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436   ANNA CORA MOWATT.

stay on the continent, she wrote a tragedy called Gulzara, which was published in New York in 1841.  In the winter of 1845 her best work, Fashion, a Comedy, was acted at the Park Theatre, New York; and was much praised at the time for the simplicity of its plot, and the spirited sarcasm which seasoned its colloquy.  She is herself an actress of no ordinary skill; and distinguished herself some years ago by the "elocutionary readings" with which she entertained large and fashionable audiences in New York, Boston, and other cities.


TIME.

NAY rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be,
And say not he cometh, colossal in might,
Our Beauty to ravish, put pleasure to flight,
And pluck away friends, e'en as leaves from the tree;
And say not Love's torch, which like Vesta's should burn,
The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn.

You call Time a robber?  Nay, he is not so,—
While Beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils,
The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils;
And, sow'd in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow?
The magnet 'mid stars points the north still to view;
So Time 'mong our friends e'er discloses the true.

Tho' cares then should gather, as pleasures flee by,
Tho' Time, from thy features, the charms steal away,
He'll dim too mine eye, lest it see them decay;
And sorrows we've shared, will knit closer love's tie:
Then I'll laugh at old Time, and at all he can do,
For he'll rob me in vain, if he leave me but you!


MY LIFE.

MY life is a fairy's gay dream,
And thou art the genii, whose wand
Tints all things around with the beam,
The bloom of Titana's bright land.

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ANNA CORA MOWATT.   437

A wish to my lips never sprung,
A hope in my eyes never shone,
But, ere it was breathed by my tongue,
To grant it thy footsteps have flown.

Thy joys, they have ever been mine,
Thy sorrows, too often thine own,
The sun that on me still would shine,
O'er thee threw its shadows alone.

Life's garland then let us divide,
Its roses I'd fain see thee wear,
For one — but I know thou wilt chide —
Ah! leave me its thorns, love, to bear!


LOVE.

THOU conqueror's conqueror, mighty Love! to thee
Their crowns, their laurels, kings and heroes yield!
Lo! at thy shrine great Antony bows the knee,
Disdains his victor wreath, and flies the field!
From woman's lips Alcides lists thy tone,
And grasps the inglorious distaff for his sword!
An eastern sceptre at thy feet is thrown,
A nation's worshipp'd idol owns thee Lord!*
And well for Noorjehan his throne became,
When erst she ruled his empire in thy name!

The sorcerer, Jarchas, could to age restore
Youth's faded bloom, or childhood's vanish'd glee;
Magician, Love! canst thou not yet do more?
Is not the faithful heart kept young by thee?


*The Emperor Jehangheer was so devotedly attached to his favourite Sultana, Noorjehan, that at her solicitation he granted her absolute power over his empire for a day.

37*

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 09:16:34