 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
243
APOSTROPHE TO THE APPROACHING COMET.
‘It may be considered as tolerably certain that the comet will
become visible in every part of Europe about the latter end of
August, or beginning of September next. . . . Will cross the
meridian near the zenith of London about sunrise.’—Edinburgh Review.
The end of August! Potentate august,
Is that the period settled for your visit?
Is that indeed the time when life's short crust
Must be consumed—baked—burnt to cinders? Is
Is that the period settled for your visit?
Is that indeed the time when life's short crust
Must be consumed—baked—burnt to cinders? Is
Then August's ‘latter end’ is ours I think,
If as your advent you've resolved to fix it;
Oh! for a Mediterranean of ink,
To blot out the reviewer's ipse dixit!
If as your advent you've resolved to fix it;
Oh! for a Mediterranean of ink,
To blot out the reviewer's ipse dixit!
Mediterranean! or blue, or black,
Or green, each deep ere long will be a Red-sea;
Atlantic, Euxine, Baltic,—nay, alack!
The very tide of life will a Dead-sea.
Or green, each deep ere long will be a Red-sea;
Atlantic, Euxine, Baltic,—nay, alack!
The very tide of life will a Dead-sea.
For have not several ‘pages’ brough us here
A piece of news too heavy for a porter,—
That thou, within a quarter, wilt appear—
One quarter more, and show us no more quarter!
A piece of news too heavy for a porter,—
That thou, within a quarter, wilt appear—
One quarter more, and show us no more quarter!
244
Is it not stated, to astound all earth
(And be it fact or falsehood, I've no share in't),
That men shall see a strange and fearful Birth—
That thou, O Comet, wilt become a-parent?
(And be it fact or falsehood, I've no share in't),
That men shall see a strange and fearful Birth—
That thou, O Comet, wilt become a-parent?
Terrible tidings—wonder full of woe!
Do these astronomers proclaim it rightly,
That thou'lt become a mother? Is it so?
And will the prodigy be witnessed nightly?
Do these astronomers proclaim it rightly,
That thou'lt become a mother? Is it so?
And will the prodigy be witnessed nightly?
A litter of young comets! Literature
At once grows convert to the creed Malthusian,
And though unable to prescribe a cure,
Deems the new birth a case of clear intrusion.
At once grows convert to the creed Malthusian,
And though unable to prescribe a cure,
Deems the new birth a case of clear intrusion.
But stay, a letter from Vienna:—what?
'Tis said by Herschel—see the public papers—
The comet seeks a more sequestered lot,
And all our fierce volcanoes are mere vapours.
'Tis said by Herschel—see the public papers—
The comet seeks a more sequestered lot,
And all our fierce volcanoes are mere vapours.
Its course quite changed—its orbit not the same—
That's something yet to make one's horror visible;
Yet, ah! not much; we still shall feel its flame—
Danger's not safe because it is invisible.
That's something yet to make one's horror visible;
Yet, ah! not much; we still shall feel its flame—
Danger's not safe because it is invisible.
Ah, no! thy tidings, Herschel, even at first,
Had been for comfort wholly unavailing;
Of two bad tales men always trust the worst—
'Tis human nature's virtue, not its failing.
Had been for comfort wholly unavailing;
Of two bad tales men always trust the worst—
'Tis human nature's virtue, not its failing.
245
So! we're to feel no fright, to make no fuss,
Because the foe we're not to have a sight of;
Accomplished ignorance may reason thus,
But comets are not creatures to make light of.
Because the foe we're not to have a sight of;
Accomplished ignorance may reason thus,
But comets are not creatures to make light of.
Let us be miserable; yes, let us leave
To idle boys and philosophic codgers
The joys of hope; let us despond and grieve—
‘I would not, if I could, be gay,’ writes Rogers.
To idle boys and philosophic codgers
The joys of hope; let us despond and grieve—
‘I would not, if I could, be gay,’ writes Rogers.
Anguish is easier when past all cure;
Check not your sorrow—call it uncontrollable;
Grief may be disagreeable; yet endure—
It grows more pleasant when it's inconsolable.
Check not your sorrow—call it uncontrollable;
Grief may be disagreeable; yet endure—
It grows more pleasant when it's inconsolable.
Mine be sweet wretchedness and drear despair;
Long for this weight of woe I've been a waiter;
Troubles we've had, 'tis true, and ‘tails’ to spare—
But none like thine, Celestial Agitator!
Long for this weight of woe I've been a waiter;
Troubles we've had, 'tis true, and ‘tails’ to spare—
But none like thine, Celestial Agitator!
Talk not of fierce Lord Durham, hot-brained Hume,
Give each his tail, and Fate may save us from it;
What jack-o'-lanterns make us mortals fume,
Of Cobbett think not—think upon comet!
Give each his tail, and Fate may save us from it;
What jack-o'-lanterns make us mortals fume,
Of Cobbett think not—think upon comet!
Why what's O'Connell? Him we may defy,
With all his ‘joints,’ to shake us in our beds;
For Ireland's self may now in candour cry,
‘Ye little tails, hide your diminished heads!’
With all his ‘joints,’ to shake us in our beds;
For Ireland's self may now in candour cry,
‘Ye little tails, hide your diminished heads!’
246
A great enlightner, bidding others cease,
Will wag a tail of fire ere summer ceases,
Then will the House divide—then England's peace
Will end, in England split into two pieces!
Will wag a tail of fire ere summer ceases,
Then will the House divide—then England's peace
Will end, in England split into two pieces!
I care not what the Tories now endure;
Nor what the Whigs have got, nor who have bought'em;
Nor when the Radicals will come in sure;
Who will, I ask, insure the Thames next autumn?
Nor what the Whigs have got, nor who have bought'em;
Nor when the Radicals will come in sure;
Who will, I ask, insure the Thames next autumn?
O Press, prodigious ‘organ,’ cease to blow
Your bellows, while the fiery foe's about;
But rather, as a mighty ‘engine,’ show,
How we're to put the coming comet out.
Your bellows, while the fiery foe's about;
But rather, as a mighty ‘engine,’ show,
How we're to put the coming comet out.
No more about the ‘March,’ on August preach;
I feel its heat—its glare is on my eye,
So ends ‘my tale’—another's within reach;
My pen is shrivelled—and my ink is dry!
I feel its heat—its glare is on my eye,
So ends ‘my tale’—another's within reach;
My pen is shrivelled—and my ink is dry!
1834.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |