'Twould wear me out—this round of ceaseless toil,
In the same range of artificial life;
And I must greet you with a traveler's haste,
And back to my free forest home again.
MARGRAVE.
'Tis well that every part and scene in life
Can find its actors ready for the stage,
And well that our wide land has scope for all.
And yet to feel that those who raised together
Their hope-swelled canvass when life's voyage began—