Baquaqua : Afro-Diasporic Text Corpus

Phillis Wheatley 1772

ARISE, my soul, on wings enraptur’d, rise
To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and beneficence appear
As round its centre moves the rolling year,
Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,
Or the sun slumbers in the ocean’s arms :
Of light divine be a rich portion lent
To guide my soul, and favor my intent.
Celestial Muse, my arduous flight sustain,
And raise my mind to a seraphic strain !

Ador’d for ever be the God unseen,
Which round the sun revolves this vast machine,
Though to his eye its mass a point appears :
Ador’d the God that whirls surrounding spheres,
Which first ordain’d that mighty Sol should reign
The peerless monarch of th’ ethereal train :
Of miles twice forty millions is his height,
And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight
So far beneath—from him th’ extended earth
Vigour derives, and ev’ry flow’ry birth :
Vast through her orb she moves with easy grace
Around her Phœbus in unbounded space ;
True to her course th’ impetuous storm derides,
Triumphant o’er the winds, and surging tides.

Almighty, in these wond’rous works of thine,
What Pow’r, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine ?
And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explor’d,
And yet creating glory unador’d !

Creation smiles in various beauty gay,
While day to night, and night succeeds to day :
That Wisdom, which attends Jehovah‘s ways :
Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays :
Without them, destitute of heat and light,
This world would be the reign of endless night :
In their excess how would our race complain,
Abhorring life ! how hate its length’ned chain !
From air adust what num’rous ills would rise ?
What dire contagion taint the burning skies ?
What pestilential vapours, fraught with death,
Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath ?

Hail, smiling morn, that, from the orient main
Ascending dost adorn the heav’nly plain !
So rich, so various are thy beauteous dies,
That spread through all the circuit of the skies,
That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
And thy great God, the cause of all adores.

O’er beings infinite his love extends,
His Wisdom rules them, and his Pow’r defends.
When tasks diurnal tire, the human frame,
The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame ;
Then too that ever-active bounty shines,
Which not infinity of space confines.
The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
Conceals effects, but shews th’ Almighty Cause ;
Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
And all is peaceful but the brow of care.
Again, gay Phœbus, as the day before,
Wakes ev’ry eye, but what shall wake no more ;
Again the face of nature is renew’d,
Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,
Before its beams the eastern hills adorn !

Shall day to day and night to night conspire
To show the goodness of the Almighty Sire?
This mental voice shall man regardless hear,
And never, never raise the filial pray’r ?
To-day, O hearken, nor your folly mourn
For time mispent, that never will return.

But see the sons of vegetation rise,
And spread their leafy banners to the skies.
All-wise Almighty Providence we trace
In trees, and plants, and all the flow’ry race;
As clear as in the noble frame of man,
All lovely copies of the Maker’s plan,
The pow’r the same that forms a ray of light,
That call’d creation from eternal night.
” Let there be light,” he said : from his profound
Old Chaos heard, and trembled at the sound :
Swift as the word, inspir’d by pow’r divine,
Behold the light around its maker shine,
The first fair product of th’ omnific God,
And now through all his works diffused abroad.

As reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose,
So we may trace him in the night’s repose :
Say what is sleep ? and dreams how passing strange !
When action ceases, and ideas range
Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains,
Where Fancy‘s queen in giddy triumph reigns.
Hear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh
To a kind fair, or rave in jealousy ;
On pleasure now, and now on vengeance bent,
The lab’ring passions struggle for a vent.
What pow’r, O man ! thy reason then restores,
So long suspended in nocturnal hours ?
What secret hand returns the mental train,
And gives improv’d thine active pow’rs again ?
From thee, O man, what gratitude should rise !
And, when from balmy sleep thou op’st thine eyes,
Let thy first thoughts be praises to the skies.
How merciful our God, who thus imparts
O’erflowing tides of joy to human hearts,
When wants and woes might be our righteous lot,
Our God forgetting, by our God forgot !

Among the mental pow’rs a question rose,
” What most the image of th’ Eternal shows ?”
When thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove,)
Her great companion spoke, immortal Love.
” Say, mighty pow’r, how long shall strife prevail,
” And with its murmurs load the whisp’ring gale ?
” Refer the cause to Recollection‘s shrine,
” Who loud proclaims my origin divine,
” The cause whence heav’n and earth began to be,
” And is not man immortaliz’d by me ?
” Reason, let this most causeless strife subside.”
Thus love pronounc’d, and Reason thus reply’d.

” Thy birth, celestial queen ! ’tis mine to own,
” In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown ;
” Thy words persuade, my soul enraptur’d feels
” Resistless beauty which thy smile reveals.”
Ardent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms,
She clasp’d the blooming goddess in her arms.

Infinite Love, where’er we turn our eyes
Appears : this ev’ry creature’s want supplies ;
This most is heard in Nature‘s constant voice,
This makes the morn, and this the eve, rejoice ;
This bids the fost’ring rains and dews descend
To nourish all, to serve one gen’ral end,
The good of man : yet man ungrateful pays
But little homage, and but little praise.
To him, whose works array’d in mercy shine,
What songs should rise, how constant, how divine !

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 43-50.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/42/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

i Sam. Chap. xvii.

Phillis Wheatley circa 1772

YE martial pow’rs, and all ye tuneful nine,
Inspire my song, and aid my high design.
The dreadful scenes and toils of war I write,
The ardent warriors, and the fields of fight :
You best remember, and you best can sing
The acts of heroes to the vocal string :
Resume the lays with which your sacred lyre,
Did then the poet and the sage inspire.

Now front to front the armies were display’d,
Here Israel rang’d, and there the foes array’d ;
The hosts on two opposing mountains stood,
Thick as the foliage of the waving wood ;
Between them an extensive valley lay,
O’er which the gleaming armour pour’d the day,
When from the camp of the Philistine foes,
Dreadful to view, a mighty warrior rose ;
In the dire deeds of bleeding battle skill’d,
The monster stalks, the terror of the field.
From Gath he sprung, Goliath was his name,
Of fierce deportment, and gigantic frame :
A brazen helmet on his head was plac’d,
A coat of mail his form terrific grac’d,
The greaves his legs, the targe his shoulders prest :
Dreadful in arms, high-tow’ring o’er the rest
A spear he proudly wav’d, whose iron head,
Strange to relate, six hundred shekels weigh’d ;
He strode along, and shook the ample field,
While Phœbus blaz’d refulgent on his shield :
Through Jacob‘s race a chilling horror ran,
When thus the huge, enormous chief began :

” Say, what the cause that in this proud array
” You set your battle in the face of day ?
” One hero find in all your vaunting train,
” Then see who loses, and who wins the plain ;
” For he who wins, in triumph may demand
” Perpetual service from the vanquish’d land :
” Your armies I defy, your force despise,
” By far inferior in Philistia‘s eyes :
” Produce a man, and let us try the fight,
” Decide the contest, and the victor’s right.”

Thus challenged he : all Israel stood amaz’d,
And ev’ry chief in consternation gaz’d ;
But Jesse‘s son, in youthful bloom appears,
And warlike courage far beyond his years :
He left the folds, he left the flow’ry meads,
And soft recesses of the sylvan shades.
Now Israel‘s monarch, and his troops arise,
With peals of shouts ascending to the skies ;
In Elab‘s vale the scene of combat lies.

When the fair morning blushed with orient red,
What David‘s sire enjoin’d, the son obey’d,
And swift of foot towards the trench he came,
Where glow’d each bosom with the martial flame.
He leaves his carriage to another’s care,
And runs to greet his brethren of the war.
While yet they spake the giant-chief arose,
Repeats the challenge, and insults his foes :
Struck with the sound, and trembling at the view,
Affrighted Israel from its post withdrew.
” Observe ye this tremendous foe, they cry’d,
” Who in proud vaunts our armies hath defy’d :
” Whoever lays him prostrate on the plain,
” Freedom in Israel for his house shall gain ;
” And on him wealth unknown the king will pour,
” And give his royal daughter for his dow’r.”

Then Jesse‘s youngest hope : ” My brethren, say,
” What shall be done for him who takes away
” Reproach from Jacob, who destroys the chief,
” And puts a period to his country’s grief.
” He vaunts the honours of his arms abroad,
” And scorns the armies of the living God.”

Thus spoke the youth, th’ attentive people ey’d
The wond’rous hero, and again reply’d :
” Such the rewards our monarch will bestow,
” On him who conquers. and destroys his foe.”
Eliab heard, and kindled into ire
To hear his shepherd-brother thus inquire,
And thus begun? ” What errand brought thee? say,
” Who keeps thy flock ? or does it go astray ?
” I know the base ambition of thine heart,
” But back in safety from the field depart.”

Eliab thus, to Jesse‘s youngest heir,
Express’d his wrath in accents most severe.
When to his brother mildly he reply’d,
” What have I done ? or what the cause to chide ?”

The words were told before the king, who sent
For the young hero to his royal tent :
Before the monarch dauntless he began,
” For this Philistine, fail no heart of man :
” I’11 take the vale, and with the giant fight :
” I dread not all his boasts, nor all his might.”
When thus the king : ” Dar’st thou, a stripling go,
” And venture combat with so great a foe?
” Who all his days has been inur’d to fight,
” And made its deeds his study and delight :
” Battles and bloodshed brought the monster forth,
” And clouds and whirlwinds ushered in his birth.”
When David thus : ” I kept the fleecy care,
” And out there rush’d a lion and a bear ;
” A tender lamb the hungry lion took,
” And with no other weapon than my crook
” Bold I pursu’d, and chased him o’er the field,
” The prey deliver’d, and the lion kill’d :
” As thus the lion and the bear I slew,
” So shall Goliath fall, and all his crew :
” The God, who sav’d me from these beasts of prey,
” By me this monster in the dust shall lay.”
So David spoke. The wond’ring king reply’d ;
” Go thou, with heav’n and victory on thy side :
” This coat of mail, this sword, gird on,” he said,
And plac’d a mighty helmet on his head :
The coat, the sword, the helm, he laid aside,
Nor chose to venture with those arms untry’d,
Then took his staff, and to the neighb’ring brook
Instant he ran, and thence five pebbles took.
Mean time descended to Philistia‘s son
A radiant cherub, and he thus begun :
” Goliath, well thou know’st thou hast defy’d
” Yon Hebrew armies, and their God deny’d :
” Rebellious wretch ! audacious worm ! forbear,
” Nor tempt the vengeance of their God too far :
” Them, who with his omnipotence contend,
” No eye shall pity, and no arm defend :
” Proud as thou art, in short liv’d glory great,
” I come to tell thee thine approaching fate.
” Regard my words. The judge of all the gods,
” Beneath whose steps the tow’ring mountain nods,
” Will give thine armies to the savage brood,
” That cut the liquid air, or range the wood.
” Thee, too, a well-aim’d pebble shall destroy,
” And thou shall perish by a beardless boy :
” Such is the mandate from the realms above,
” And, should I try the vengeance to remove,
” Myself a rebel to my king would prove.
” Goliath say, shall grace to him be shown,
” Who dares heav’n’s monarch, and insults his throne?”

” Your words are lost on me,” the giant cries,
While fear and wrath contended in his eyes,
When thus the messenger from heav’n replies :
” Provoke no more Jehovah’s awful hand
” To hurl its vengeance on thy guilty land :
” He grasps the thunder, and, he wings the storm,
” Servants, their sov’reign’s orders to perform.”
The angel spoke, and turn’d his eyes away,
Adding new radiance to the rising day.

Now David comes : the fatal stones demand
His left, the staff engag’d his better hand :
The giant mov’d, and from his tow’ring height
Survey’d the strippling, and disdained the sight,
And thus began : ” Am I a dog with thee ?
” Bring’st thou no armour, but a staff to me ?
” The gods on thee their vollied curses pour,
” And beasts and birds of prey thy flesh devour.”

David, undaunted thus ” Thy spear and shield
” Shall no protection to thy body yield :
” Jehovah‘s name—no other arms I bear,
” I ask no other in this glorious war.
” To-day the Lord of Hosts to me will give
” Vict’ry, to-day thy doom thou shalt receive ;
” The fate you threaten shall your own become,
” And beasts shall be your animated tomb,
” That all the earth’s inhabitants may know
” That there ‘s a God who governs all below :
” This great assembly too shall witness stand,
” That needs nor sword, nor spear th’ Almighty’s hand :
” The battle his, the conquest he bestows,
” And to our pow’r consigns our hated foes.”
Thus David spoke; Goliath heard, and came
To meet the hero in the field of fame.
Ah ! fatal meeting to thy troops and thee,
But thou wast deaf to the divine decree ;
Young David meets thee, meets thee not in vain ;
‘Tis thine to perish on th’ ensanguin’d plain.

And now the youth the forceful pebble flung,
Philistia trembled as it whizz’d along :
In his dread forehead, where the helmet ends,
Just o’er the brows the well-aim’d stone descends,
It pierc’d the skull, and shatter’d all the brain,
Prone on his face he tumbled to the plain :
Goliath‘s fall no smaller terror yields
Than riving thunders in aerial fields :
The soul still ling’red in its lov’d abode,
Till conq’ring David o’er the giant strode ;
Goliath‘s sword then laid its master dead,

And from the body hew’d the ghastly head ;
The blood in gushing torrents drench’d the plains,
The soul found passage through the spouting veins.
And now aloud th’ illustrious victor said,
” Where are your boastings, now your champion ‘s dead ? “
Scarce had he spoke, when the Philistines fled :
But fled in vain ; the conqu’ror swift pursu’d :
What scenes of slaughter ! and what seas of blood !
There Saul thy thousands grasp’d th’ empurpled sand
In pangs of death the conquest of thine hand ;
And David there were thy ten thousands laid :
Thus Israel‘s damsels musically play’d.

Near Gath and Ekron many a hero lay,
Breath’d out their souls, and curs’d the light of day :
Their fury, quench’d by death, no longer burns,
And David with Goliath‘s head returns,
To Salem brought, but in his tent he plac’d
The load of armour which the giant grac’d.
His monarch saw him coming from the war,
And thus demanded of the son of Ner.
” Say, who is this amazing youth ?” he cry’d,
When thus the leader of the host reply’d ;
” As lives thy soul, I know not whence he sprung,
” So great in prowess though in years so young :”
” Inquire whose son is he,” the sov’reign said,
” Before whose conq’ring arm Philistia fled.”
Before the king behold the stripling stand,
Goliath‘s head depending from his hand :
To him the king : ” Say of what martial line
” Art thou, young hero, and what sire was thine ?”
He humbly thus ; ” the son of Jesse I :
” I came the glories of the field to try.
” Small is my tribe, but valiant in the fight ;
” Small is my city, but thy royal right.”
“‘Then take the promis’d gifts,” the monarch cry’d,
Conferring riches and the royal bride :
” Knit to my soul, forever thou remain
” With me, nor quit my regal roof again.”

---

Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 31-42.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/30/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1771

GRIM monarch ! see, depriv’d of vital breath,
A young physician in the dust of death:
Dost thou go on incessant to destroy,
Our griefs to double, and lay waste our joy ?
Enough thou never yet wast known to say,
Though millions die, the vassals of thy sway :
Nor youth, nor science, nor the ties of love,
Nor aught on earth thy flinty heart can move.
The friend, the spouse, from his dire dart to save,
In vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.
Fair mourner, there see thy lov’d Leonard laid,
And o’er him spread the deep impervious shade.
Clos’d are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep
His senses bound in never-waking sleep,
Till time shall cease, till many a starry world
Shall fall from heav’n, in dire confusion hurl’d,
Till nature in her final wreck shall lie,
And her last groan shall rend the azure sky :
Not, not till then his active soul shall claim
His body, a divine, immortal frame.

But see the softly-stealing tears apace
Pursue each other down the mourner’s face;
But cease thy tears, bid ev’ry sigh depart,
And cast the load of anguish from thine heart :
From the cold shell of his great soul arise,
And look beyond, thou native of the skies ;
There fix thy view, where, fleeter than the wind
Thy Leonard mounts, and leaves the earth behind.
Thyself prepare to pass the vale of night
To join forever on the hills of light :
To thine 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 th’ immortal mind.

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 29-30.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/28/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley circa 1770

WHO taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night,
To vanquish Satan in the fields of fight?
Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,
How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
War with each princedom, throne, and power is o’er,
The scene is ended to return no more.
O, could my Muse thy seat on high behold,
How deckt with laurel, how enriched with gold!
O, could she hear what praise thine harp employs,
How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!
What heav’nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
What holy raptures in her numbers reign!
To soothe the troubles of the mind to peace,
To still the tumult of life’s tossing seas,
To ease the anguish of the parent’s heart,
What shall my sympathizing verse impart?
Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sov’reign remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit, from thy heav’nly bow’r,
And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
The raging tempest of their grief control,
And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
To eye the path the saint departed trod,
And trace him to the bosom of his God.

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 27-28.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/26/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley circa 1770

FROM dark abodes to fair, etherial light
Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight;
On the kind bosom of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
This know, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,
She feels the iron hand of pain no more;
The dispensations of unerring grace,
Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;
Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,
No more distress’d in our dark vale below.

Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair,
And learn to imitate her language there.
“Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d,
“By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound
“Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint
“Infinite love and majesty to paint.
“To thee let all their grateful voices raise,
“And saints and angels join their songs of “praise.”

Perfect in bliss, she, from her heavenly home
Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come;
Why then, fond parents, why those fruitless groans?
Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
Why would you wish your daughter back again?
No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control,
And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,
Adore the God who gives and takes away;
Eye him in all, his holy name revere,
Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,
Till, having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea,
And from its rocks, and boisterous billows free,
Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,
Shall join your happy babe to part no more.

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 25-26.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/24/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1770

HAIL, happy saint ! on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue;
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,
And ev’ry bosom with devotion glow’d;
Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d,
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!
He leaves the earth for heav’n’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.
Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries,
Have pierc’d the bosom of thy native skies.
Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He prayed that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,
He long’d to see America excel;
He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;
That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,
He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,
That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.

“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
“Take him, ye starving sinners, for your food;
“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
“Take him my dear Americans, he said,
“Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:
“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
“Impartial Saviour is his title due:
“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,
“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
Great Countess*, we Americans revere
Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.

But, though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,
Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.

• The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield was Chaplain.

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 22-24.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/24/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1769

ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number’d with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;
From hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way
To the blest mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,
And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our minds Christ’s image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.
Thrice happy saint! to find thy heav’n at last,
What compensation for the evils past!
Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,
Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!

“Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.
“Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d,
O what a blessing in his flight deny’d!
How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!
How oft to us the Word of Life convey’d !
By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close,
I for his tomb this epitaph compose.

“Lo, here, a man, redeem’d by Jesus’ blood,
“A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
“Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
“Nor let his monument your heart surprize;
“‘Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
“Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
“Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
“I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
“He sought the paths of piety and truth,
“By these made happy from his early youth!
“In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
“Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
“Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
“And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
“Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above,
“And ask an int’rest in his saving love.
“Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
“God’s gracious wonders, from the times of old.
“I, too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
“For he my monitor will not return.
“O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
“When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell pp. 18-21.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/18/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer

Phillis Wheatley 1768

YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire─
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O may your sceptre num’rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness obey!

But how shall we the British king reward!
Rule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!
Midst the remembrance of thy favours past,
The meanest peasants most admire the last*.
May George, belov’d by all the nations round,
Live with heav’ns choicest, constant blessings crown’d.
Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,
And from his head let ev’ry evil fly!
And may each clime with equal gladness see
A monarch’s smile can set his subjects free!

* The Repeal of the Stamp Act

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Wheatley, Phillis (1773) Poems on Various Subjects, Moral and Religious. London : A. Bell p. 17.

Original printing at:
https://archive.org/details/poemsonvarioussu00whea/page/16/mode/2up

Genre: Poetry
Language : English
Meter: Iambic Pentamer