The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1833-09-17 00:00:00

SILENCE.

" There is a silence big with woe„.
The latest stage of settled grief,
When scalding tears have ceased to flow.
To the sad bleeding heart's relief.
' Tis passion's slumber—but so full
Of hideous dreams, she neaps in vain.
Her heart is still insatiable,
And unrelaxing is her pain ;
While like an asp, the worm of care,
sucks the rich stream of life away
Till smiles the demon of despair,
Exulting o'er his prey.

There is a silence big with joy,
The full heart's throbbing eloquence.
When love upraised to ecstasy,
Defies the power of utterance.
'Tie passion's trance—the soft eye's ray.
Half shrouded in the lid, reveals
What thrilling rapture bears the sway,
And gently o'er the bosom steals
And as it meets a glance in turn,
As soft, as sweet, as fondly given.
Such fires of wild delirium burn,
It seems as earth were heaven.

There is a silence of the heart,
Where humble resignation dwells,
Though care thrusts in his polson'd dart,
And like the sea affliction swells.
' Tis passion's calm—no rising wind
Can ruffle, and no storm o'ersway
The equilibrium of the mind,
Which e'er to heaven's decrees gives way ;
For power divine enchains self-will ;
When He who by his mighty nod
Stays nature's shocks, exclaims' Be still,
And know that I am God I'
There is a silence of the night,

When natures murmur sounds no more ;
When darkness steals the realm; of light,

And spretuis his wings the welkin o'er.
' Tit p434ion'3 rest—o'erweening thought

Gains some relief, the fever'd brain,
The throbbing heart with anguish fraught,
A little respite find from pain.
Hush'd is the city's busy hum ;
A silent hour the village kkows ;
And the wood's choristers an climb.
Inviting to repose.

Rut there's a silence deeper Still
Than these—the silence of the grave,
Nirhen:the fond bosom's every thrill
Finds rest beneath oblivion's wave.
'Tigpag.don'a end—the mourner's sob
And languor's sigh are heard no more
The flutter of delight, the throb
Of love, of hope, and fear, are o'er ;
Nor aught that silence e'er shall break.
'Till the last trumpet's fearful voice
The tenants of the earth shall wake,
To tremble or rejoice."

(Poems by 1. Ragg, the mechanic.)

EMIGRATION.

I know of nothing in the world so distressing as the
last sight of a fine, industrious, independent peasan-
try taking. the last look of their native country, never to
behold it more. I have witnessed several of these scenes,
and I wish. I may never witness another ; for each of
them has made tears burst every now and then into my
eves for days and nights, and all the while in that mood
of mind that I could think about nothing else. I saw the
children all in high spirits, playing together, and amus-
ing themselves with trifles ; and I wondered if those dear
innocents, in after life, would remember any thing at all
of the land of their nativity. They felt no regret, for
they 'mew that they had no home but where their parents
were—no staff or stay but on them. They were beside
them, and attending to all their wants, and they were
happy. How different the looks of their parents ! They
looked backwards towards their native mountains and
glades with the most rueful expression of countenance.
These looks can neverbe cancelled from my heart ; and
.1 noted always that the older the men were, the more re-
gretful. and desolate were their looks. They thought,
without doubt, of the tombs of their parents and friends,.
whose heads they had laid in an honoured graVe, and
that, after a few years of the toil and weariness collateral
with old age, they were going to lay down their honesin
a new world, a far distant clime, never to mix their ashes
with those that were, dearest to them. Alas ! the days
are gone that I have seen ! It is long since emigration
from the Highlands commenced; for, when clanship was
abolished, as far as government edicts could abolish it,
the poor Highlanders were obliged to emigrate; but ne-
ver till now did the borderers rush from their native coun-
try all with symptoms of reckless despair. It is most de-
plorable. The whole of our most valuable peasantry and
operative manufacturers are leaving us. All who have
made a little money, to faeight them over the Atlantic,
and procure them a settlement in America, Van Die-
men's Land, or New South Wales, are hurrying from
us, as from a place infected with the plague. iEvery day
the desire to emigrate increases, both in amount and in-
tensity ; in some parts of the country the movement has
taken place to an immense extent. In the industrious
village of Galashiels, fifty-two are already booked for
transportation. In the town of Hawick, and its subordi-
nate villages, are double that number. My own bro-
thers, sisters, nephews, and nieces, are all going away ;
and if I were not the very individual that I am, I should be
the first to depart. But my name is now so much iden-
tified with Scotland and Ettrick Forest, that, though I
must die as I have lived, I cannot leave them.—Ettrick
Shepherd.