OU HIS BROTHER'S DEATH. WHEN evening's lengthened shadows fall But home to me no more can bring No friendly heart remains for me, No brother, whose affection warm The gloomy passing hours might charm. Bereft of all who once were dear, Whose words or looks were wont to cheer; Parent, and friend, and brother gone, I stand upon the earth alone. ROBERT NICOLL. 1814-1837. ROBERT NICOLL was born in the farm house of Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. His father was at that time a farmer in comfortable circumstances, but shortly after the poet's birth, lost all his property through the dishonesty of a relative for whom he had become security. Robert was, therefore, brought up in the most humble circumstances, and inured to labor from his earliest years. But we cannot do better than present the following eloquent sketch from the North British Review: "Perhaps the young peasant who most expressly stands out as the pupil and successor of Burns, is Robert Nicoll. He is a lesser poet, doubtless, than his master, and a lesser man, if the size and number of his capabilities be looked at; but he is a greater man, in that, from the beginning to the end of his career, he seems to have kept that very wholeness of heart and head which poor Burns lost. Nicoll's story is, mutatis mutandis, that of the Bethunes, and many a noble young Scotsman more. Parents holding a farm between Perth and Dunkeld, they and theirs before them for generations inhabitants of the neighborhood, "decent, honest, God-fearing people." The farm is lost by reverses, and manfully Robert Nicoll's father becomes a day-laborer on the fields which he lately rented; and there begins, for the boy, from his earliest recollections, a life of steady, sturdy drudgery. But they must have been grand old folk these parents, and in nowise addicted to wringing their hands over 66 the great might-have-been." Like true Scots Biblelovers, they do believe in a God, and in a will of God, underlying, absolute, loving, and believe that the might-have-been ought not to have been; and so they put their shoulders to the new collar patiently, cheerfully, hopefully, and teach the boys to do the same. The mother especially, like so many great men's mothers do, stands out large and heroic, from the time when, the farm being gone, she, "the ardent book woman," finds her time too precious to be spent in reading, and sets little Robert to read to her as she works-what a picture!-to the last sad day, when, wanting money to come up to Leeds to see her dying darling, she "shore for the siller," rather than borrow it. And her son's life is like her own-the most pure, joyous, valiant little epic. Robert does not even take to work as something beyond himself, uninteresting and painful, which, however must be done courageously: he lives in it, enjoys it as his proper element, one which is no more a burden to him than the rush of the strid is to the trout, who plays and feeds in it day and night, unconscious of the amount of muscular strength which he puts forth in merely keeping his place in the stream. Whether carrying Kenilworth in his plaid to the woods, to read while herding, or acting as the Perth storekeeper's apprentice, or keeping his little circulating library in Dundee, tormenting his pure heart with the thought of the twenty pounds which his mother has borrowed wherewith to start him, or editing the Leeds Times, or lying on his early death bed, just as life seems to be opening clear and broad before him, he "Bates not a jot of heart or hope," but steers right onward, singing over his work, without bluster, or selfgratulation, but for very joy at having work to do." THE MORNING STAR. THY smile of beauty, star! Brings gladness on the gloomy face of night- Pale mystery! so lonely and so bright, Star! nightly wanderest thou On thou hast flitted like an ether fay! Where is the land from whence thou first arose; Pale dawn's first messenger! Thou prophet-sign of brightness yet to be! Thou tellest earth and air Of light and glory following after thee; Of smiling day 'mong wild green woodlands sleeping ; And God's own sun, o'er all, its tears of brightness weep ing! Sky sentinel! when first The nomade patriarch saw thee from his hill Upon his vision burst, Thou wast as pure and fair as thou art still; And changeless thou hast looked on race, and name, And nation, lost since then-but thou art yet the same! Night's youngest child! fair gem ! The hoar astrologer o'er thee would cast His glance, and thy name His own would join; then tremble when thou wast In darkness; and rejoice when, like a bride, Thou blush'd to earth-and thus the dreamer dreamed and died! Pure star of morning love! The daisy of the sky's blue plain art thou; And thoughts of youth are wove Round thee, as round the flowers that freshly blow In bushy dells, where thrush and blackbird singFlower-star, the dreams of youth and heaven thou back dost bring! Star of the morn! for thee The watcher by affection's couch doth wait; "Tis thine the bliss to see Of lovers fond who 'mid the broom have met: Into the student's home thine eye doth beam; Thou listenest to the words of many a troubled dream! |