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It is CICERO, I believe, who says “ naturd ad modos ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.

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I. “ A Temple to Friendship,” said Laura, enchanted,

6. I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!' Her temple was built, and she now only wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent, But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer

Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

* The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called, " La Statue de l'Amitié."

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