lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but "has the sway" of New stead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. (1) (1) The Monthly Reviewers, in those days the next in circulation to the Edinburgh, gave a much more favourable notice of the "Hours of Idleness." "These compositions (said they) are generally of a plaintive or an amatory cast, with an occasional mixture of satire; and they display both ease and strength-both pathos and fire. It will be expected that marks of juvenility and of haste should be discovered in these productions; and we seriously advise our young bard to fulfil with submissive perseverance the duties of revision and correction. We discern, in Lord Byron, a degree of mental power, and a turn of mental disposition, which render us solicitous that both should be well cultivated and wisely directed, in his career of life. He has received talents, and is accountable for the use of them. We trust that he will render them beneficial to man, and a source of real gratification to himself in declining age. Then may he properly exclaim with the Roman orator, Non lubet mihi deplorare vitam, quod multi, et ii docti, sæpe fecerunt; neque me vixisse pœnitet: quoniam ita vixi, ut non frustra me natum existimem."" - Lord Byron repaid the Edinburgh Critique with a Satire — and became himself a Monthly Reviewer.-E. 195 THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. ADIEU, thou Hill! (1) where early joy Where Science seeks each loitering boy Adieu my youthful friends or foes, No more through Ida's paths we stray; Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, And Melancholy pale. Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime (1) Harrow. Why did my childhood wander forth Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, Hall of Sires! a long farewell my Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Fields, which surround yon While yet I linger here, rustic cot, Adieu! you are not now forgot, Streamlet! (2) along whose rippling surge, (1) See ante, pp. 15. 118. (2) The river Grete, at Southwell — E |