’s first words with Marguerite, to have that short interview interrupted by a line of old, weary women shouting, “Let us whirl in the waltz o’er the mount and the plain!” Or when Scotch Lucy appears in a smart tea-gown and is good enough to perform difficult exercises before a half-circle of Italian gentlemen in pantalets and ladies in court costumes, does she give any one the illusion of an abandoned wife dying of a broken heart alone in the Highlands?
He says: “‘Though gay companions o’er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill, Though pleasure fills the maddening soul, The heart—the heart is lonely still. “‘Ay, but to die, and go, alas! Where all have gone and all must go; To be the Nothing that I was, Ere born to life and living woe!
He tried to look at her angrily, but she smiled at him with such good-fellowship that he went off singing significantly that universal anthem of the cow-puncher the West over: "Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie, In a narrow grave just six by three, Where the wild coyotes will howl o’er me. Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie." "Ain’t there a love letter for me?"
The description of the literary belle, “Daphne,” well prefaces that of “Stella,” admired by Johnson: “With legs toss’d high, on her sophee she sits, Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Of each performance she’s the final test; One act read o’er, she prophecies the rest; And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Fully convinces all the town—she’s fair.
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