The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1843-10-24 00:00:00

uon6ervativJs increas-

po_ll with 6,118

;andidate (M r. Attwc;od)
5 ; and Mr. Master►nan,

Hauvey, an ap-

,anison-square, ter•

ainiself, in a cellar

under his master's. mr. Owen having occasion to
go down into the collar in the evening, found the deceased
suspended from a beam. He was cut down directly, but
was quite dead. The deceased was of a lively disposition,
and had been seen shout half an hour before in the shop ;
and no evidence was produced calculated to furnish the
slightest reason for the commission of the dreadful act.
Verdict accordingly.

TRADE PROSPECTti.—The circular of Messrs. Daniel
Buchanan, Sons, and Co., of Liverpool, gives the follow-
ing satisfactory de.scriptiou of the state of business
in this port and the manufacturing districts :—" The
favourable change which has of late been so perceptible
in business, daily becomes ri-J:ie estr.blished, and public
opinion (always very intlucial) goes to confirm the
anticipation of an early return to former good times ; so
favourable a state of markets has cot existed since 1828,
though at that period it was perhaps the result of a
temporary excitement ; whereas now it is produced by
strictly natural and apparently permanent causes. The
good business doing in the manufacturing districts gene-
rally is sure to lead to greatly increased consumption.
The demand there experienced carves from almost every
wants. The great in-
ecently before alluded to by

quarter, and is t
crease in the hen,

pply actual

) is, undou

we shall

fautat

realisation of w
with confidence

6

Kiterature.

POETRY.

REFLECTIONS OF
(For the Liverpool Standard.)

" I have ventured.
Like little wanton boys that swim on biadeers,
These many summers in a sea of glory—
But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me
Weary a, d old, to the mercy
Of a rude world which must for ever hide me."
Wolsey, in Henry VIII.

It is past ! 'Twas a dream in the darkness of ni4lit
'Twas a mist of the morn in the fountain of light
I had pictured a sceptre, a court. and a throne,
The ruin of others, and woke to my own.

But one step, and I triumphed ! My priesthood was there,
To hallow the treason with incense and prayer;
My law courts were open, my code was prepared ;
I had thought of my palace, and chosen my guard ;
My children would rise as the base of my court;
The heart-throb of thousands my strength and my sport:—
Bat one step !—'twas untrod : for the blast of a breath
Struck Fancy's fond lie with the chillness of death,
And crumbled my sceptre to dust, and my throne;
And the thousands have vanished, and I—am alone.

Alone ! with my heart l—ah ! how wintry the scene !
How changed from the sunshine that once might have been !
I look back on my boyhood, when bright was mine eye.
When pure was my heart, and its pulses heat high ;
Of the pastime I think—of the sport—yea, the prayer;
Of the father that played with the locks of my hair,
Of the mother that clasped to her bosom her boy,
And called me her life, and her pride, and her joy,
And bade me exultingly stand by the s;de
Of my country, and he both its champion and pride.
I compare that bright hour with the hour that is now,
And I shrink—for the brand is red hot on my brow !
They are gone ! It is well ; for my manhood of life
Had its pride in rebellion—the champion of strife.
Yet—a traitor ! Great God ! do I dream? Can it be
That men may dare fasten such title on ME?

Ab, yes ! out of evil can never spring good
The shout for revolt is the shout but for blood.

But a traitor! What! was not my country enslaved?
Was it not for her freedom this senten, e I braved ?
Surely not for myself her resources I drained ;
Surely not for myseif my integrity stained ;
I loved her green vales—l her altars adored—
Her golden-haired daughters, her sons of the sword
And I called her, what always she gill be to me,
" First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea."

Ah, delusions avannt I Now alone with my heart,
Every mist is removed, and I'm acting no part;
Bursts the truth from each pore to my agoniz'd eyes :
I have ered—l am siienc'd—'tis writ in the skies.
Yes, the truth it comes home—l am lonely and old,
The fire in my chambers of life growing cold;
The voices which urged me are silent and still,
Acquaintance unfriendly, and friendship is chill ;
With terror I muse on that swift.coming time,
At the bar of my country to answer my crime;
The trial—the witness—accuser and spy—
The friends that are absent, the foes that are by—
And, worse than the scaffold, the scorn that betrays
The hate of the tongue that once trembled with praise.

Dark spirit of Popery ! thine be the blame :
Thy creed brought the tempest which darkens my name;
Thy essence of works, which first bade me depend
On all means or any to work out Mine end ;
Thy prompt absolution, thy sinner enticed
On himself to rely, and rely not on Christ,—
Ensnarer of millions, whose hlood thou hast spilt,
Oh, thine be the scandal—on thee be the guilt.

PHILO.