Poems of Phillis Wheatley Revised and Enlarged Edition |
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To the Rev. Mr. Pitkin, on the DEATH of his LADY. |
 | Poems of Phillis Wheatley |  |
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;
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.
Where heav'nly Music makes the Centre ring;
Where Virtue reigns unsulled, and divine;
Where Wisdom thron'd, and all the Graces shine;
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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.
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,
“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!”
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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“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.
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.
| Poems of Phillis Wheatley | |