For the never-ending term of thy saved and bright existence.
OF DISCRETION.
For what then was I born?—to fill the circling year
With daily toil for daily bread, with sordid pains and pleasures?—
To walk this chequered world, alternate light and darkness,
The day-dreams of deep thought followed by the night-dreams of fancy?—
To be one in a full procession?—to dig my kindred clay?—