THE INTEMPERATE.

Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend,

Then wretched, hopeless, in the evil days,

With sorrow to the verge of life they tend,

Griev'd with the present,-of the past asham'd,—

They live and are despised; they die, nor more are nam'd

LOWTH

WHERE the lofty forests of Ohio, towering in unshorn majesty, cast a solemn shadow over the deep verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a small family of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary way. They travelled on foot, but not with the aspect of mendicants, though care and suffering were variably depicted on their countenances. The man walked first, apparently in an unkind, uncompromising mood. The woman carried in her arms an infant, and aided the progress of a feeble boy, who seemed sinking with exhaustion. An eye accustomed to scan the never-resting tide of emigration, might discern that these pilgrims were inhabitants of the Eastern States, probably retreating from some species of adversity, to one of those imaginary El Dorados, among the shades of the far West, where it is fabled that the evils of mortality have found no place.

James Harwood, the leader of that humble group,