Soar now, my angel, to thy Maker’s shrine,
There reap that prize, due to such worth as thine.
Fly, gentle shade—fly to that blest abode,
There view thy mother—and adore thy God:
There, Oh! my Boy!——on that celestial shore,
Oh! may we gladly meet—and part no more!!!
A Parent. [[404]]
And now farewell, my friends, who have been pleased to peruse this narrative of my distresses with sympathetic sensibility; particularly those whose goodness of heart can forgive my inaccuracies and foibles.—I say, farewell: claiming no other merit whatever throughout these pages, than that of having spoke the simple truth; which, if I wilfully have violated, may these volumes perish, and be forgotten with their author!—But should this treasure, TRUTH, so rarely to be met with, be found in this performance:—
“Let one poor sprig of bays around my head
Bloom while I live; and point me out when dead.”