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, Ye tenants of the classic bower, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu! while memory still is mine, For offerings on oblivion's shrine, These scenes must be effaced. Adieu, ye mountains of the clime, Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home? Hall of my sires! a long farewell; Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view; The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy hall Forgets its wonted simple note; But yet the lyre retains the strings, And sometimes on Aeolian wings, In dying strains may float. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet[5] along whose rippling surge, My youthful limbs were wont to urge At noontide heat their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force. And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise, and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet, Mary,[6] all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd: Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade.