We have more than once delivered our sentiments respecting the poetry of Mr. Charles Lloyd. To what we have formerly remarked, in general on this head, we have little to add on the present occasion; except that we begin to grow weary of his continued melancholy strains. Why is this ingenious writer so uncomfortably constant to the mournful Muse? If he has any taste for variety, he has little to fear from jealousy in the sacred sisterhood.—Then why not sometimes make his bow to Thalia?
Mr. Lamb, the joint author of this little volume, seems to be very properly associated with his plaintive companion.—The Monthly Review.
Album Verses, with a few others. By Charles Lamb. 12mo. pp. 150. London, 1830. Moxon.
If any thing could prevent our laughing at the present collection of absurdities, it would be a lamentable conviction of the blinding and engrossing nature of vanity. We could forgive the folly of the original composition, but cannot but marvel at the egotism which has preserved, and the conceit which has published. What exaggerated notion must that man entertain of his talents, who believes their slightest efforts worthy of remembrance; one who keeps a copy of the verses he writes in young ladies' albums, the proverbial receptacles for trash! Here and there a sweet and natural thought intervenes; but the chief part is best characterized by that expressive though ungracious word "rubbish." And what could induce our author to trench on the masculine and vigorous Crabbe? did he think his powerful and dark outlines might with advantage be turned to "prettiness and favour?" But let our readers judge from the following specimens. The first is from the album of Mrs. Jane Towers.
"Conjecturing, I wander in the dark,
I know thee only sister to Charles Clarke!"
Directions for a picture—
"You wished a picture, cheap, but good;
The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy;
To suit a poet's quiet study."
The subject is a child—