Eclogues and .Monodrcunas. By William Lancaster. (Macmillan and (Jo.)—Mr. Lancaster
is very much annoyed because a weekly contem- porary called his last volume "a collection of great pretension," and he declares that these are not poems, but "merely rhythmical exercises which have amused his leisure hours." This may be true, but the "Eclogues and Monodramas" (if poems they are not) have certainly been very much laboured. Why the author should be ashamed of trying to write his best we cannot conceive, for the labour has been well bestowed. If it occasionally produces a sense of effort in the reader's mind it conciliates him by its respect for his judgment. If it sometimes results in obscurity there is always polish of diction and a meaning worth puzzling out. But why does Mr. Lancaster harp so continually on melancholy subjects? He photographs every form of mental trouble and defiance, with great power, we admit, as in the picture of the old farmer who has been ruined by his sons in "The Sale at the Farm ;" but he would do well to try his powers sometimes in the description of lighter emotions.
Previous page
