Poems of Phillis Wheatley :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE PRINTER. Please to insert the following Lines, composed by a Negro Girl (belonging to one Mr. Wheatley of Boston) on the following Occasion, viz. Messrs Hussey and Coffin, as undermentioned, belonging to Nantucket, being bound from thence to Boston, narrowly escaped being cast away on Cape-Cod, in one of the late Storms; upon their Arrival, being at Mr. Wheatley's, and, while at Dinner, told of their narrow Escape, this Negro Girl at the same Time 'tending Table, heard the Relation, from which she composed the following Verses.

Did Fear and Danger so perplex your Mind,
As made you fearful of the Whistling Wind?
Was it not Boreas knit his angry Brow
Against you? or did Consideration bow?
To lend you Aid, did not his Winds combine?
To stop your passage with a churlish Line,

116

Did haughty Eolus with Contempt look down
With Aspect windy, and a study'd Frown?
Regard them not;—the Great Supreme, the Wise,
Intends for something hidden from our Eyes.
Suppose the groundless Gulph had snatch'd away
Hussey and Coffin to the raging Sea;
Where wou'd they go? where wou'd be their Abode?
With the supreme and independent God,
Or made their Beds down in the Shades below,
Where neither Pleasure nor Content can flow.
To Heaven their Souls with eager Raptures soar,
Enjoy the Bliss of him they wou'd adore.
Had the soft gliding Streams of Grace been near,
Some favourite Hope their fainting hearts to cheer,
Doubtless the Fear of Danger far had fled:
No more repeated Victory crown their Heads.

Had I the Tongue of a Seraphim, how would I exalt thy Praise; thy Name as Incense to the Heavens should fly, and the Remembrance of thy Goodness to the shoreless Ocean of Beatitude!—Then should the Earth glow with seraphick Ardour.

Blest Soul, which sees the Day while Light doth shine,
To guide his Steps to trace the Mark divine.

Phillis Wheatley.

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, WROTE IN 1767—

While an intrinsic ardor bids me write
The muse doth promise to assist my pen.
'Twas but e'en now I left my native Shore

117

The sable Land of error's darkest night
There, sacred Nine! for you no place was found,
Parent of mercy, 'twas thy Powerfull hand
Brought me in Safety from the dark abode.

To you, Bright youths! he points the heights of Heav'n
To you, the knowledge of the depths profound.
Above, contemplate the ethereal Space
And glorious Systems of revolving worlds.

Still more, ye Sons of Science! you've reciev'd
The pleasing Sound by messengers from heav'n,
The Saviour's blood, for your Redemption flows.
S[ee] Him, with hands stretch'd out upon the Cross!
Divine compassion in his bosom glows.
He hears revilers with oblique regard.
What Condescention in the Son of God!
When the whole human race, by Sin had fal'n;
He deign'd to Die, that they might rise again,
To live with him beyond the Starry Sky
Life without death, and Glory without End.—

Improve your privileges while they Stay:
Caress, redeem each moment, which with haste
Bears on its rapid wing Eternal bliss.
Let hateful vice so baneful to the Soul,
Be still avoided with becoming care;
Suppress the sable monster in its growth,
Ye blooming plants of human race, divine
An Ethiop tells you, tis your greatest foe
Its present sweetness turns to endless pain
And brings eternal ruin on the Soul.

118

ATHEISM—

Where now shall I begin this Spacious Feild
To tell what curses unbeleif doth yield
Thou that dost daily feel his hand and rod
And dare deny the essence of a god
If there's no god from whence did all things spring
He made the greatest and minutest thing
If there's no heaven whither wilt thou go
Make thy Elysium in the Shades below
With great astonishment any soul is struck
O rashness great hast thou thy sense forsook
Hast thou forgot the preterperfect days
They are recorded in the Book of praise
If twas not written by the hand of God
Why was it sealed with Immanuel's blood
Tho 'tis a second point thou dost deny
Unmeasur'd vengeance Scarlet sins do cry
Turn now I pray thee from the dangerous road
Rise from the dust and seek the mighty God
By whose great mercy we do move and live
Whose Loving kindness doth our sins forgive
Tis Beelzebub our adversary great
Withholds from us the kingdom and the seat

119

Bliss weeping waits us in her arms to fly
To the vast regions of Felicity
Perhaps thy Ignorance will ask us where
Go to the corner stone it will declare
Thy heart in unbeleif will harder grow
Altho thou hidest it for pleasure now
Thou tak'st unusual means, the path forbear
Unkind to Others to thyself severe
Methinks I see the consequence thou art blind
Thy unbeleif disturbs the peaceful mind
The endless Scene too far for me to tread
Too great to Accomplish from so weak a head
If men Such wise inventions then should know
In the high Firmament who made the bow
That covenant was made for to ensure
Made to establish lasting to endure
Who made the heavens and earth a lasting Spring
Of Admiration. to whom dost thou bring
Thy thanks, and tribute, Adoration pay,
To heathen Gods, can wise Apollo say
Tis I that saves thee from the deepest hell
Minerva teach thee all thy days to tell
Doth Pluto tell thee thou shalt see the Shade
Of fell perdition for thy learning made
Doth Cupid in thy breast that warmth inspire
To Love thy brother which is Gods desire
Look thou above and see who made the sky
Nothing more Lucid to an Atheist's eye
Look thou beneath, behold each purling stream
It surely can not a Delusion Seem
Mark rising Pheobus when he spreads his ray

120

And his commission for to guide the day
At night keep watch, and see a Cynthia bright
And her commission for to guide the night
See how the stars when the[y] do sing his praise
Witness his essence in celestial Lays

AN ADDRESS TO THE ATHEIST, BY P. WHEATLEY AT THE AGE OF 14 YEARS—1767—

Muse! where shall I begin the spacious feild
To tell what curses unbeleif doth yeild?
Thou who dost daily feel his hand, and rod
Darest thou deny the Essence of a God!—
If there's no heav'n, ah! whither wilt thou go
Make thy Ilysium in the shades below?
If there's no God from whom did all things Spring
He made the greatest and minutest Thing

[_]

The words ‘greatest’ and ‘minutest’ are underlined in the original text.

Angelic ranks no less his Power display
Than the least mite scarce visible to Day
With vast astonishment my soul is struck
Have Reason'g powers thy darken'd breast forsook?
The Laws deep Graven by the hand of God,
Seal'd with Immanuel's all-redeeming blood:
This second point thy folly dares deny
On thy devoted head for vengeance cry—
Turn then I pray thee from the dangerous road
Rise from the dust and seek the mighty God.
His is bright truth without a dark disguise

121

And his are wisdom's all beholding Eyes:
With labour'd snares our Adversary great
Withholds from us the Kingdom and the seat.
Bliss weeping waits thee, in her Arms to fly
To her own regions of felicity—
Perhaps thy ignorance will ask us where?
Go to the Corner stone he will declare.
Thy heart in unbelief will harden'd grow
Tho' much indulg'd in vicious pleasure now—
Thou tak'st unusual means; the path forbear
Unkind to others to thy self Severe—
Methinks I see the consequence thou'rt blind
Thy unbelief disturbs the peaceful Mind.
The endless scene too far for me to tread
Too great to utter from so weak a head.
That man his maker's love divine might know
In heavens high firmament he placed his Bow
To shew his covenant for ever sure
To endless Age unchanging to endure—
He made the Heavens and earth that lasting Spring
Of admiration! To whom dost thou bring
Thy grateful tribute? Adoration pay
To heathen Gods? Can wise Apollo say
Tis I that saves thee from the deepest hell;
Minerva teach thee all thy days to tell?
Doth Pluto tell thee thou Shalt see the shade
Of fell perdition for transgression made?
Doth Cupid in thy breast that warmth inspire
To love thy Brother, which is God's desire?
Atheist! behold the wide extended skies
And wisdom infinite shall strike thine eyes
Mark rising Sol when far he spreads his Ray
And his Commission read—To rule the Day
At night behold that silver Regent bright
And her command to lead the train of Night
Lo! how the Stars all vocal in his praise
Witness his Essence in celestial lays!

122

DEISM

Must Ethiopians be imploy'd for you
Greatly rejoice if any good I do
I ask O unbeleiver satan's child
Has not thy saviour been to meek & mild
The auspicious rays that round his head do shine
Do still declare him to be christ divine
Doth not the Omnipotent call him son?
And is well pleas'd with his beloved One
How canst thou thus divide the trinity
What can'st thou take up for to make the three
Tis satan snares a Fluttering in the wind
Whereby he hath ensnar'd thy Foolish mind
God the eternal Orders this to be
Sees thy vain arg'ments to divide the three
Canst thou not see the consequence in store
Begin the Omnipotent to adore
Arise the pinions of Persuasions here
Seek the Eternal while he is so near
At the last day where wilt thou hide thy face
The day approaching is no time for grace
Then wilt thou cry thyself undone and lost
Proclaiming Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
Who trod the wine press of Jehovahs wrath

123

Who taught us prayer and gave us grace and faith
Who but the great and the Supreme who bless'd
Ever and ever in Immortal rest
The meanest prodigal that comes to God
Is not cast off, but brought by Jesus Blood
When to the faithless Jews he oft did cry
One call'd him Teacher some made him a lye
He came to you in mean apparell clad
He came to save you from your sins and had
Far more Compassion than I can express
Pains his companions, and his Friends Distress
Immanuel God with us these pains did bear
Must the Eternal our Petitions hear?
Ah! cruel distiny his life he Laid
Father Forgive them thus the saviour said
They nail'd King Jesus to the cross for us
For our Transgressions he did bear the curse.

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEIST—1767—

Must Ethiopians be employ'd for you?
Much I rejoice if any good I do.
I ask O unbeleiver, Satan's child
Hath not thy Saviour been too much revil'd
Th' auspicious rays that round his temples shine
Do still declare him to be Christ divine
Doth not the great Eternal call him Son
Is he not pleas'd with his beloved One—?
How canst thou thus divide the Trinity—

124

The blest the Holy the eternal three
Tis Satan's Snares are fluttering in the wind
Whereby he doth insnare thy foolish mind
God, the Eternal Orders this to be
Sees thy vain arg'ments to divide the three
Cans't thou not see the Consequence in store?
Begin th' Almighty monarch to adore
Attend to Reason whispering in thine ear
Seek the Eternal while he is so near.
Full in thy view I point each path I know
Lest to the vale of black dispair I go.
At the last day where wilt thou hide thy face
That Day approaching is no time for Grace.
Too late percieve thyself undone and lost
To late own Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Who trod the wine-press of Jehovah's wrath?
Who taught us prayer, and promis'd grace and faith ------?
Who but the Son, who reigns supremely blest
Ever, and ever, in immortal rest.? [sic]
The vilest prodigal who comes to God
Is not cast out but bro't by Jesus' blood.
When to the faithless Jews he oft did cry
Some own'd this teacher Some made him a lye
He came to you in mean apparel clad
He came to Save us from our Sins, and had
Compassion more than language can express.
Pains his companions, and his friends distress
Immanuel on the cross those pains did bear—
Will the eternal our petitions hear?
Ah! wondrous Distiny his life he laid.
“Father forgive them,” thus the Saviour pray'd
Nail'd was King Jesus on the cross for us.
For our transgressions he sustain'd the Curse.

125

AMERICA

New England first a wilderness was found
Till for a continent 'twas destin'd round
From feild to feild the savage monsters run
E'r yet Brittania had her work begun
Thy Power, O Liberty, makes strong the weak
And (wond'rous instinct) Ethiopians speak
Sometimes by Simile, a victory's won
A certain lady had an only son
He grew up daily virtuous as he grew
Fearing his Strength which she undoubted knew
She laid some taxes on her darling son
And would have laid another act there on
Amend your manners I'll the task remove
Was said with seeming Sympathy and Love
By many Scourges she his goodness try'd
Untill at length the Best of Infants cry'd
He wept, Brittania turn'd a senseless ear
At last awaken'd by maternal fear
Why weeps americus why weeps my Child
Thus spake Brittania, thus benign and mild
My dear mama said he, shall I repeat—
Then Prostrate fell, at her maternal feet
What ails the rebel, great Brittania Cry'd
Indeed said he, you have no cause to Chide
You see each day my fluent tears my food.
Without regard, what no more English blood?
Has length of time drove from our English viens.
The kindred he to Great Brittania deigns?
Tis thus with thee O Brittain keeping down
New English force, thou fear'st his Tyranny and thou didst frown

126

He weeps afresh to feel this Iron chain
Turn, O Brittania claim thy child again
Riecho Love drive by thy powerful charms
Indolence Slumbering in forgetful arms
See Agenoria diligent imploy's
Her sons, and thus with rapture she replys
Arise my sons with one consent arise
Lest distant continents with vult'ring eyes
Should charge America with Negligence
They praise Industry but no pride commence
To raise their own Profusion, O Brittain See
By this, New England will increase like thee

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY ON HIS REPEALING THE AMERICAN STAMP ACT

Your Subjects hope
The crown upon your head may flourish long
And in great wars your royal arms be strong
May your Sceptre many nations sway
Resent it on them that dislike Obey
But how shall we exalt the British king

127

Who ruleth france Possessing every thing
The sweet remembrance of whose favours past
The meanest peasants bless the great the last
May George belov'd of all the nations round
Live and by earths and heavens blessings crownd
May heaven protect and Guard him from on high
And at his presence every evil fly
Thus every clime with equal gladness See
When kings do Smile it sets their Subjects free
When wars came on the proudest rebel fled
God thunder'd fury on their guilty head

Phillis

ON FRIENDSHIP

Let amicitia in her ample reign
Extend her notes to a Celestial strain
Benevolent far more divinely Bright
Amor like me doth triumph at the sight
When my thoughts in gratitude imploy
Mental Imaginations give me Joy
Now let my thoughts in Contemplation steer
The Footsteps of the Superlative fair

Written by Phillis Wheatley Boston July 15 1769

128

TO THE HON.ble COMMODORE HOOD ON HIS PARDONING A DESERTER

It was thy noble soul and high desert
That caus'd these breathings of my grateful heart
You sav'd a soul from Pluto's dreary shore
You sav'd his body and he asks no more
This generous act Immortal wreaths shall bring
To thee for meritorious was the Spring
From whence from whence, [sic] this candid ardor flow'd
To grace thy name, and Glorify thy God
The Eatherial spirits in the realms above
Rejoice to see thee exercise thy Love
Hail: Commodore may heaven delighted pour
Its blessings plentious in a silent shower
The voice of pardon did resound on high
While heaven consented, and he must not die
On thee, fair victor be the Blessing shed
And rest for ever on thy matchless Head

Phillis

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV'D DR. SEWALL. 1769.—

E'er yet the morning heav'd its Orient head
Behold him praising with the happy dead.

129

Hail! happy Saint, on the immortal Shore.
We hear thy warnings and advice no more:
Then let each one behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native Skies,
From hence the Prophet wing'd his rapturous way
To mansions pure, to fair celestial day.—

Then begging for the Spirit of his God
And panting eager for the bless'd abode,
Let every one, with the Same vigour Soar
To bliss, and happiness, unseen before
Then be Christ's image on our minds impress'd
And plant a Saviour in each glowing Breast.
Thrice happy thou, arriv'd to Joy at last;
What compensation for the evil past!

Thou Lord, incomprehensible, unknown,
To Sense, we bow, at thy exalted Throne!
While thus we beg thy excellence to feel,
Thy Sacred Spirit, in our hearts reveal
And make each one of us, that grace partake
Which thus we ask for the Redeemer's Sake

“Sewall is dead.” Swift pinion'd fame thus cry'd.
Is Sewall dead?” my trembling heart reply'd
O what a blessing in thy flight deny'd!
But when our Jesus had ascended high,
With Captive bands he led Captivity;

130

And gifts reciev'd for such as knew not God
Lord! Send a Pastor, for thy Churche's [good]
O ruin'd world! bereft of thee, we cryd,
(The rocks responsive to the voice, reply'd.)
How oft for us this holy Prophet pray'd;
But ah! behold him in his Clay-cold bed
By duty urg'd, my weeping verse to close,
I'll on his Tomb, an Epitaph compose.

Lo! here, a man bought with Christ's precious blood
Once a poor Sinner, now a Saint with God.—
Behold ye rich and poor, and fools and wise;
Nor Let this monitor your hearts Surprize!
I'll tell you all, what this great Saint has done
Which makes him Brighter than the Glorious Sun.—
Listen ye happy from your Seats above
I Speak Sincerely and with truth and Love.
He Sought the Paths of virtue and of Truth
Twas this which made him happy in his Youth.
In Blooming years he found that grace divine
Which gives admittance to the sacred Shrine.
Mourn him, ye Indigent, Whom he has fed,
Seek yet more earnest for the living Bread:
E'en Christ your Bread, who cometh from above

131

Implore his pity and his grace and Love.
Mourn him ye Youth, whom he hath often told
God's bounteous Mercy from the times of Old.
I too, have cause this mighty loss to mourn
For this my monitor will not return.

Now this faint Semblance of his life complete
He is, thro' Jesus, made divinely great
And left a glorious pattern to repeat

But when Shall we, to this bless'd State arrive?
When the same graces in our hearts do thrive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR SNIDER MURDER'D BY RICHARDSON

In heavens eternal court it was decreed
How the first martyr for the cause should bleed
To clear the country of the hated brood
He whet his courage for the common good
Long hid before, a vile infernal here
Prevents Achilles in his mid career
Where'er this fury darts his Pois'nous breath
All are endanger'd to the shafts of death
The generous Sires beheld the fatal wound
Saw their young champion gasping on the ground
They rais'd him up. but to each present ear
What martial glories did his tongue declare

132

The wretch appal'd no longer can despise
But from the Striking victim turns his eyes—
When this young martial genius did appear
The Tory cheifs no longer could forbear.
Ripe for destruction, see the wretches doom
He waits the curses of the age to come
In vain he flies, by Justice Swiftly chaced
With unexpected infamy disgraced
Be Richardson for ever banish'd here
The grand Usurpers bravely vaunted Heir.
We bring the body from the watry bower
To lodge it where it shall remove no more.
Snider behold with what Majestic Love
The Illustrious retinue begins to move
With Secret rage fair freedoms foes beneath
See in thy corse ev'n Majesty in Death

Phillis

AN ELEGIAC POEM, On the DEATH of that celebrated Divine, and eminent Servant of JESUS CHRIST, the late Reverend, and pious GEORGE WHITEFIELD, Chaplain to the Right Honourable the Countess of Huntingdon, &c &c. Who made his Exit from this transitory State, to dwell in the celestial Realms of Bliss, on LORD'S-DAY, 30th of September, 1770, when he was seiz'd with a Fit of the Asthma, at NEWBURY-PORT, near BOSTON, in NEW-ENGLAND. In which is a Condolatory Address to His truly noble Benefactress the worthy and pious Lady
133

HUNTINGDON,—and the Orphan-Children in GEORGIA; who, with many Thousands, are left, by the Death of this great Man, to lament the Loss of a Father, Friend, and Benefactor.

By PHILLIS, a Servant Girl of 17 Years of Age, belonging to Mr. J. WHEATLEY, of Boston:—And has been but 9 Years in this Country from Africa.

Hail happy Saint on thy immortal throne!
To thee complaints of grievance are unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy lessons in unequal'd accents flow'd!
While emulation in each bosom glow'd;
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refin'd,
Inflame the soul, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we, the setting Sun deplore!
Which once was splendid, but it shines no more;
He leaves this earth for Heaven's unmeasur'd height:
And worlds unknown, receive him from our sight;
There WHITEFIELD wings, with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion, through vast seas of day.

When his AMERICANS were burden'd sore,
When streets were crimson'd with their guiltless gore!
Unrival'd friendship in his breast now strove:
The fruit thereof was charity and love

134

Towards America—couldst thou do more
Than leave thy native home, the British shore,
To cross the great Atlantic's wat'ry road,
To see America's distress'd abode?
Thy prayers, great Saint, and thy incessant cries,
Have pierc'd the bosom of thy native skies!
Thou moon hast seen, and ye bright stars of light
Have witness been of his requests by night!
He pray'd that grace in every heart might dwell:
He long'd to see America excell;
He charg'd its youth to let the grace divine
Arise, and in their future actions shine;
He offer'd THAT he did himself receive,
A greater gift not GOD himself can give:
He urg'd the need of HIM to every one;
It was no less than GOD's co-equal SON!
Take HIM ye wretched for your only good;
Take HIM ye starving souls to be your food.
Ye thirsty, come to his life giving stream:
Ye Preachers, take him for your joyful theme:
Take HIM, “my dear AMERICANS,” he said,
Be your complaints in his kind bosom laid:
Take HIM ye Africans, he longs for you;
Impartial SAVIOUR, is his title due;
If you will chuse to walk in grace's road,
You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to GOD.

Great COUNTESS! we Americans revere
Thy name, and thus condole thy grief sincere:
We mourn with thee, that TOMB obscurely plac'd,
In which thy Chaplain undisturb'd doth rest.
New-England sure, doth feel the ORPHAN's smart;
Reveals the true sensations of his heart:
Since this fair Sun, withdraws his golden rays,
No more to brighten these distressful days!

135

His lonely Tabernacle, sees no more
A WHITEFIELD landing on the British shore:
Then let us view him in yon azure skies:
Let every mind with this lov'd object rise.
No more can he exert his lab'ring breath,
Seiz'd by the cruel messenger of death.
What can his dear AMERICA return?
But drop a tear upon his happy urn,
Thou tomb, shalt safe retain thy sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animate his dust.

[8]

Sold by EZEKIEL RUSSELL, in Queen-Street, and JOHN BOYLES, in Marlboro-Street.

AN ODE OF VERSES On the much-lamented Death of the REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD, Late Chaplain to the Countess of Huntingdon; Who departed this Life, at Newberry near Boston in New England, on the Thirtieth of September, 1770, in the Fifty-seventh Year of his Age.

Compos'd in America by a Negro Girl Seventeen Years of Age, and sent over to a Gentleman of Character in London.

HAIL Happy Saint, on thy Immortal Throne!
To thee Complaints of Grievance are unknown.
We hear no more the Music of thy Tongue,
Thy wonted Auditories cease to throng.

136

Thy Lessons in unequal'd Accents flow'd,
While Emulation in each Bosom glow'd.
Thou didst, in Strains of Eloquence refin'd,
Inflame the Soul, and captivate the Mind.
Unhappy we thy setting Sun deplore,
Which once was splendid, but it shines no more.
He leaves the Earth for Heaven's unmeasur'd Height,
And Worlds unknown receive him out of Sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid Course his Way,
And sails to Zion thro' vast Seas of Day.
When his Americans were burthen'd sore,
When Streets were crimson'd with their guiltless Gore,
Wond'rous Compassion in his Breast now strove,
The Fruit thereof was Charity and Love.
Towards America what could he more!
Than leave his native Home, the British Shore,
To cross the Great Atlantick wat'ry Road,
To see New England's much-distress'd Abode.
Thy Prayers, great Saint, and thy incessant Cries,
Have often pierc'd the Bosom of the Skies.
Thou, Moon, hast seen, and thou, bright Star of Light,
Hast Witness been of his Requests by Night.
He pray'd for Grace in ev'ry Heart to dwell,
He long'd to see America excel.
He charg'd its Youth to let the Grace Divine
Arise, and in their future Actions shine.
He offer'd that he did himself receive:
A greater Gift not God himself could give.
He urg'd the Need of Him to ev'ry one,
It was no less than God's co-equal Son.
Take him, ye Wretched, for your only Good;

137

Take him, ye hungry Souls, to be your Food;
Take him, ye Thirsty, for your cooling Stream;
Ye Preachers, take him for your joyful Theme;
Take him, my dear Americans, he said,
Be your Complaints in his kind Bosom laid;
Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
Impartial Saviour is his Title due.
If you will walk in Grace's heavenly Road,
He'll make you free, and Kings, and Priests to God.
No more can he exert his lab'ring Breath,
Seiz'd by the cruel Messenger of Death.
What can his dear America return,
But drop a Tear upon his happy Urn.
Thou, Tomb, shalt safe retain thy sacred Trust,
Till Life Divine reanimate his Dust.

Our Whitefield the Haven has gain'd,
Outflying the Tempest and Wind;
His Rest he has sooner obtain'd,
And left his Companions behind.

With Songs let us follow his Flight,
And mount with his Spirit above;
Escap'd to the Mansions of Light,
And lodg'd in the Eden of Love.

THE CONCLUSION.

May Whitefield's Virtues flourish with his Fame,
And Ages yet unborn record his Name.
All Praise and Glory be to God on High,
Whose dread Command is, That we all must die.
To live to Life eternal, may we emulate
The worthy Man that's gone, e'er tis too late.

[9]

Printed and sold for the Benefit of a poor Family burnt out a few Weeks since near Shoreditch Church, that lost all they possessed, having nothing insur'd.

Price a Penny apiece, or 5 s. a Hundred to those that sell them again.

138

To Mrs. LEONARD, on the Death of her HUSBAND.

GRIM Monarch! see depriv'd of vital breath,
A young Physician in the dust of death!
Dost thou go on incessant to destroy:
The grief to double, and impair the joy?
Enough thou never yet wast known to say,
Tho' millions die thy mandate to obey.
Nor youth, nor science nor the charms of love,
Nor aught on earth thy rocky heart can move.
The friend, the spouse, from his dark realm to save,
In vain we ask the tyrant of the grave.

Fair mourner, there see thy own LEONARD spread,
Lies undistinguish'd from the vulgar dead;
Clos'd are his eyes, eternal slumbers keep,
His senses bound in never-waking sleep,
Till time shall cease; till many a shining world,
Shall fall from Heav'n, in dire confusion hurl'd:
Till dying Nature in wild torture lies;
Till her last groans shall rend the brazen skies!
And not till then, his active Soul shall claim,
Its body, now, of more than mortal frame.
But ah! methinks the rolling tears apace,
Pursue each other down the alter'd face.
Ah! cease ye sighs, nor rend the mourner's heart:
Cease thy complaints, no more thy griefs impart.
From the cold shell of his great soul arise!
And look above, thou native of the skies!
There fix thy view, where fleeter than the wind
Thy LEONARD flies, and leaves the earth behind.

139

Thyself prepare to pass the gloomy night,
To join forever in the fields of light;
To thy embrace, his joyful spirit moves,
To thee the partner of his earthly loves;
He welcomes thee to pleasures more refin'd
And better suited to the deathless mind.

Phillis Wheatley.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SAMUEL MARSHALL

Thro' thickest glooms, Look back, immortal Shade;
On that confusion which thy flight hath made.
Or from Olympus height, look down, and see,
A Town involv'd in grief, bereft of thee.
His Lucy sees him mix among the Dead,
And rends the gracefull tresses from her head.
Frantic with woe, with griefs unknown, oppress'd,
Sigh follows Sigh, and heaves the downy breast;
Too quickly fled, ah! whither art thou gone?
Ah! lost forever to thy wife and son!
The hapless child, thy only hope, and heir,
Clings round the neck, and weeps his Sorrows there
The loss of thee, on Tyler's Soul returns.
And Boston too, for her Physician mourns.
When Sickness call'd for Marshall's kindly hand,
Lo! how with pitty would his heart expand!
The Sire, the friend in him we oft have found;
With gen'rous friendship, did his Soul abound.
Could Esculapius then no Longer stay,
To bring his lingring Infant in to Day?
The Babe unborn, in dark confiens is toss'd

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And Seems in anguish for its Father Lost.
Gone is Apollo! from his house of earth!
And leaves the memorial of his worth.
From yonder worlds unseen he Comes no more,
The common parent, whom we thus deplore:
Yet in our hopes, immortal Joys attend,
The Sire, the Spouse, the universal freind.

On the Death of Doctor SAMUEL MARSHALL.

Thro' thickest glooms, look back, immortal Shade!
On that confusion which thy flight has made.
Or from Olympus' height look down, and see
A Town involv'd in grief for thee:
His Lucy sees him mix among the dead.
And rends the graceful tresses from her head:
Frantic with woe, with griefs unknown, oppres'd,
Sigh follows sigh, and heaves the downy breast.

Too quickly fled, ah! whither art thou gone!
Ah! lost for ever to thy Wife and Son!
The hapless child, thy only hope and heir,
Clings round her neck, and weeps his sorrows there.

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The loss of thee on Tyler's soul returns,
And Boston too, for her Physician mourns.
When sickness call'd for Marshall's kindly hand,
Lo! how with pity would his heart expand!
The sire, the friend, in him we oft have found,
With gen'rous friendship did his soul abound.

Could Esculapius then no longer stay?
To bring his ling'ring infant into day!
The babe unborn, in dark confines is toss'd
And seems in anguish for it's father lost.

Gone, is Apollo! from his house of earth,
And leaves the sweet memorials of his worth.
From yonder world unseen, he comes no more,
The common parent, whom we thus deplore:
Yet, in our hopes, immortal joys attend
The Sire, the Spouse, the universal Friend.

142

RECOLLECTION.

[_]

To the AUTHOR of the LONDON MAGAZINE.

Boston, in New-England, Jan. 1, 1772.

SIR,

As your Magazine is a proper repository for any thing valuable or curious, I hope you will excuse the communicating the following by one of your subscribers.

There is in this town a young Negro woman, who left her country at ten years of age, and has been in this eight years. She is a compleat sempstress, an accomplished mistress of her pen, and discovers a most surprising genius. Some of her productions have seen the light, among which is a poem on the death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield.—The following was occasioned by her being in company with some young ladies of family, when one of them said she did not remember, among all the poetical pieces she had seen, ever to have met with a poem upon RECOLLECTION. The African (so let me call her, for so in fact she is) took the hint, went home to her master's, and soon sent what follows.

“MADAM,

“Agreeable to your proposing Recollection as a subject proper for me to write upon, I enclose these few thoughts upon it; and, as you was the first person who mentioned it, I thought none more proper to dedicate it to; and, if it meets with your approbation, the poem is honoured, and the authoress satisfied. I am, Madam,

Your very humble servant, PHILLIS.”

To Miss A--- M---, humbly inscribed by the Authoress.

MNEME, begin; inspire, ye sacred Nine!
Your vent'rous Afric in the deep design.

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Do ye rekindle the cœlestial fire,
Ye god-like powers! the glowing thoughts inspire,
Immortal Pow'r! I trace thy sacred spring,
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing.
By thee, past acts of many thousand years,
Rang'd in due order, to the mind appears;
The long-forgot thy gentle hand conveys,
Returns, and soft upon the fancy plays.
Calm, in the visions of the night he pours
Th' exhaustless treasures of his secret stores.
Swift from above he wings his downy flight
Thro' Phœbe's realm, fair regent of the night.
Thence to the raptur'd poet gives his aid,
Dwells in his heart, or hovers round his head;
To give instruction to the lab'ring mind,
Diffusing light cœlestial and refin'd.
Still he pursues, unweary'd in the race,
And wraps his senses in the pleasing maze.
The Heav'nly Phantom points the actions done
In the past worlds, and tribes beneath the sun.
He, from his throne in ev'ry human breast,
Has vice condemn'd, and ev'ry virtue bless'd.
Sweet are the sounds in which thy words we hear,
Cœlestial musick to the ravish'd ear.
We hear thy voice, resounding o'er the plains,
Excelling Maro's sweet Menellian strains.
But awful Thou! to that perfidious race,
Who scorn thy warnings, nor the good embrace;
By Thee unveil'd, the horrid crime appears,
Thy mighty hand redoubled fury bears;
The time mis-spent augments their hell of woes,
While through each breast the dire contagion flows.
Now turn and leave the rude ungraceful scene,
And paint fair Virtue in immortal green.
For ever flourish in the glowing veins,
For ever flourish in poetick strains.
Be Thy employ to guide my early days,

144

And Thine the tribute of my youthful lays.

Now eighteen years their destin'd course have run,
In due succession, round the central sun;
How did each folly unregarded pass!
But sure 'tis graven on eternal brass!
To recollect, inglorious I return;
'Tis mine past follies and past crimes to mourn.
The virtue, ah! unequal to the vice,
Will scarce afford small reason to rejoice.

Such, RECOLLECTION! is thy pow'r, high-thron'd
In ev'ry breast of mortals, ever own'd.
The wretch, who dar'd the vengeance of the skies,
At last awakes with horror and surprise.
By Thee alarm'd, he sees impending fate,
He howls in anguish, and repents too late.
But oft thy kindness moves with timely fear
The furious rebel in his mad career.
Thrice bless'd the man, who in thy sacred shrine
Improves the REFUGE from the wrath divine.

Her age.

To the Rev. Mr. Pitkin, on the DEATH of his LADY.

WHERE Contemplation finds her sacred Spring;
Where heav'nly Music makes the Centre ring;
Where Virtue reigns unsulled, and divine;
Where Wisdom thron'd, and all the Graces shine;

145

There sits thy Spouse, amid the glitt'ring Throng;
There central Beauty feasts the ravish'd Tongue;
With recent Powers, with recent glories crown'd,
The Choirs angelic shout her Welcome round.

The virtuous Dead, demand a grateful Tear—
But cease thy Grief a-while, thy Tears forbear,
Not thine alone, the Sorrow I relate,
Thy blooming Off-spring feel the mighty Weight;
Thus, from the Bosom of the tender Vine,
The Branches torn, fall, wither, sink supine.

Now flies the Soul, thro' Æther unconfin'd.
Thrice happy State of the immortal Mind!
Still in thy Breast tumultuous Passions rise,
And urge the lucent Torrent from thine Eyes.
Amidst the Seats of Heaven, a Place is free
Among those bright angelic Ranks for thee.
For thee, they wait—and with expectant Eye,
Thy Spouse leans forward from th' ethereal Sky,
Thus in my Hearing, “Come away,” she cries,
“Partake the sacred Raptures of the Skies!
“Our Bliss divine, to Mortals is unknown,
“And endless Scenes of Happiness our own;
“May the dear Off-spring of our earthly Love,
“Receive Admittance to the Joys above!
“Attune the Harp to more than mortal Lays,
“And pay with us, the Tribute of their Praise
“To Him, who died, dread Justice to appease,
“Which reconcil'd, holds Mercy in Embrace;
“Creation too, her MAKER'S Death bemoan'd,

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“Retir'd the Sun, and deep the Centre groan'd.
“He in his Death slew ours, and as he rose,
“He crush'd the Empire of our hated Foes.
“How vain their Hopes to put the GOD to flight,
“And render Vengeance to the Sons of Light!”

Thus having spoke she turn'd away her Eyes,
Which beam'd celestial Radiance o'er the Skies.
Let Grief no longer damp the sacred Fire,
But rise sublime, to equal Bliss aspire;
Thy Sighs no more be wafted by the Wind,
Complain no more, but be to Heav'n resign'd.
'Twas thine to shew those Treasures all divine,
To sooth our Woes, the Task was also thine.
Now Sorrow is recumbent on thy Heart,
Permit the Muse that healing to impart,
Nor can the World, a pitying tear refuse,
They weep, and with them, ev'ry heavenly Muse.

Phillis Wheatley. Boston, June 16th, 1772.

The above Phillis Wheatley, is a Negro Girl, about 18 Years old, who has been in this Country 11 Years.

A POEM ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT, AGED 12 MONTHS

Thro' airy realms, he wings his instant flight,
To purer regions of celestial light;
Unmov'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll.

147

Beneath his feet, the universal whole
In just succession run their destin'd round,
And circling wonders spread the dread profound;
Th' etherial now, and now the starry skies,
With glowing splendors, strike his wond'ring eyes.

The heav'nly legions, view, with joy unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on the throne,
And smiling, thus: “To this divine abode,
“The seat of Saints, of Angels, and of GOD:
“Thrice welcome thou.”—The raptur'd babe replies,
“Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies,
“Ere vice triumphant had possess'd my heart;
“Ere yet the tempter claim'd my better part;
“Ere yet on sin's most deadly actions bent;
“Ere yet I knew temptation's dread intent;
“Ere yet the rod for horrid crimes I knew,
“Not rais'd with vanity, or press'd with wo;
“But soon arriv'd to heav'n's bright port assign'd.
“New glories rush on my expanding mind;
“A noble ardor now, my bosom fires,
“To utter what the heav'nly muse inspires!”

Joyful he spoke—exulting cherubs round
Clap loud their pinions, and the plains resound.
Say, parents! why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your bosoms with the rising groan?
To CHARLES, the happy subject of my song,
A happier world, and nobler strains belong.

148

Say, would you tear him from the realms above? [sic]
Or make less happy, frantic in your love?
Doth his beatitude increase your pain,
Or could you welcome to this earth again
The son of bliss?—No, with superior air,
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
“Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there!”

But still you cry, “O Charles! thy manly mind,
“Enwrap our souls, and all thy actions bind;
“Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
“Twelve moons revolv'd, and sunk in shades of death!
“Engaging infant! Nightly visions give
“Thee to our arms, and we with joy recieve:
“We fain would clasp the phantom to our breast,
“The phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest!”

Prepare to meet your dearest infant friend
Where joys are pure, and glory's without end.

Boston, Sept.r 1.st 1772. Phillis Wheatley.

TO THE RIGHT HON.l WILLIAM EARL OF DARTMOUTH, HIS MAJESTY'S SECRETARY OF STATE FOR NORTH AMERICA &.c &.c &.c

Hail! happy day! when Smiling like the Morn,
Fair Freedom rose, New England to adorn.
The northern clime, beneath her genial ray,

149

Beholds, exulting, thy Paternal Sway,
For big with hope, her race no longer mourns,
Each Soul expands, each ardent bosom burns,
While in thy hand, with pleasure, we behold
The Silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold!
Long lost to Realms beneath the northern Skies,
She Shines supreme, while hated Faction dies,
Soon as he Saw the triumph long desir'd
Sick at the view, he languish'd and expir'd.
Thus from the Splendors of the rising Sun.
The Sickning Owl explores the dark unknown.

No more of grievance unredress'd complain;
Or injur'd Rights, or groan beneath the chain,
Which Wanton Tyranny with lawless hand,
Made to enslave, O Liberty! thy Land.
My Soul rekindles at thy glorious name
Thy beams essential to the vital Flame.

The Patrio'ts' breast, what Heav'nly virtue warms! [sic]
And adds new lustre to his mental charms;
While in thy Speech, the Graces all combine;
Apollos too, with Sons of Thunder Join,
Then Shall the Race of injur'd Freedom bless

150

The Sire, the Friend, and messenger of Peace.

While you, my Lord, read o'er th' advent'rous Song
And wonder whence Such daring boldness Sprung:
Hence, flow my wishes for the common good
By feeling hearts alone, best understood.

From Native clime, when Seeming cruel fate
Me snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy Seat
Impetuous.—Ah! what bitter pangs molest
What Sorrows labour'd in the Parent breast!
That more than Stone, ne'er Soft compassion mov'd
Who from its Father Seiz'd his much belov'd.
Such once my case.—Thus I deplore the day
When Britons weep beneath Tyrannic sway.
To thee, our thanks for favours past are due,
To thee, we still Solicite for the new;
Since in thy pow'r as in thy Will before,
To Sooth the griefs which thou didst then deplore.

May heav'nly grace, the Sacred Sanction give

151

To all thy works, and thou for ever live,
Not only on the wing of fleeting Fame,
(Immortal Honours grace the Patriots' name!)
Thee to conduct to Heav'ns refulgent fane;
May feiry coursers sweep th' ethereal plain!
Thou, like the Prophet, find the bright abode
Where dwells thy Sire, the Everlasting God.

To the Hon'ble Thomas Hubbard, Esq; On the Death of Mrs. Thankfull Leonard.

WHILE thus you mourn beneath the Cypress shade
That hand of Death, a kind conductor made
To her whose flight commands your tears to flow
And wracks your bosom with a scene of wo:
Let Recollection bear a tender part
To sooth and calm the tortures of your heart:
To still the tempest of tumultous grief;
To give the heav'nly Nectar of relief;
Ah! cease, no more her unknown bliss bemoan!
Suspend the sigh, and check the rising groan.
Her virtues shone with rays divinely bright,
But ah! soon clouded with the shades of night.
How free from tow'ring pride, that gentle mind!
Which ne'er the hapless indigent declin'd,

152

Expanding free, it sought the means to prove
Unfailing Charity, unbounded Love!

She unreluctant flies, to see no more
Her much lov'd Parents on Earth's dusky shore,
'Till dark mortality shall be withdrawn,
And your bless'd eyes salute the op'ning morn.

Meaning the Resurrection.

Impatient heav'n's resplendent goal to gain
She with swift progress scours the azure plain,
Where grief subsides, where passion is no more
And life's tumultous billows cease to roar,
She leaves her earthly mansions for the skies
Where new creations feast her won'dring eyes.
To heav'n's high mandate chearfully resign'd
She mounts, she flies, and leaves the rolling Globe behind.
She who late sigh'd for LEONARD to return
Has ceas'd to languish, and forgot to mourn.
Since to the same divine dominions come
She joins her Spouse, and smiles upon the Tomb:
And thus addresses;—(let Idea rove)—
Lo! this the Kingdom of celestial Love!
Could our fond Parents view our endless Joy,
Soon would the fountain of their sorrows dry;
Then would delightful retrospect inspire,
Their kindling bosoms with the sacred fire!
Amidst unutter'd pleasures, whilst I play,
In the fair sunshine of celestial day:
As far as grief affects a deathless Soul,
So far doth grief my better mind controul:
To see on Earth, my aged Parents mourn,
And secret, wish for THANKFULL to return!
Let not such thought their latest hours employ
But as advancing fast, prepare for equal Joy.

Boston, January 2. 1773. Phillis Wheatley.

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FAREWELL TO AMERICA.

To Mrs. S--- W---. By Phillis Wheatley.

[_]

BOSTON, MAY 10, 1773 Saturday last Capt. Calef sailed for London, in [with] whom went Passengers Mr. Nathaniel Wheatley, Merchant; also, Phillis, the extraordinary Negro Poet, Servant to Mr. John Wheatley.

ADIEU New England's smiling Meads;
Adieu the flow'ry Plain,
I leave thy opening Charms, O Spring!
To try the Azure Reign.
In vain for me the Flow'rets rise
And show their gawdy Pride,
While here beneath the Northern Skies
I mourn for Health deny'd.
Thee, charming Maid! while I pursue
In thy luxuriant Reign;
And sigh and languish, thee to view,
Thy Pleasures to regain.
Susanna mourns, nor can I bear
To see the Christal Show'r
Fast falling—the indulgent Tear
In sad Departure's Hour.
Not unregarding lo! I see

154

Thy Soul with Grief oppress'd;
Ah! curb the rising Groan for me,
Nor Sighs disturb thy Breast.
In vain the feather'd Songsters sing,
In vain the Garden Blooms,
And on the Bosom of the Spring,
Breaths out her sweet Perfumes.
While for Britannia's distant Shore,
We sweep the liquid Plain,
Till Aura to the Arms restore
Of this belov'd Domain.
Lo! Health appears! Celestial Dame,
Complacent and serene,
With Hebe's Mantle o'er her Frame,
With Soul-delighting Mein.
Deep in a Vale where London lies,
With misty Vapours crown'd,
Which cloud Aurora's thousand Dyes,
And Veil her Charms around.
Why Phœbus! moves thy Car so slow,
So slow thy rising Ray;
Nor gives the mantled Town to View
Thee glorious King of Day!

155

But late from Orient Skies, behold!
He Shines benignly bright,
He decks his native Plains with Gold,
With chearing Rays of Light.
For thee Britannia! I resign
New-England's smiling Face,
To view again her Charms divine,
One short reluctant Space.
But thou Temptation! hence, away,
With all thy hated Train
Of Ills—nor tempt my Mind astray
From Virtue's sacred Strain.
Most happy! who with Sword and Shield
Is screen'd from dire Alarms,
And fell Temptation, on the Field,
Of fatal Power disarms.
But cease thy Lays, my Lute forbear
Nor frown my gentle Muse,
To see the secret falling Tear,
Nor pitying look refuse.

An ELEGY, To Miss. Mary Moorhead, on the DEATH of her Father, The Rev. Mr. JOHN MOORHEAD.

INVOLV'D in Clouds of Wo, Maria mourns,
And various Anguish wracks her Soul by turns;
See thy lov'd Parent languishing in Death,

156

His Exit watch, and catch his flying Breath;
“Stay happy Shade,” distress'd Maria cries;
“Stay happy Shade,” the hapless Church replies;
“Suspend a while, suspend thy rapid flight,
“Still with thy Friendship, chear our sullen Night;
“The sullen Night of Error, Sin, and Pain;
“See Earth astonish'd at the Loss, complain;”
Thine, and the Church's Sorrows I deplore;
Moorhead is dead, and Friendship is no more;
From Earth she flies, nor mingles with our Wo,
Since cold the Breast, where once she deign'd to glow;
Here shone the heavenly Virtue, there confess'd,
Celestial Love, reign'd joyous in his Breast;
Till Death grown jealous for his drear Domain,
Sent his dread Offspring, unrelenting Pain.
With hasty Wing, the Son of Terror flies,
Lest Moorhead find the Portal of the Skies;
Without a Passage through the Shades below,
Like great Elijah, Death's triumphant Foe;
Death follows soon, nor leaves the Prophet long,
His Eyes are seal'd, and every Nerve unstrung;
Forever silent is the stiff'ning Clay,
While the rapt Soul, explores the Realms of Day.
Oft has he strove to raise the Soul from Earth,
Oft has he travail'd in the heavenly Birth;
Till JESUS took possession of the Soul,
Till the new Creature liv'd throughout the whole.

When fierce conviction seiz'd the Sinner's Mind,
The Law-loud thundering he to Death consign'd;
JEHOVAH'S Wrath revolving, he surveys,
The Fancy's terror, and the Soul's amaze.
Say, what is Death? The Gloom of endless Night,
Which from the Sinner, bars the Gates of Light:
Say, what is Hell? In Horrors passing strange;
His Vengeance views, who seals his final Change;
The winged Hours, the final Judgment brings,

157

Decides his Fate, and that of Gods and Kings;
Tremendous Doom! And dreadful to be told,
To dwell in Tophet 'stead of shrines of Gold.
“Gods! Ye shall die like Men,” the Herald cries,
“And stil'd no more the Children of the Skies.”

Trembling he sees the horrid Gulf appear,
Creation quakes, and no Deliverer near;
With Heart relenting to his Feelings kind,
See Moorhead hasten to relieve his Mind.
See him the Gospel's healing Balm impart,
To sooth the Anguish of his tortur'd Heart.
He points the trembling Mountain, and the Tree,
Which bent beneath th' incarnate Deity,
How God descended, wonderous to relate,
To bear our Crimes, a dread enormous Weight;
Seraphic Strains too feeble to repeat,
Half the dread Punishment the GOD-HEAD meet.
Suspended there, (till Heaven was reconcil'd,)
Like MOSES' Serpent in the Desert wild.
The Mind appeas'd what new Devotion glows,
With Joy unknown, the raptur'd Soul o'erflows;
While on his GOD-like Savior's Glory bent,
His Life proves witness of his Heart's intent.
Lament ye indigent the Friendly Mind,
Which oft relented, to your Mis'ry kind.

With humble Gratitude he render'd Praise,
To Him whose Spirit had inspir'd his Lays;
To Him whose Guidance gave his Words to flow,
Divine instruction, and the Balm of Wo:
To you his Offspring, and his Church, be given,
A triple Portion of his Thirst for Heaven;
Such was the Prophet; we the Stroke deplore,
Which let's us hear his warning Voice no more.
But cease complaining, hush each murm'ring Tongue,
Pursue the Example which inspires my Song.
Let his Example in your Conduct shine;

158

Own the afflicting Providence, divine;
So shall bright Periods grace your joyful Days,
And heavenly Anthems swell your Songs of Praise.

[13]

Printed from the Original Manuscript, and Sold by WILLIAM M'ALPINE, at his Shop in Marlborough-Street, 1773.

Boston, Decem. 15 1773. Phillis Wheatley.

[TO A GENTLEMAN OF THE NAVY.]

For the ROYAL AMERICAN MAGAZINE.
[_]

By particular request we insert the following Poem addressed, by Philis (a young Affrican, of surprising genius) to a gentleman of the navy, with his reply.

By this single instance may be seen, the importance of education.—Uncultivated nature is much the same in every part of the globe. It is probable Europe and Affrica would be alike savage or polite in the same circumstances; though, it may be questioned, whether men who have no artificial wants, are capable of becoming so ferocious as those, who by faring sumptuously every day, are reduced to a habit of thinking it necessary to their happiness, to plunder the whole human race.

Celestial muse! for sweetness fam'd inspire
My wondrous theme with true poetic fire,
Rochfort, for thee! And Greaves deserve my lays
The sacred tribute of ingenuous praise.
For here, true merit shuns the glare of light,
She loves oblivion, and evades the sight.

159

At sight of her, see dawning genius rise
And stretch her pinions to her native skies.

Paris, for Helen's bright resistless charms,
Made Illion bleed and set the world in arms.
Had you appear'd on the Achaian shore
Troy now had stood, and Helen charm'd no more.
The Phrygian hero had resign'd the dame
For purer joys in friendship's sacred flame,
The noblest gift, and of immortal kind,
That brightens, dignifies the manly mind.

Calliope, half gracious to my prayer,
Grants but the half and scatters half in air.

Far in the space where ancient Albion keeps
Amidst the roarings of the sacred deeps,
Where willing forests leave their native plain,
Descend, and instant, plough the wat'ry main.
Strange to relate! with canvas wings they speed
To distant worlds; of distant worlds the dread.
The trembling natives of the peaceful plain,
Astonish'd view the heroes of the main,
Wond'ring to see two chiefs of matchless grace,
Of generous bosom, and ingenuous face,
From ocean sprung, like ocean foes to rest,
The thirst of glory burns each youthful breast.

In virtue's cause, the muse implores for grace,
These blooming sons of Neptune's royal race;

160

Cerulean youths! your joint assent declare,
Virtue to rev'rence, more than mortal fair,
A crown of glory, which the muse will twine,
Immortal trophy! Rochfort shall be thine!
Thine too O Greaves! for virtue's offspring share,
Celestial friendship and the muse's care.
Yours is the song, and your's the honest praise,
Lo! Rochfort smiles, and Greaves approves my lays.

BOSTON; October 30th. 1774.

THE ANSWER.

Celestial muse! sublimest of the nine,
Assist my song, and dictate every line:
Inspire me once, nor with imperfect lays,
To sing this great, this lovely virgins praise:
But yet, alas! what tribute can I bring,
WH---TL---Y but smiles, whilst I thus faintly sing,

Behold with reverence, and with joy adore;
The lovely daughter of the Affric shore,
Where every grace, and every virtue join,
That kindles friendship and makes love divine;
In hue as diff'rent as in souls above;
The rest of mortals who in vain have strove,
Th' immortal wreathe, the muse's gift to share,
Which heav'n reserv'd for this angelic fair.

Blest be the guilded shore, the happy land,
Where spring and autumn gently hand in hand;
O'er shady forests that scarce know a bound,
In vivid blaze alternately dance round:
Where cancers torrid heat the soul inspires;

161

With strains divine and true poetic fires;
(Far from the reach of Hudson's chilly bay)
Where cheerful phœbus makes all nature gay;
Where sweet refreshing breezes gently fan;
The flow'ry path, the ever verdent lawn,
The artless grottos, and the soft retreats;
“At once the lover and thee muse's seats.”
Where nature taught, (tho' strange it is to tell,)
Her flowing pencil Europe to excell.
Britania's glory long hath fill'd the skies;
Whilst other nations, tho' with envious eyes,
Have view'd her growing greatness, and the rules,
That's long been taught in her untainted schools:
Where great Sir Isaac! whose immortal name;
Still shines the brightest on the seat of fame;
By ways and methods never known before;
The sacred depth of nature did explore:
And like a God, on philosophic wings;
Rode with the planets thro' their circling rings:
Surveying nature with a curious eye,
And viewing other systems in the sky.

Where nature's bard with true poetic lays,
The pristine state of paradise displays,
And with a genius that's but very rare
Describes the first the only happy pair
That in terrestial mansions ever reign'd,
View'd hapiness now lost, and now regain'd,
Unravel'd all the battles of the Gods,
And view'd old night below the antipodes.
On his imperious throne, with awful sway,
Commanding regions yet unknown today,

Or where those lofty bards have dwelt so long,
That ravish'd Europe with their heavenly song,

But now this blissful clime, this happy land,
That all the neighbouring nations did command;

162

Whose royal navy neptunes waves did sweep,
Reign'd Prince alone, and sov'reign of the deep:
No more can boast, but of the power to kill,
By force of arms, or diabolic skill.
For softer strains we quickly must repair
To Wheatly's song, for Wheatly is the fair;
That has the art, which art could ne'er acquire:
To dress each sentence with seraphic fire.

Her wondrous virtues I could ne'er express!
To paint her charms, would only make them less.

December 2nd. 1774.

PHILIS'S Reply to the Answer in our last by the Gentleman in the Navy.

For one bright moment, heavenly goddess! shine,
Inspire my song and form the lays divine.
Rochford, attend. Beloved of Phœbus! hear,
A truer sentence never reach'd thine ear;
Struck with thy song, each vain conceit resign'd
A soft affection seiz'd my grateful mind,
While I each golden sentiment admire
In thee, the muse's bright celestial fire.
The generous plaudit 'tis not mine to claim,
A muse untutor'd, and unknown to fame.

The heavenly sisters pour thy notes along
And crown their bard with every grace of song.
My pen, least favour'd by the tuneful nine,
Can never rival, never equal thine;
Then fix the humble Afric muse's seat

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At British Homer's and Sir Isaac's feet.
Those bards whose fame in deathless strains arise
Creation's boast, and fav'rites of the skies.

In fair description are thy powers display'd
In artless grottos, and the sylvan shade;
Charm'd with thy painting, how my bosom burns!
And pleasing Gambia on my soul returns,
With native grace in spring's luxuriant reign,
Smiles the gay mead, and Eden blooms again,
The various bower, the tuneful flowing stream,
The soft retreats, the lovers golden dream,
Her soil spontaneous, yields exhaustless stores;
For phœbus revels on her verdant shores.
Whose flowery births, a fragrant train appear,
And crown the youth throughout the smiling year,

There, as in Britain's favour'd isle, behold
The bending harvest ripen into gold!
Just are thy views of Afric's blissful plain,
On the warm limits of the land and main.

Pleas'd with the theme, see sportive fancy play,
In realms devoted to the God of day!

Europa's bard, who the great depth explor'd,
Of nature, and thro' boundless systems soar'd,
Thro' earth, thro' heaven, and hell's profound domain,
Where night eternal holds her awful reign.
But, lo! in him Britania's prophet dies,
And whence, ah! whence, shall other Newton's rise?
Muse, bid thy Rochford's matchless pen display
The charms of friendship in the sprightly lay.

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Queen of his song, thro' all his numbers shine,
And plausive glories, goddess! shall be thine.
With partial grace thou mak'st his verse excel,
And his the glory to describe so well.
Cerulean bard! to thee these strains belong,
The Muse's darling and the prince of song.

DECEMBER 5th, 1774.

TO HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL WASHINGTON.
[_]

The following LETTER and VERSES, were written by the famous Phillis Wheatley, the African Poetess, and presented to his Excellency Gen. Washington.

SIR,

I Have taken the freedom to address your Excellency in the enclosed poem, and entreat your acceptance, though I am not insensible of its inaccuracies.
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Your being appointed by the Grand Continental Congress to be Generalissimo of the armies of North America, together with the fame of your virtues, excite sensations not easy to suppress. Your generosity, therefore, I presume, will pardon the attempt. Wishing your Excellency all possible success in the great cause you are so generously engaged in. I am,
Your Excellency's most obedient humble servant, PHILLIS WHEATLEY. Providence, Oct. 26, 1775. His Excellency Gen. Washington.

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CElestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!

The goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.

Muse! bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates:
As when Eolus heaven's fair face deforms,
Enwrapp'd in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish'd ocean feels the wild uproar,
The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;

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Or thick as leaves in Autumn's golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior's train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in place and honours,—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam'd for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!

One century scarce perform'd its destin'd round,
When Gallic powers Columbia's fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom's heaven-defended race!
Fix'd are the eyes of nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia's arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! cruel blindness to Columbia's state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.

Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! be thine.

ON THE CAPTURE OF GENERAL LEE

The following thoughts on his Excellency Major General Lee being betray'd into the hands of the Enemy by the treachery of a pretended Friend; To the

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Honourable James Bowdoin Esq.r are most respectfully Inscrib'd, By his most obedient and devoted humble Servant.

PHILLIS WHEATLEY.

The deed perfidious, and the Hero's fate,
In tender strains, celestial Muse! relate.
The latent foe to friendship makes pretence
The name assumes without the sacred sense!
He, with a rapture well dissembl'd, press'd
The hero's hand, and fraudful, thus address'd.

“O friend belov'd! may heaven its aid afford,
“And spread yon troops beneath thy conquering sword!
“Grant to America's united prayer
“A glorious conquest on the field of war.
“But thou indulgent to my warm request
“Vouchsafe thy presence as my honour'd guest:
“From martial cares a space unbend thy soul
“In social banquet, and the sprightly bowl.”
Thus spoke the foe; and warlike Lee reply'd,
“Ill fits it me, who such an army guide;
“To whom his conduct each brave soldier owes
“To waste an hour in banquets or repose:
“This day important, with loud voice demands
“Our wisest Counsels, and our bravest hands.”

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Thus having said he heav'd a boding sigh.
The hour approach'd that damps Columbia's Joy.
Inform'd, conducted, by the treach'rous friend
With winged speed the adverse train attend
Ascend the Dome, and seize with frantic air
The self surrender'd glorious prize of war!
On sixty coursers, swifter than the wind
They fly, and reach the British camp assign'd.
Arriv'd, what transport touch'd their leader's breast!
Who thus deriding, the brave Chief address'd.
“Say, art thou he, beneath whose vengeful hands
“Our best of heroes grasp'd in death the sands?
“One fierce regard of thine indignant eye
“Turn'd Brittain pale, and made her armies fly;
“But Oh! how chang'd! a prisoner in our arms
“Till martial honour, dreadful in her charms,
“Shall grace Britannia at her sons' return,
“And widow'd thousands in our triumphs mourn.”
While thus he spoke, the hero of renown
Survey'd the boaster with a gloomy frown
And stern reply'd. “Oh arrogrance of tongue!
“And wild ambition, ever prone to wrong!
“Believ'st thou Chief, that armies such as thine
“Can stretch in dust that heaven-defended line?
“In vain allies may swarm from distant lands
“And demons aid in formidable bands.
“Great as thou art, thou shun'st the field of fame
“Disgrace to Brittain, and the British name!
“When offer'd combat by the noble foe,
“(Foe to mis-rule,) why did thy sword forgo
“The easy conquest of the rebel-land?
“Perhaps too easy for thy martial hand.
“What various causes to the field invite!
“For plunder you, and we for freedom fight:
“Her cause divine with generous ardor fires,
“And every bosom glows as she inspires!
“Already, thousands of your troops are fled

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“To the drear mansions of the silent dead:
“Columbia too, beholds with streaming eyes
“Her heroes fall—'tis freedom's sacrifice!
“So wills the Power who with convulsive storms
“Shakes impious realms, and nature's face deforms.
“Yet those brave troops innum'rous as the sands
“One soul inspires, one General Chief commands
“Find in your train of boasted heroes, one
“To match the praise of Godlike Washington.
“Thrice happy Chief! in whom the virtues join,
“And heaven-taught prudence speaks the man divine!”
He ceas'd. Amazement struck the warrior-train,
And doubt of conquest, on the hostile plain.

BOSTON. Dec.r 30, 1776

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOOSTER

Madam

I recd, your favour by Mr Dennison inclosing a paper containing the Character of the truely worthy General Wooster. It was with the most sensible regret that I heard of his fall in battle, but the pain of so afflicting a dispensation of Providence must be greatly alleviated to you and all his friends in the consideration that he fell a martyr in the Cause of Freedom—

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From this the muse rich consolation draws
He nobly perish'd in his Country's cause
His Country's Cause that ever fir'd his mind
Where martial flames, and Christian virtues join'd.
How shall my pen his warlike deeds proclaim
Or paint them fairer on the list of Fame—
Enough great Cheif—now wrapt in shades around
Thy grateful Country shall thy praise resound
Tho' not with mortals' empty praise elate
That vainest vapour to th' immortal State
Inly serene the expiring hero lies
And thus (while heav'nward roll his swimming eyes)
Permit, great power while yet my fleeting breath
And Spirits wander to the verge of Death—
Permit me yet to paint fair freedom's charms
For her the Continent shines bright in arms
By thy high will, celestial prize she came—
For her we combat on the feild of fame
Without her presence vice maintains full sway
And social love and virtue wing their way
O still propitious be thy guardian care
And lead Columbia thro' the toils of war.
With thine own hand conduct them and defend
And bring the dreadful contest to an end—
For ever grateful let them live to thee
And keep them ever virtuous, brave, and free—
But how, presumptuous shall we hope to find
Divine acceptance with th' Almighty mind—
While yet (O deed ungenerous!) they disgrace
And hold in bondage Afric's blameless race?
Let virtue reign—And thou accord our prayers
Be victory our's, and generous freedom theirs.

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The hero pray'd—the wond'ring Spirit fled
And Sought the unknown regions of the dead—
Tis thine fair partner of his life, to find
His virtuous path and follow close behind—
A little moment steals him from thy Sight
He waits thy coming to the realms of light
Freed from his labours in the ethereal Skies
Where in Succession endless pleasures rise!

You will do me a great favour by returning to me by the first oppy those books that remain unsold and remitting the money for those that are sold—I can easily dispose of them here for 12/Lm.o each—I am greatly obliged to you for the care you show me, and your condescention in taking so much pains for my Interest—I am extremely Sorry not to have been honour'd with a personal acquaintance with you—if the foregoing lines meet with your acceptance and approbation I shall think them highly honour'd. I hope you will pardon the length of my letter, when the reason is apparent—fondness of the Subject &—the highest respect for the deceas'd—I sincerely sympathize with you in the great loss you and your family Sustain and am Sincerely

Your friend & very humble Servt Phillis Wheatley Queenstreet Boston July—15th 1778

AN ELEGY, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THAT GREAT DIVINE, THE REVEREND AND LEARNED DR. SAMUEL COOPER, Who departed this Life December 29, 1783, ÆTATIS 59.

BY PHILLIS PETERS.

[_]

BOSTON: Printed and Sold by E. Russell, in Essex-Street, near Liberty-Pole, M,DCC,LXXXIV.

To the CHURCH and CONGREGATION assembling in Brattle-Street, the following, ELEGY, Sacred to the MEMORY of their late Reverend and Worthy

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PASTOR, Dr. SAMUEL COOPER, is, with the greatest Sympathy, most respectfully inscribed by their Obedient,

Humble Servant, PHILLIS PETERS. BOSTON, Jan. 1784.

O THOU whose exit wraps in boundless woe,
For Thee the tears of various Nations flow:
For Thee the floods of virtuous sorrows rise
From the full heart and burst from streaming eyes,
Far from our view to Heaven's eternal height,
The Seat of bliss divine, and glory bright;
Far from the restless turbulence of life,
The war of factions, and impassion'd strife.
From every ill mortality endur'd,
Safe in celestial Salem's walls secur'd.

E'ER yet from this terrestrial state retir'd,
The Virtuous lov'd Thee, and the Wise admir'd.
The gay approv'd Thee, and the grave rever'd;
And all thy words with rapt attention heard!
The Sons of Learning on thy lessons hung,
While soft persuasion mov'd th' illit'rate throng.
Who, drawn by rhetoric's commanding laws,
Comply'd obedient, nor conceiv'd the cause.

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Thy every sentence was with grace inspir'd,
And every period with devotion fir'd;
Bright Truth thy guide without a dark disguise,
And penetration's all-discerning eyes.

THY COUNTRY mourn's th' afflicting Hand divine
That now forbids thy radiant lamp to shine,
Which, like the sun, resplendent source of light
Diffus'd its beams, and chear'd our gloom of night.

WHAT deep-felt sorrow in each Kindred breast
With keen sensation rends the heart distress'd!
Fraternal love sustains a tenderer part,
And mourns a BROTHER with a BROTHER'S heart.

THY CHURCH laments her faithful PASTOR fled
To the cold mansions of the silent dead.
There hush'd forever, cease the heavenly strain,
That wak'd the soul, but here resounds in vain.
Still live thy merits, where thy name is known,
As the sweet Rose, its blooming beauty gone
Retains its fragrance with a long perfume:
Thus COOPER! thus thy death-less name shall bloom
Unfading, in thy Church and Country's love,
While Winter frowns, or spring renews the grove.
The hapless Muse, her loss in COOPER mourns,
And as she sits, she writes, and weeps, by turns;
A Friend sincere, whose mild indulgent grace
Encourag'd oft, and oft approv'd her lays.

WITH all their charms, terrestrial objects strove,
But vain their pleasures to attract his love.

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Such COOPER was—at Heaven's high call he flies;
His task well finish'd, to his native skies.
Yet to his fate reluctant we resign,
Tho' our's to copy conduct such as thine:
Such was thy wish, th' observant Muse survey'd
Thy latest breath, and this advice convey'd.

LIBERTY AND PEACE, A POEM.

By PHILLIS PETERS.

LO! Freedom Comes. Th' prescient Muse foretold,
All Eyes th' accomplish'd Prophecy behold:
Her Port describ'd, “She moves divinely fair,
“Olive and Laurel bind her golden Hair.”
She, the bright Progeny of Heaven, descends,
And every Grace her sovereign Step attends;
For now kind Heaven, indulgent to our Prayer,
In smiling Peace resolves the Din of War.
Fix'd in Columbia her illustrious Line,
And bids in thee her future Councils shine.
To every Realm her Portals open'd wide,
Receives from each the full commercial Tide.
Each Art and Science now with rising Charms
Th' expanding Heart with Emulation warms.
E'en great Britannia sees with dread Surprize,
And from the dazzl'ing Splendors turns her Eyes!
Britain, whose Navies swept th' Atlantic o'er,
And Thunder sent to every distant Shore:
E'en thou, in Manners cruel as thou art,
The Sword resign'd, resume the friendly Part!
For Galia's Power espous'd Columbia's Cause,

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And new-born Rome shall give Britannia Law,
Nor unremember'd in the grateful Strain,
Shall princely Louis' friendly Deeds remain;
The generous Prince th' impending Vengeance eye's,
Sees the fierce Wrong, and to the rescue flies.
Perish that Thirst of boundless Power, that drew
On Albion's Head the Curse to Tyrants due.
But thou appeas'd submit to Heaven's decree,
That bids this Realm of Freedom rival thee!
Now sheathe the Sword that bade the Brave attone
With guiltless Blood for Madness not their own.
Sent from th' Enjoyment of their native Shore
Ill-fated—never to behold her more!
From every Kingdom on Europa's Coast
Throng'd various Troops, their Glory, Strength and Boast.
With heart-felt pity fair Hibernia saw
Columbia menac'd by the Tyrant's Law:
On hostile Fields fraternal Arms engage,
And mutual Deaths, all dealt with mutual Rage;
The Muse's Ear hears mother Earth deplore
Her ample Surface smoak with kindred Gore:
The hostile Field destroys the social Ties,
And ever-lasting Slumber seals their Eyes.
Columbia mourns, the haughty Foes deride,
Her Treasures plunder'd, and her Towns destroy'd:
Witness how Charlestown's curling Smoaks arise,
In sable Columns to the clouded Skies!
The ample Dome, high-wrought with curious Toil,
In one sad Hour the savage Troops despoil.

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Descending Peace the Power of War confounds;
From every Tongue celestial Peace resounds:
As from the East th' illustrious King of Day,
With rising Radiance drives the Shades away,
So Freedom comes array'd with Charms divine,
And in her Train Commerce and Plenty shine.
Britannia owns her Independent Reign,
Hibernia, Scotia, and the Realms of Spain;
And great Germania's ample Coast admires
The generous Spirit that Columbia fires.
Auspicious Heaven shall fill with fav'ring Gales,
Where e'er Columbia spreads her swelling Sails:
To every Realm shall Peace her Charms display,
And Heavenly Freedom spread her golden Ray.

BOSTON: Printed by WARDEN and RUSSELL, At Their Office in Marlborough-Street. M,DCC,LXXXIV.

An ELEGY on leaving ---.

FAREWEL! ye friendly bowérs, ye streams adieu,
I leave with sorrow each sequesteréd, seat:
The lawns, where oft I swept the morning dew,
The groves, from noon-tide rays a kind retreat.

Yon wood-crownéd hill, whose far projecting shade,
Inverted trembles in the limpid lake:
Where wrapt in thought I pensively have strayéd,
For crowds and noise, reluctant, I forsake.

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The solemn pines, that, winding through the vale.
In graceful rows attract the wandéring eye,
Where the soft ring-dove pours her soothing tale,
No more must veil me from the fervid sky.

Beneath yon aged oak's protecting arms,
Oft-times beside the pebbléd brook I lay;
Where, pleaséd with simple Nature's various charms,
I passéd in grateful solitude the day.

Rapt with the melody of Cynthio's strain,
There first my bosom felt poetic flame;
Mute was the bleating language of the plain,
And with his lays the wanton fawns grew tame.

But, ah! those pleasing hours are ever flown;
Ye scenes of transport from my thoughts retire;
Those rural joys no more the day shall crown,
No more my hand shall wake the warbling lyre.

But come, sweet Hope, from thy divine retreat,
Come to my breast, and chase my cares away,
Bring calm Content to gild my gloomy seat,
And cheer my bosom with her heavénly ray.

To Mr. and Mrs. ---, on the Death of their Infant Son,

By Phillis Wheatly

O DEATH! whose sceptre, trembling realms obey,
And weeping millions mourn thy savage sway;
Say, shall we call thee by the name of friend,
Who blasts our joys, and bids our glories end?
Behold, a child who rivals op'ning morn,

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When its first beams the eastern hills adorn;
So sweetly blooming once that lovely boy,
His father's hope, his mother's only joy,
Nor charms nor innocence prevail to save,
From the grim monarch of the gloomy grave!
Two moons revolve when lo! among the dead
The beauteous infant lays his weary head:
For long he strove the tyrant to withstand,
And the dread terrors of his iron hand;
Vain was his strife, with the relentless power,
His efforts weak; and this his mortal hour;
He sinks—he dies—celestial muse, relate,
His spirit's entrance at the sacred gate.
Methinks I hear the heav'nly courts resound,
The recent theme inspires the choirs around.
His guardian angel with delight unknown,
Hails his bless'd charge on his immortal throne;
His heart expands at scenes unknown before,
Dominions praise, and prostrate thrones adore;
Before the Eternal's feet their crowns are laid,
The glowing seraph vails his sacred head.
Spirits redeem'd, that more than angels shine,
For nobler praises tune their harps divine:
These saw his entrance; his soft hand they press'd,
Sat on his throne, and smiling thus address'd,
“Hail: thou! thrice welcome to this happy shore,

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Born to new life where changes are no more;
Glad heaven receives thee, and thy God bestows,
Immortal youth exempt from pain and woes.
Sorrow and sin, those foes to human rest,
Forever banish'd from thy happy breast.”
Gazing they spoke, and raptur'd thus replies,
The beauteous stranger in the etherial skies.
“Thus safe conducted to your bless'd abodes,
With sweet surprize I mix among the Gods;
The vast profound of this amazing grace,
Beyond your search, immortal powers, I praise;
Great Sire, I sing thy boundless love divine,
Mine is the bliss, but all the glory thine.”

All heav'n rejoices as your . . . . . . . sings,
To heavenly airs he tunes the sounding strings;
Mean time on earth the hapless parents mourn,
“Too quickly fled, ah! never to return.”
Thee, the vain visions of the night restore,
Illusive fancy paints the phantom o'er;
Fain would we clasp him, but he wings his flight;
Deceives our arms, and mixes with the night;
But oh! suppress the clouds of grief that roll,
Invading peace, and dark'ning all the soul.
Should heaven restore him to your arms again,
Oppress'd with woes, a painful endless train,
How would your prayers, your ardent wishes, rise,
Safe to repose him in his native skies.