And the shrill cock-crow warns them from their bed-
That sleep shall be more lasting and more dreamless,
Than aught which living men on earth may know.
Well, be it so methinks my life, though short,
Hath taught me that this sublunary world
Is something else than Fancy wont to paint it-
A world of many cares and anxious thoughts,
Pains, sufferings, abstinence, and endless toil,
From which it were small penance to be gone.
Yet there are feelings in the heart of youth,
Howe'er depressed by poverty or pain,

Which loathe the oblivious grave; and I would live,
If it were only but to be convinced

That 'all is vanity beneath the sun.'—

Yes: while these hands can earn what nature asks,

Or lessen, by one bitter drop, the cup

Of woe, which some must drink even to its dregs,

Or have it in their power to hold a crust

To the pale lip of famished Indigence,
I would not murmur or repine though care,
The toil-worn, frame-tired arm, and heavy foot,
Should be my portion in this pilgrimage.
But when this ceases let me also cease,

If such may be thy will, O God of heaven!
Thou knowest all the weakness of my heart,
And it is such, I would not be a beggar
Nor ask an alms from Charity's cold hand:
I would not buy existence at the price
Which the poor mendicant must stoop to pay.

UNLIKE all other things earth knows,
(All else may fail or change,)

The love in a Mother's heart that glows,
Nought earthly can estrange.
Concentrated and strong, and bright,
A vestal flame it glows

With pure, self-sacrificing light,
Which no cold shadow knows.

All that by mortal can be done,

A Mother ventures for her son:

If marked by worth or merit high,

Her bosom beats with ecstasy;

And though he own nor worth nor charm,

To him her faithful heart is warm.

Though wayward passions round him close,
And fame and fortune prove his foes;
Through every change of good and ill,
Unchanged, a mother loves him still.
Even love itself, than life more dear,-
Its interchange of hope and fear;
Its feeling oft a-kin to madness;
Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness;
Its melting moods of tenderness,
And fancied wrongs, and fond redress,
Hath nought to form so strong a tie
As her deep sympathies supply.

And when those kindred chords are broken

Which twine around the heart;

When friends their farewell word have spoken,

And to the grave depart;

When parents, brothers, husband, die,

And desolation only

At every step meets her dim eye,

Inspiring visions lonely,

Love's last and strongest root below,
Which widowed mothers only know,
Watered by each successive grief,
Puts forth a fresher, greener leaf:
Divided streams unite in one,
And deepen round her only son;
And when her early friends are gone,
She lives and breathes in him alone."

OU HIS BROTHER'S DEATH.

WHEN evening's lengthened shadows fall
On cottage roof and princely hall,
Then brothers with their brothers meet,
And kindred hearts each other greet,
And children wildly, gladly press,
To share a father's fond caress:

But home to me no more can bring
Those scenes which are life's sweetening.

No friendly heart remains for me,

Like star to gild life's stormy sea,

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 Scotsinan 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 "the great might-have-been." Like true Scots Biblelovers, they do believe in a God, and in a will of God, underlying, abso. lute. loving, and believe that the might-have-been ought not to have