s yet, and
perhaps never may have. Englishmen are not nationally calculated to make
song-writers; but individual genius makes light of running counter to a
whole nation of habits, and there is no saying that we may not have our
true lyricist yet. Song-writing is most likely to spring up among people
greatly susceptible of the charms of music, and inventive of airs which,
by some peculiar charm they possess, spread over all the country, sink
deep in the memory, and come spontaneously on the thoughts in moments of
sadness or joy, and, in short, become what are called national. National
songs go with national airs, and spring up with circumstances. The English
have few native airs, and as few native songs of any excellence. When an
Englishman is in love, does he sing? In camp, what wretched braying goes
by that name! at table, what have we of the generous, jovial sort?
Generally speaking, our table songs--always excepting our glees--are
pieces of bald sentiment, when they are English; but more generally, they
are borrowed from the Scotch, the Irish, and other national song-writers.
Gaiety, and that gaiety showing itself musically, is not _English_: when
we are poetically given, it is in the sad piping strain of the forlorn,
deserted, or hopeless lover. Gaiety is not English: we can be sentimental,
tender, witty, pretty, pompous, and glorious in our songs; but we ever
want the essential quality of gaiety--gaiety of heart--the dancing life of
the spirit, that makes the voice hum, the fingers crack merrily, and the
feet fidget restlessly on the ground.--_Spectator Newspaper_.

* * * * *

LORD BYRON'S EARLY POEMS.

[The following specimens are from the Seventh Volume of the elegant
Edition of Lord Byron's Life and Works, now in the course of publication,
under the editorship of Mr. Moore:]

THE ADIEU.

_Written under the impression that the Author would soon die._

Adieu, thou hill![4] where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;
No more through Ida's path we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where learning robed in sable reigns,
And melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour