Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust
Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings
Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!
My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,
Long tried and well beloved—before I leave
This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—
Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—
I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,
Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;
It is among the last.