Frances Fuller Victor

“ Of the pole-star reflected in eyes' rain:
⁠"Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so;"
⁠And, like a bound bird, flutters hard to go.
⁠Sad eyes, that, blurred with tears,
Gaze into darkness, gaze no more in vain
⁠Whence no loved face appears,
And no voice comes to lull the heart's fond pain!
⁠Sad heart! restrain thy throbs,
For beauty, like a presence out of heaven,
⁠Rests over all, and robs
Sorrow of pain, and makes earth seem forgiven:—
⁠Twilight the fair eve ushers in with grace,
⁠And rose clouds melt for stars to take their place. ”

“ Mason gave me a cautioning glance, which she need not have done, for I had no intention of making known Miss Jorgensen's secrets.
"Well," said Miss Flower, as if she had been debating the question in her mind for some time previous, "I doubt if a woman can love a man who submits to her will as subserviently as Mr. Hurst seems to, to Miss Jorgensen. I know some women could not."
"By which you mean you could not," Mrs. Mason returned, smiling. "I do not see that the case need be very different with men. Subserviency never won anybody's respect or love either. ”

“ A hasty glance, under the full light of the moon, had shown him the features of the lady who sat twelve paces away, with her hands over her face. It is not always those that sin who suffer most from the consciousness of sin; and Sam, perhaps, with that hint of possible—nay, almost certain—wickedness in his breast-pocket, was more burdened by the weight of it than many a criminal about to suffer all the terrors of the law; for the woman that he loved stood accused, if not convicted, before his conscience and her own, and he could not condemn, because his heart refused to judge her. ”

“ If they sometimes turn their heads with the dangerous deference, what wonder!
Secure in the distance between them, Miss Edwards assumed that she could safely defer to Sandy-haired Jim, if, as it seemed, he enjoyed the sense of being her protector. Even had he been her equal, she would have said to herself, "He knows my heart is breaking for another, and will respect my grief." In this double security, she paid no heed to the devotion of her companion, only thinking him the kindest and most awkward of good and simple-minded men. ”

“ Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here,
At once the master that men love and fear—
Whom they have sought by many strange devices,
In ancient river-beds; in interstices
Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand,
Where curls the tawny sand
By mountain torrents hurried to the main,
And thence hurled back again:—
Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently
Offered up everything, O gold, to thee!—
Home, wife and children, native soil, and all
That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;
Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted ”

“ And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness
⁠Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;
'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness—
⁠The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion.
⁠I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill;
Who—"painted ships upon a painted ocean,"—
⁠Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices,
⁠Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:
No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices:
⁠Change, death, and distance part me now from all. ”

“ So a human creature who could thus voluntarily exile himself must be peculiar. But Joe Chillis did not look peculiar; he looked as alive and human as anybody—in fact, particularly alive and human just now; and it was not any eccentricity which had brought him to her this night, but a real human reason. What was the reason?
What with his mother's cooing whispers, and the passing of her light hand over his hair, Willie had fallen asleep. Mrs. Smiley lifted him in her arms and laid him on the lounge, covering him carefully, and touching him tenderly, kissing his bright curls at the last. ”

“ Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air—
⁠Has its fine perfume flown
⁠And left the memory bare?
⁠Not so; its charm is still
⁠Over wood, vale and hill—
The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus,
⁠The spirit that before us
⁠Enticed us with delights
⁠To the blue, breezy hights.
⁠O, beautiful hills that stand
Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace
⁠Of both to make you grand,—
⁠Your loveliness leaves place
⁠For nothing fairer; fair
⁠And complete beyond compare. ”

“ Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie,
On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim
And purple twilight, shut out from the sky,
Which is too garish for my softer whim.
And while I, looking inward on my thought,
Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.
Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,
With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:
I shall see inly better if thou keep
My outer senses in a charmed sleep.
Sweet friend!—I love that pleasant name of friend—
We walk not ever singly, through the world ”

“ The alder and the ash, the aspen and the willow,
⁠Wore tattered suits of yellow.
⁠The soft October rains
⁠Had left some scarlet stains
Of color on the landscape's neutral ground;
⁠Those fine ephemeral things,
⁠The winged motes of sound,
⁠That sing the "Harvest Home"
⁠Of ripe Autumn in the gloam
Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river,
⁠Sang that day their best endeavor.
⁠I said: "In what sweet place
⁠Shall we meet face to face,
⁠Her loveliest self to see—
Meet Nature at her sad autumnal rites,
⁠And learn the mystery
⁠Of her unnamed delights?" ”

“ He had had an Indian wife in his youth; being more accustomed to the ways of her people than of his own. For nearly twenty years he had lived a thriftless, bachelor existence, known among men, and by hearsay among women, as a noted story-teller, and genial, devil-may-care, old mountain man, whose heart was in the right place, but who never drew very heavily upon his brain resources, except to embellish a tale of his early exploits in Indian-fighting, bear-killing and beaver-trapping. It was with a curious feeling of wonder that Mrs. Smiley found herself tête-a-tête with him at her own fireside ”

“ Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain,
⁠And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes:
They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done,
Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone;
They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true;
⁠They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast;
But repeat to each other, as if they were new,
⁠Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.
Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream,
⁠The terror of waking comes back to my heart ”

“ Under the pines sat a young man and maiden,
"Love," said he; "life is sweet, think'st thou not so?"
Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn,—
"Life?" said she; "love is sweet; no more I know."
Into the wide world the maid and her lover
Wandered by pathways that sundered them far;
From pine-groves to palm-groves, he flitted a rover,
She tended his roses, and watched for his star. ”

“ But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold;
⁠And I who am your equal am cast down
Level with those who sell themselves for gold—
⁠A crownless queen—a woman of the town!
Ye vain Athenians, know this, that I
⁠By your hard laws am only made more free;
Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry,
⁠But, being unwed, I meet you openly,
A foreigner, you cannot wed with me;
⁠But I can win your hearts and sway your will,
And make your free wives envious to see
⁠What power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.
Who would not be beloved of Pericles?
⁠I could have had all Athens at my feet ”

“ Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses,
⁠And gathered violets to deck my breast,
Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses—
⁠I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.
Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning
⁠Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom;
While the young moon, and one bright star returning
⁠Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.
Gone is the glimmer of the silent river;
⁠Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day;
Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver
⁠Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way. ”

“ Shall women plead from out the dust forever?
⁠Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?
Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor,
⁠And seize the world's salvation while you may.
Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean,
⁠The sound of prayer is heard;
And in our hearts great billows of emotion
⁠At every breath are stirred.
From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley
⁠The voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"
O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally—
⁠Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup! ”

“ My grievance is, that your proud dames to me
⁠Came to be taught, in secret and alone.
They fear; what do they fear? is't me or you?
⁠Am I not pure as any of them all?
But your laws are against me; and 'tis true,
⁠If fame is lowering, I have had a fall!
O, selfish men of Athens, shall the world
⁠Remember you, and pass my glory by?
Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled,
⁠Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.
Am I then boastful? It is half in scorn
⁠Of caring for your love, or for your praise,
As women do, and must. ”

“ While some dread presence, all the darkness filling,
Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling;
Making the night, so awful unto me,
More fearful with that word Eternity.
So that my spirit, trembling and afraid,
Bowed down itself before its God, and prayed
For His strong arm of terror to be stayed;
⁠And sighed Eternity
From its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding,
Sank into broken murmurs ”

“ But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons.
Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary—
Even the babbling fountains, older are than story,
And his life's duration 's but a few short marches
Of the constellations through the heavenly arches!
Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar,
(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar,
Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,—
While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.
Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender,
Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor? ”

“ Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be,
Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be:
When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation,
Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:
Else—in him inhering powers of intellection—
Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection,
Itself gives security to restore life's treasure,
Freed from all impurity and in endless measure.
Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken.
Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken:
All in vain the sages toil with proof and question—
The immemorial ages give no least suggestion. ”

“ Sad will it be when his profession shall have been altogether superseded; and the coach-and-six, with its gracious and graceful "whip," shall have been supplanted, on all the principal lines of travel, by the iron-horse with its grimy "driver" and train of thundering carriages.
The passengers had taken their seats—the one lady on the box—and Sam Rice stood, chronometer held daintily between thumb and finger, waiting for the second hand to come round the quarter of a minute, while the grooms slipped the last strap of the harness into its buckle. ”

“ Were these ages golden while the world was younger,
When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger?
When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness,
And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness?
When the restless river of time loved to linger;
Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger;
When man's intuition led without deflection,
To a sure fruition, and a full perfection.
Individual man is ever new created:
What his being's plan is, loosely predicated
On the circumstances of his sole condition,
Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition. ”

“ Who mocks at any high behest;
My fault being that I kept the throne
Of a Jove vacant in my breast,
And when Apollo claimed the place
I was too loyal to my Jove;
Unmindful how the masks of love
Transfigure all things to our face.
Ah, well! if I have lost to fate
The greatest boon that heaven disposes;
And closed upon myself the gate
To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,
On this intoxicating air,
The witching influence of the moon,
The poet's rhymes that went in tune
To the night's voices low and rare;
To all, that goes to make such hours
Like hasheesh-dreams. ”