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POETIC TRIFLES.

FAREWELL ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MRS. WOODHAM, NOV. 2, 1807,

THEATRE BALTIMORE.

The scenic fictions done, my task is o'er, And yet to view my friends I come once

more ; Not now to play an author's studied part, I now a real feeling would impart, The pow'rful throbbings of a grateful heart.

“Two years on wings of down have scarce

flown o'er,"

Since first I trod your hospitable shore,
And in that time, my hours did minutes seem,
The happy minutes of some heavenly dream;
With joy I think on how I have been blest,
Lived in your favour, by your smiles carrest,
And in your bosoms found a place of rest.

These are sweet joys, that have too quickly

flown, And now once more into the world I'm

thrown; * As some poor bird, who's mate stern fate

has maim'd, Flies from the covey 'till its strength's re

gain'd; And in seclusion passes the dull hours, 'Till health shall kindly renovate its powers : So I, by conjugal affection borne, Am with my mate from your protection torn.

* Alluding to Mr. Woodham's illness, which occasioned her leaving Baltimore.

But when the gay return of rosy spring,
Shall with it ruddy strength and vigour bring,
How will our breasts with joyous pleasure

burn,
To meet the smiles of friends on our return;
That hope shall cheer us on our weary way,
And make the dreary hours seem ever gay.

And now my friends farewell, a short fare

well, May peace, joy, happiness amongst you dwell; May you!—but oh, I cannot now reveal, The soft emotions I this moment feel. Farewell

my friends -perhaps a last adieuBut oh, this heart will ever think of you.

PARODY

ON

R. BURNS'S MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

........

WHEN lovely spring, with smiling train,

Fresh cloth'd each plain and tree
One heavenly morn I wander'd forth

Along the banks of Dee.
I met a maid, upon whose brow

Sat love with mirth and glee,
Before whose lovely beauteous form

All sadness seem'd to flee.

She said, young stranger, whither stray'st,

Is't sadness to beguile,
Or dost thou wander out with me

To court fair pleasure's smile.
If thou for happiness dost seek,

And bliss on bliss would'st pile ; : Ne'er quit the substance for the shade,

But catch each joy the while,

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The sun, that now with lustre decks,

The dew drops on the spray,
I've seen how many a time return,

Fresh gracing and more gay.
The peasants catch the genial glow-

New joys within them burn;
And
every

child of nature owns,
Man ne'er was made to mourn.

trait

,

O man! why waste thy youthful days

In sorrow, sadness, grief ?
For every thought of ill thou know'st

Sweet mirth will find relief.
To every misery thou feel'st,

Let pleasure give a turn ;
For nature shews a thousand ways,

Man ne'er was made to mourn.

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