Mary Colborne-Veel

`What Look hath She?'

 What look hath she,
 What majestie,
That must so high approve her?
 What graces move
 That I so love,
That I so greatly love her?

 No majestie
 But Truth hath She;
Thoughts sweet and gracious move her;
 That straight approve
 My heart to love,
And all my life to love her!

Saturday Night

Saturday night in the crowded town;
Pleasure and pain going up and down,
Murmuring low on the ear there beat
Echoes unceasing of voice and feet.
Withered age, with its load of care,
Come in this tumult of life to share,
Childhood glad in its radiance brief,
Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief,
Meet alike, as the stars look down
Week by week on the crowded town.

~And in a kingdom of mystery,
Rapt from this weariful world to see
Magic sights in the yellow glare,
Breathing delight in the gas-lit air,
Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain,
Two by two, again and again,
Strephon and Chloe together move,
Walking in Arcady, land of love.~

What are the meanings that burden all
These murmuring voices that rise and fall?
Tragedies whispered of, secrets told,
Over the baskets of bought and sold;
Joyous speech of the lately wed;
Broken lamentings that name the dead:
Endless runes of the gossip's rede,
And gathered home with the weekly need,
Kindly greetings as neighbours meet
There in the stir of the busy street.

Then is the glare of the gaslight ray
Gifted with potency strange to-day,
Records of time-written history
Flash into sight as each face goes by.
There, as the hundreds slow moving go,
Each with his burden of joy or woe,
Souls, in the meeting of stranger's eyes,
Startled this kinship to recognise, —
Meet and part, as the stars look down,
Week by week on the crowded town.

~And still, in the midst of the busy hum,
Rapt in their dream of delight they come.
Heedless of sorrow, of grief or care,
Wandering on in enchanted air,
Far from the haunting shadow of pain:
Two by two, again and again,
Strephon and Chloe together move,
Walking in Arcady, land of love.~

`Resurgam'

(Autumn Song)

   Chill breezes moaning are
    Where leaves hang yellow:
   O'er the grey hills afar
    Flies the last swallow;
To come again, my love, to come again
    Blithe with the summer.
But Ah! the long months ere we welcome then
    That bright new comer.

   Cold lie the flowers and dead
    Where leaves are falling.
   Meekly they bowed and sped
    At Autumn's calling.
To come again, my love, to come again
    Blithe with the swallow.
Ah! might I dreaming lie at rest till then,
    Or rise and follow!

   The summer blooms are gone,
    And bright birds darting;
   Cold lies the earth forlorn;
    And we are parting.
To meet again, my love, to meet again
    In deathless greeting,
But ah! what wintry bitterness of pain
    Ere that far meeting!

Distant Authors

"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias."

Dear books! and each the living soul,
 Our hearts aver, of men unseen,
Whose power to strengthen, charm, control,
 Surmounts all earth's green miles between.

For us at least the artists show
 Apart from fret of work-day jars:
We know them but as friends may know,
 Or they are known beyond the stars.

Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire,
 When twilight murmuring of streams,
Or skies far touched by sunset fire,
 Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;

Their love of good; their rage at wrong;
 Their hours when struggling thought makes way;
Their hours when fancy drifts to song
 Lightly and glad as bird-trills may;

All these are truths. And if as true
 More graceless scrutiny that reads,
"These fruits amid strange husking grew;"
 "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;"

Here no despoiling doubts shall blow,
 No fret of feud, of work-day jars.
We know them but as friends may know,
 Or they are known beyond the stars.