Poems of Phillis Wheatley Revised and Enlarged Edition |
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 | Poems of Phillis Wheatley |  |
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.
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;
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.
To thee Complaints of Grievance are unknown.
We hear no more the Music of thy Tongue,
Thy wonted Auditories cease to throng.
136
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 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.
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.
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.
| Poems of Phillis Wheatley | |