It made him feel, in the turbid coil of his fears and passions, like a muddy tramp forcing his way into some pure sequestered shrine…
He came nearer, and looked at her, and she went to him. All her fears seemed to fall from her as he held her. It was a different feeling from any she had known before: confused and turbid, as if secret shames and rancours stirred in it, yet richer, deeper, more enslaving. She leaned her head back and shut her eyes beneath his kisses. She knew now that she could never give him up.
They walked down the drawing-rooms, between the shadowy reflections of screens and cabinets, and mounted the stairs side by side. At the end of the gallery, a lamp brought out turbid gleams in the smoky battle-piece above it.
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Oft with th’ enchantress of his soul he talks;
Sometimes in crouds distress’d; or if retir’d
To secret-winding, flower-enwoven bowers,
Far from the dull impertinence of man,
Just as he, credulous, his thousand cares
Begins to lose in blind oblivious love,
Snatch’d from her yielded hand, he knows not how,
Thro’ forests huge, and long untravel’d heaths
With desolation brown, he wanders waste,
In night and tempest wrapt; or shrinks aghast,
Back, from the bending precipice; or wades
The turbid stream below, and strives to reach
The farther shore; where succourless, and sad, Wild as a Bacchanal she spreads her arms,
But strives in vain, borne by th’ outragious flood
To distance down, he rides the ridgy wave,
Or whelm’d beneath the boiling eddy sinks.Indistinct on earth,
Seen thro’ the turbid air, beyond the life,
Objects appear;Then o’er the sanded valley floating spreads,
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Calm, sluggish, silent; till again constrain’d,
Betwixt two meeting hills it bursts away,
Where rocks, and woods o’erhang the turbid stream;
There gathering triple force, rapid, and deep,
It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders thro’.
Now take thy solitary flight
Amid the turbid gales of night,
Where spectres, starting from the tomb,
Glide along th’ impervious gloom ;
Or, stretch’d upon the sea-beat shore,
Let the wild winds, as they roar,All is silent !— yon black cloud
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Soon the waning moon will shroud :
All is dark !— the moaning wind
Turbid vapours haste to bind.
Why sleep the idle Avalanches so,
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To topple on the lonely pilgrim’s head?
Why doth Eridanus but overflow
The peasant’s harvest from his turbid bed?
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?
I turned to the corse-strewn earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were the placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south; heavy masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red and turbid lightning shot from their dark edges; the rushing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct, I descended from my station, and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to avoid the slain.
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All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin,
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The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time completely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame that he looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, his fierce emotional agony.
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I find the vale where catnip grows,
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Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed;
The vale through which the red creek flows,
Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loud
As some wild horn a hunter blows.