"Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs."
But Mr. Holland's fancy is of a quality which transcends all feigning in others. Whatever it touches it figures in gross material substance, preferably wood or some sort of upholstery. When, however, his hero first stood in Broadway, he seems to have found no fabric of the looms, no variety of plumage, no sort of precious wood or dye-stuff equal to the allegory, and he wreaks himself in the following tremendous hydraulic image;—
"I saw the waves of life roll up the steps
Of great cathedrals and retire; and break
In charioted grandeur at the feet
Of marble palaces, and toss their spray
Of feathered beauty through the open doors,
To pile the restless foam within; and burst
On crowded caravansaries, to fall
In quick return; and in dark currents glide
Through sinuous alleys, and the grimy loops
Of reeking cellars, and with softest plash
Assail the gilded shrines of opulence,
And slide in musical relapse away."