The soul, departed from its earthly clay.
He died, he died! and calmly pass'd away,
His children not at home; his widow mourn,
And all his friends, in tears, seem quite forlorn."
Some of the London booksellers ought to reprint this work as a curiosity of literature. Some of the subscribers took a number of copies, and one might be procured for the purpose. The country seats of the largest subscribers are described in the poem.
The book ends with these lines (added by the "devil" of the printing-office, no doubt):
"The above rural, pathetic, and very sublime performance was corrected, in every respect, by the author himself."
This is erased with a pen, and these words written below—"Printer's error."
Uneda.
Philadelphia.