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

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!

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.

For have not several 'pages' brought 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!

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?

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?

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.

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.

Its course quite changed-its orbit not the sameThat'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.

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.

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.

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.

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 spareBut 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 the 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!'

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!

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 ?

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.

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 shriveiled-and my ink is dry!

ODE TO THE LITTLE LORD MAYOR.

BORN NOVEMBER 28.

The court of Common Councilmen have appointed a committee to ascertain the most advisable course of testifying their satisfaction at the birth of a son to the Lord Mayor.

OH, infant heir to the new Lord Mayor

Thou small edition of Gog,

Did ever a son in dark London

So shine through November's fog?

So rare thy fate, that the City's state
No parallel shows to thee;

But not more rare than bright and fair-
To be born in the Mayoralty!

Now those who can, and those who can't,
Thy praises strive to sing-

In speech or chorus, chime or chant,
To the new-born Mayorling.

Clerks in the banks deal out with thanks
Their notes of congratulation;
And filled with joys are the grateful boys
Who are out of situation.