Mr. Lloyd's poetry has not much in it that is narrative or dramatic. It is richer in natural description; but the _imagery_ is for the most part embodied with, and made subservient to, the _sentiment_, as in many of the sonnets, &c. His genius is metaphysical and profound; his verses are made up of deep feeling, accompanied with the perpetual running commentary of his own deeper self-reflection. His affections seem to run kindliest in domestic channels; and there some strains, commemorative of a dead relative, which, while they do honour to the heart of the writer, are of too sacred a nature, we think, almost to have been committed to print at all; much less would they bear exposal among the miscellaneous matter indispensable to a public journal. We prefer therefore giving an extract from the fine blank verse poem, entitled _Christmas_. It is richly embued with the meditative, introspective cast of mind, so peculiar to this author:-- There is a time When first sensation paints the burning cheek, Fills the moist eye, and quickens the keen pulse, That mystic meanings half conceiv'd invest The simplest forms, and all doth speak, all lives To the eager heart! At such a time to me Thou cam'st, dear holiday! Thy twilight glooms Mysterious thoughts awaken'd, and I mus'd As if possest, yea felt as I had known The dawn of inspiration. Then the days Were sanctified by feeling, all around Of an indwelling presence darkly spake. Silence had borrow'd sounds to cheat the soul! And, to the toys of life, the teeming brain, Impregning them with its own character, Gave preternatural import; the dull face Was eloquent, and e'en the idle air Most potent shapes, varying and yet the same, Substantially express'd. But soon my heart, Unsatisfied with blissful shadows, felt Achings of vacancy, and own'd the throb Of undefin'd desire, while lays of love Firstling and wild stole to my trem'lous tongue. To me thy rites were mock'ry then, thy glee Of little worth. More pleas'd I trod the waste Sear'd with the sleety wind, and drank its blast; Deeming thy dreary shapes most strangely sweet, Mist-shrouded winter! in mute loneliness I wore away the day which others hail'd So cheerily, still usher'd in with chaunt Of carol, and the merry ringers' peal, Most musical to the good man that wakes And praises God in gladness.