Baquaqua : Afro-Diasporic Text Corpus

Phillis Wheatley 1772

HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New–England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway :
Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,
Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,
While in thine 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 appear’d the Goddess long desir’d,
Sick at the view, she languish’d and expir’d ;
Thus from the splendors of the morning light
The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain
Of wrongs, and grievance unredress’d complain,
No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,
Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand
Had made, and with it meant t’ enslave the land.

Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
Whence flow these wishes for the common good,
By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
Was snatch’d from Afric‘s fancy’d happy seat :
What pangs excruciating must molest,
What sorrows labour in my parent’s breast ?
Steel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d
That from a father seiz’d his babe belov’d :
Such, such my case. And can I then but pray
Others may never feel tyrannic sway ?
For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,
And thee we ask thy favours to renew,
Since in thy pow’r, as in thy will before,
To sooth the griefs, which thou did’st once deplore.
May heav’nly grace the sacred sanction give
To all thy works, and thou for ever live
Not only on the wings of fleeting Fame,
Though praise immortal crowns the patriot’s name,
But to conduct to heav’ns refulgent fane,
May fiery coursers sweep th’ ethereal plain,
And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,
Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 73-75.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/72/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior’s bosom in the fields of fight ?
Lo ! here the christian, and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H──d see with pleasure and surprize,
Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies :
Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,
And add new glories to thine honour’d name,
Still to the field, and still to virtue true :
Britannia glories in no son like you.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell p. 72.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/72/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1772

THROUGH airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light ;
Enlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destin’d round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th’ ethereal now, and now th’ empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes :
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne ;
Then smilling thus. ” To this divine abode,
” The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
” Thrice welcome thou.” The raptur’d babe replies,
” Thanks to my God, who snatch’d me to the skies,
” E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart,
” E’er yet the tempter had beguil’d my heart,
” E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent,
” E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire intent ;
” E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
” E’er vanity had led my way to guilt,
” But, soon arriv’d at my celestial goal,
” Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”
Joyful he spoke : exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heav’nly vaults resound.

Say, parents, why this unavailing moan ?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan ?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost’rous love ?
Doth his felicity increase your pain ?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss ? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
” Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.”
But still you cry, ” Can we the sigh forbear,
” And still and still must we not pour the tear ?
” Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
” Twelve moons revolv’d, becomes the prey of death ;
” Delightful infant, nightly visions give
” Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
” We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
” The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.”

To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 69-71.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/68/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

THY various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms ! how deck’d with pomp by thee !
Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

From Helicon‘s refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend :
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue ,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

Imagination ! who can sing thy force ?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course ?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode ,
Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind :
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.

Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise ;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain ;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d :
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train :
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler Thou ;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high ;
From Tithon‘s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse ;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire ;
They chill the tides of Fancy‘s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 65-68.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/64/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1771

MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent’rous Afric in her great design.
Mneme, immortal pow’r, I trace thy spring :
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing :
The acts of long departed years, by thee
Recover’d, in due order rang’d we see :
Thy pow’r the long-forgotten calls from night,
That sweetly plays before the fancy‘s sight.

Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours
The ample treasure of her secret stores ;
Swift from above the wings her silent flight
Through Phœbe‘s realms, fair regent of the night ;
And, in her pomp of images display’d,
To the high-raptur’d poet gives her aid,
Through the unbounded regions of the mind,
Diffusing light celestial and refin’d.
The heav’nly phantom paints the actions done
By ev’ry tribe beneath the rolling sun.

Mneme, enthron’d within the human breast,
Has vice condemn’d, and ev’ry virtue blest.
How sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear ?
Sweeter than music to the ravish’d ear,
Sweeter than Maro‘s entertaining strains

Resounding through the groves, and hills, and plains.
But how is Mneme dreaded by the race,
Who scorn her warnings and despise her grace ?
By her unveil’d each horrid crime appears,
Her awful hand a cup of wormwood bears.
Days, years mispent, O what a hell of woe !
Hers the worst tortures that our souls can know.

Now eighteen years their destin’d course have run,
In fast succession round the central sun.
How did the follies of that period pass
Unnotic’d, but behold them writ in brass!
In Recollection see them fresh return,
And sure ’tis mine to be asham’d, and mourn.

O Virtue, smiling in immortal green,
Do thou exert thy pow’r, and change the scene ;
Be thine employ to guide my future days,
And mine to pay the tribute of my praise.

Of Recollection such the pow’r enthron’d
In ev’ry breast, and thus her pow’r is own’d.
The wretch, who dar’d the vengeance of the skies,
At last awakes in horror and surprise,
By her alarm’d, he sees impending fate,
He howls in anguish, and repents too late.
But O ! what peace, what joys are hers t’ impart
To ev’ry holy, ev’ry upright heart !
Thrice blest the man, who, in her sacred shrine,
Feels himself shelter’d from the wrath divine!

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 62-64.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/62/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

SAY, heav’nly muse, what king, or mighty God,
That moves sublime from Idumea‘s road ?
In Bozrah‘s dies, with martial glories join’d,
His purple vesture waves upon the wind.
Why thus enrob’d delights he to appear
In the dread image of the Pow’r of war ?

Compres’d in wrath the swelling wine-press groan’d,
It bled, and pour’d the gushing purple round.

” Mine was the act,” th’ Almighty Saviour said,
And shook the dazzling glories of his head,
” When all forsook I trod the press alone,
” And conquer’d by omnipotence my own;
” For man’s release sustain’d the pond’rous load,
” For man the wrath of an immortal God :
” To execute th’ Eternal’s dread command
” My soul I sacrific’d with willing hand ;
” Sinless I stood before the avenging frown,
” Atoning thus for vices not my own.”

His eye the ample field of battle round
Survey’d, but no created succours found ;
His own omnipotence sustain’d the fight,
His vengeance sunk the haughty foes in night ;
Beneath his feet the prostrate troops were spread,
And round him lay the dying, and the dead.

Great God, what light’ning flashes from thine eyes ?
What pow’r withstands if thou indignant rise ?

Against thy Zion though her foes may rage,
And all their cunning, all their strength engage,
Yet she serenely on thy bosom lies,
Smiles at their arts, and all their force defies.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 60-61.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/60/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

SOON as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain ;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.

Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread !
But the west glories in the deepest red :
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below !

Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d ;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.

Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 58-59.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/58/mode/2up
Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine ;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.

Aurora hail, and all the thousands dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies :
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays ;
Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.

Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day :
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire :
The bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.

See in the east th’ illustrious king of day !
His rising radiance drives the shades away––
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 56-57.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/56/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1772

WHERE contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav’nly music makes the arches ring,
Where virtue reigns unsully’d and divine,
Where wisdom thron’d, and all the graces shine,
There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
While praise eternal warbles from her tongue ;
There choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
With perfect bliss, and peerless glory crown’d.

While thy dear mate, to flesh no more confin’d,
Exults a blest, an heav’n-ascended mind,
Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise ?
Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes ?
Amid the seats of heav’n a place is free,
And angels ope their bright ranks for thee ;
For thee they wait, and with expectant eye
Thy spouse leans downward from th’ empyreal sky :
” O come away, her longing spirit cries,
” And share with me the raptures of the skies.
” Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown ;
” Immortal life and glory are our own.
” There too may the dear pledges of our love
” Arrive, and taste with us the joys above ;
” Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
” And join with us the tribute of their praise
” To him, who dy’d stern justice to stone,
” And make eternal glory all our own.
” He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
” He crush’d the dire dominion of our foes ;
” Vain were their hopes to put the God to flight,
” Chain us to hell, and bar the gates of light.”

She spoke, and turn’d from mortal scenes her eyes,
Which beam’d celestial radiance o’er the skies.

Then thou, dear man, no more with grief retire,
Let grief no longer damp devotion’s fire,
But rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire,
Thy sighs no more be wafted by the wind,
No more complain, but be to heav’n resign’d.
‘Twas thine t’ unfold the oracles divine,
To sooth our woes the task was also thine ;
Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart,
Permit the muse a cordial to impart ;
Who can to thee their tend’rest aid refuse?
To dry thy tears how longs the heav’nly muse!

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 53-55.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/52/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley date unknown

WE trace the pow’r of Death from tomb to tomb,
And his are all the ages yet to come.
‘Tis his to call the planets from on high,
To blacken Phœbus, and dissolve the sky ;
His too, when all in his dark realms are hurl’d,
From its firm base to shake the solid world ;
His fatal sceptre rules the spacious whole,
And trembling nature rocks from pole to pole.

Awful he moves, and wide his wings are spread :
Behold thy brother number’d with the dead !
From bondage freed, the exulting spirit flies
Beyond Olympus, and these starry skies.
Lost in our woe for thee, blest shade, we mourn
In vain ; to earth thou never must return.
Thy sisters too, fair mourner, feel the dart
Of Death, and with fresh torture rend thine heart.
Weep not for them, who wish thine happy mind
To rise with them, and leave the world behind.

As a young plant by hurricanes up torn,
So near its parent lies the newly born––
But ‘midst the bright ethereal train behold
It shines superior on a throne of gold :
Then, mourner, cease ; let hope thy tears restrain,
Smile on the tomb, and sooth the raging pain.
On yon blest regions fix thy longing view,
Mindless of sublunary scenes below ;
Ascend the sacred mount, in thought arise,
And seek substantial and immortal joys ;
Where hope receives, where faith to vision springs,
And raptur’d seraphs tune th’ immortal strings
To strains extatic. Thou the chorus join,
And to thy father tune the praise divine.

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 51-52.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/50/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer