Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE GREAT FOG IN LONDON, DECEMBER 1762, by JAMES EYRE WEEKS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE GREAT FOG IN LONDON, DECEMBER 1762, by                    
First Line: Lost and bewildered in the thickening mist
Last Line: Or corks afloat upon the sullen flood.
Subject(s): Disasters; Floods; Fog; Mist; Soldiers; Haze


On the Great Fog in London, December 1762

LOST and bewildered in the thickening mist,
We stray amid th' irrefragable gloom,
Nor can the penetrating lance of day
Bleed the thick vein; behind a sizy cloud
The rays of light, his orient messengers,
Are intercepted, nor can steer their course,
Wrecked on a coast of jet—even beauty's eye,
Composed of azure, here is impotent,
And, all-subduing, is itself subdued.
We jostle each, by vision unapprised
Of meeting, till, like vessels, we run foul,
And board each other in the sullen waste.
This mockery of night, like vanity,
Conceals us from ourselves; our shadows too,
Lately our dear associates and compeers,
Have, like false lovers, left us in the fog
To seek our own identity in vain.
Nature herself seems in the vapours now;
Dim is the prospect—shall we call it so?
A purblind view, next to invisible?
Or rather darkness visible to sight.
'Tis a black curtain drawn across the sky
Disgustful, and shuts out the scenes of day.
Or if a sun-beam glimmer—lo! the trees,
As we approach 'em, seem like hanging webs
Spun by the spider—even the great St. Paul,
With his huge dome and cupola, appears
A craggy precipice, rude, uninformed;
Or, like the ruins of an ancient fort
Upon a hill, when twilight shuts the day.
The morning, like a widow, all in weeds,
Stalks forth incog, unwilling to be known,
Veiled and disguised behind the mask of night.
Or, if meridian Phoebus show his face,
He seems a ball of molten copper-ore,
Like a red beacon on a foggy coast.
Absolute shade maintains despotic sway,
Palpable darkness, for we see by touch;
If hearing not apprise us of approach,
The coach or wagon by its rumbling warns
To shun the danger; from our ears we see
The threatening wheels; while often touch informs,
When unawares we strike against a post,
Like ships against a bank or sunken rock,
For sight is useless in so drear a blank.
The beams of day, refracted in the cloud,
Like birds in storms, are dubious where to fly,
And waste their radiance on the tawny air.
When sable night appears in ebon car,
The lamps are feeble like the socket-snuffs
Of tapers just expiring, rush-lights dim
Like dying wicks within a dreary vault.
'Tis general mourning, every colour fades;
Even the fine roseate on the virgin's cheek
Turns to a livid blue, and charms no more.
The soldiers in the Park seem undertakers,
While every coach or carriage, like a hearse,
Displays the pageant of a funeral pomp.
Long streets of houses look like black perspectives
Of charcoal prospects, the design of boys;
While by no marks directed oft we miss
Our well-known passage, boats upon the Thames
Appear but as the buoys of distant ships,
Or corks afloat upon the sullen flood.





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