The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1838-12-11 00:00:00

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YOUTH.

Youth is the happiest time of life—
'Tis the season of harmony, excluded from strife;
"Cis the period we enjoy ourselves, free from the cares
Of a world of trouble, known by our tears.
Youth comes but once on this fleeting earth,
And flees faster away than the day of our birth;
'Tis the time of improvement and learning alone,
Which if left till the last is always unknown.
Youth keeps pace with Time for a season,
But fades like the rest of things, stands to reason ;
'Tis like a flower in the prime of its bud,
Which withers away with the storm or the flood.
Youth is the season God gave us to pray,
That thoughtlessness might not lead us astray;
For the day of our death must certainly come,
And then we'll remember His will has been done.
W. W. S.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BABY'S TOMB.

Beautiful flutterer! sportive and gay,
Wide o'er the flow'ry mead, wing►ng thy way,
Rest thee thou flitting one—where would'st thou be?
The red rose and lily are pining for thee.
Turn thee again to von garden so gay,
When sun-dancing beams with the flow'rets play:
Each bud, and each blossom, are beckoning to thee,
Hie thou sweet butterfly—where would'st thou be ?
Away—away—the light rover flew,
G'er the glowing heath, and the haubell blue;
With Nature's fair wildings the butterfly play'd,
How light were his gambols ! as onwards he stray'd.
•

Two little mounds in fresh grassy green.
A willow droops there, and wild violets gleam,
The wanderer rests his velvet wings,
And the waving willow its death shades flings.
A white stone stands on that lonely spot—
Around it blows the forget me not—
It mournfully tells of the age and birth,
Of two fair babes, that lie cradled in earth.

Between the two groves a fair tree grows,
its light stems bend with the white moss rose,
'Tis the fostering care of a young mother's hands—
Emblem of innocence ! smiling it stands.
Butterfly tell me, what fairy flower
Invites thy stay in death's cold bower:
Slowly thou'rt hovering with milk white wings,—
The speaking scene to my fancy brings
Two little cherubs in robes of white,
In the baby land of the regions bright.
Young mother rejoice ! thy babes are blest,
They have entered upon a glorious rest—
For them it was purchased, to them it is given,
Young mother give pi aise ! thy babes are in heaven.
Ah! myriads shine in that baby land,
To the eye of faith—what a smiling band!
The chosen of God—how brightly they shine!
Hallelujahs they sing in that heavenly clime,
The praise, and the glory, 0 ! Saviour be thine.
EDITH.

Liverpool, Nov. 1838.

SONGS OF THE PASSIONS.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

(Front Lady Blessington's " Book of Beauty for 1839.")

LOVE.
Where the golden hand of morn
Touches light the singing fountain,
There a maiden lowly born,
Guides her flock along the mountain.
Bashful as the fawn, and fleet,
She invests the world with beauty.
Simple grace, and manners sweet,
Dignify her humble duty.
Sudden light has wreathed the earth,
Robed the fields and flowers in gladness;
New delights—too deep for mirth;—
Gentle griefs—too sweet for sadness!—
Who this sudden charm path wrought?
Sent this flow of bright revealings ?
Mind, that springs with joyous thought!
Heart, that glows with heavenly feelings!

Surely, 'tis some angel strayed,
Not a shepherd's daughter solely,
Who bath earth like heaven arrayed,
In a light and love so holy !
Oh, when stars, like drops of pearl,
Glimmer o'er the singing water,
There I'll woo my mountain girl,
Proudly wed the shepherd's daughter !

DESPAIR.
I had a dream of many lands,
A voyage fleet and far,
Beyond the waste and desert sands—
The light of sun or star.
I saw a fearful shape arise,
The Angel of Despair;
His awful head gloom'd mid the skies,
And clouds his footstools were !
The scars and furrows myriad years
Had branded on his head,
Where channels old of human tears

That from all time were shed:
His shadowy hands, from east to west,
Obscured the troubled air;
And nations saw in dread their guest—
' And shrieking, breathed Despair !
The billows backward raged and roared,
One spring the Tempest took,
And flashed around his lightning sword
Whilst hills and forests shook;—
And Nature, to whose gentle breast
All human griefs repair,
Could find no home for the opprest—
No refuge 'gainst " Despair!"

REVENGE.
The midnight lamps were burning dim
In an old ancestral room,
And the low lament of a funeral hymn
Told a youthful chieftain's doom;
For the last of Ronna's ancient race
Lay shrouded, cold, and pale;
And the joyous cheer of the forest chase
Had turned to fear and wail!

-The last of Ronna's race—the last—
On his couch of death was laid;
Thus, one by one, each heir had passed,
By steel or mare betrayed.
Yes; sire and son, and daughter bright,
As by some demon banned;
By the poison bowl, or the sword by night)
And none might trace the hand.
But, lo!—ere fled the burial gloom
For the last of Ronna's ►ine,
Some hand had writ on his hasty tomb,
Revenge! Revenge !—He's mine !
Oh, wild was the fright of the watcher lone,
As tomb by tomb he passed,
For that seal of fate was on every stone—
Revenge!—mine—mine at last!

THE COMPASSIONATE PRECURSOR AND THE
NORTHERN PRESBYTERIAN.

(From the Dublin Evening Mail.
A friend has sent us the following dialogue from the North.
We fear our Dublin printers will hardly-do justice to the
classic dialect of one of the speakers :
COMPASSIONATE PRECURSOR-1 am amazed, my dear and
deeply-injured brother, to see you look so fat and hearty.
Are you not aware that we are -arrived at one of these stages
in the political life of nations which is called a crisis ?
NORTHERN PRESBYTERIAN—TO my certain knowledge
we have been in a crisis for this eight-and-thretty year. It's
naethin' new to be in a crisis.
C. P.—But, my dear friend, Ireland—our country—is at
this very moment suffering the most monstrous and insult-
ing injustice.
N. P.—Ye dinna tell me sae! I thocht the country had
been guy and prosperous.
C. P.—Prosperous! Who speaks of the sordid calcula-
tions of commerce when a nation is insulted in the eyes of
Europe?
N. P.—l'm no just ready to neglec' the rule e' three, for
a' that. But, pin there be ony atteck like upon the coun-
try, I'll resent it as ready as anither.—Wow, man, my fether
was sue o' the Bangor volunteers, under add Col. Sherman.
I'll no thole ony insult, what is't man, what is't ?
C. P.—Heavens ! can you ask? Is not the qualification
for the elective franchise ten times as high in hapless, im-
poverished )reland, as in wealthy England? Is not this a
bade of slavery, and a mark of degradation ?
N. P.—Prut tut man ! there's beggars eneugh hae votes
already. It was the best thing O'Connell ever did to pit
thee meeserable creturs, the forty shillin' freeholders, out o'
the way o' corruption.
C. P.—Ah! but, my dear friend, we shall soon have the
protection of the Ballot.
N. P.-1 dinna ken. I think, while the member votes
openly in the house for my satisfaction, wha hae the frau-
cheese, I oucht to vote openly at the hustings for the satis-
faction o'thaem wha hae no votes ava.
C. P.—Well, but leaving these theoretical niceties aside,
I ask you now, in confidence and in friendship, does it not
make your very blood boil to think that Ireland should be
deprived, as she is, of her fair share of representatives? She
ought, oa every equitable calculation, to have 170, and all
we ask, in justice and on principle, is 150. We ask no more ;
we will not be content with less.
N. P. I dinna just clearly see the preenciple o' no asking
a' that's fair at once.
C. P.-Oh ! I by no means say that we would not take the
odd twenty, sometime again, if opportunity offered; but at
present it would be hardly expec— that is, you see, it
would, perhaps, not be altogether consistent, as it were, with
prudential principle—for we scorn expediency—to ask at
once for more than the cool hundred and fifty. Leaving that
question, however, I turn to the animating topic of Corporate
Reform. There lam sure, we will be agreed. Come, then,
my ill-used fellow countryman, unbosom yourself of the na-
tural indignation which these atrocities cannot but have
excited in every honourable mind and manly breast. Here
is the subscription list. Put down your name among the
friends of justice. 'Twill cost you but a shilling.
N. P.—Haitb, my man, you're no blate! Div ye think
I've naethin' else to do with my hard-earned penny than gie
it to be devoured among a wheen idle bletherin' beggars o'
Precursor committee-men ? I've my rent to pay the morn;
and non that the rent and tithe gang baith thegither—wha's
doing was that? It's no mony shillin's a farmer body like
me has to spare.
C. P.—Good God !—and is it a man oppressed and impo-
verished, as yon declare yourself to he, by this blood-stained
impost, who refuses to _exert himcplf for itgprijertion
N. P.—lt's what?
C. P.—lts extinction, I say—its annihilation—its utter
and complete extermination !
N. P.—Why, that was what Sherman Crafurd wanted to
do a twelvemonth ago, and ye wadna let him; and troth I'm
thinking ye hae nae mair notion o't the noo than ye had then.
Wha was't invented tithes ava ?
C. P.—They were given originally to the Roman Catholic
Church, for saying masses for the repose of the dead.
N. P.—And by my sang, I think it's the auld purpose ye'll
put them to yet.
C. P.—That is the malignant insinuation of a disappointed
man. I confess I was not prepared for this apathy in Ulster.
Why, sir, there is no rousing you to a sense of the injustice
heaped on your country. You have no feeling for Ireland—
no sentiment of nationality.
N. P.—lts no Ireland ava, man—it's Room you're taalkin'
shoot. Its no nationelity but Popery that's coming through
you.
C. P.—Lord, how insensible he is to his wrongs ! Can
nothing rouse you ?—'tis but a shilling—think of Reform,
man—Corporate Reform.
N. P.—Blethers—blethers ! You just want it for the folly
o' caning the mace to mass.
C. P.—The franchise !
N. P.—. Beggars eneugh turned politicians, as it is !
C. P.—Our lair share of representation !