Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (Selections)

By Phillis Wheatley

• Transcription, correction, editorial commentary, and markup by Students and Staff of Marymount University, Students and Staff of The University of Virginia*

POEMS

ON

VARIOUS SUBJECTS,

RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.

BY

PHILLIS WHEATLEY,

NEGRO SERVANT to Mr. JOHN WHEATLEY,

of BOSTON, in NEW ENGLAND.

LONDON:

Printed for A. BELL, Bookseller, Aldgate; and sold by

Messrs. COX and BERRY, King-Street, BOSTON.

M DCC LXXIII.

DEDICATION.

To the Right Honourable the COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON,

THE FOLLOWING
POEMS
Are most respectfully
Inscribed,
By her much obliged,
Very humble,
And devoted Servant,

Phillis Wheatley.

Boston, June 12,

1773.

PREFACE.

THE following POEMS were written originally for the Amusement of the Author, as they were the Products of her leisure Moments. She had no Intention ever to have published them; nor would they now have made their Appearance, but at the Importunity of many of her best, and most generous Friends; to whom she considers herself, as under the greatest Obligations.

        As her Attempts in Poetry are now sent into the World, it is hoped the Critic will not severely censure their Defects; and we presume they have too much Merit to be cast aside with Contempt, and worthless and trifling Effusions.

As to the Disadvantages she has laboured under, with Regard to Learning, nothing needs to be offered, as her Master's Letter in the following Page will sufficiently shew the Difficulties in the Respect she had to encounter.

The following is a Copy of a LETTER sent by the Author's Master to the Publisher

PHILLIS was brought from Africa to America, in the Year 1761, between Seven and Eight Years of Age. Without any Assistance from School Education, and by only what she was taught in the Family, she, in sixteen Months Time from her Arrival, attained the English Language, to which she was an utter Stranger before, the such a Degree, as to read any, the most difficult Parts of the Sacred Writings, to the great Astonishment of all who heard her.

As to her WRITING, her own Curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt in so short a Time, that in the Year 1765, she wrote a Letter to the Rev. Mr. OCCOM^[1], the Indian Minister, while in England.

She has a great Inclination to learn the Latin Tongue, and has made some Progress in it. This Relation is given by her Master who bought her, and with whom she now lives.

JOHN WHEATLEY.

 Boston, Nov. 14, 1772.

To the PUBLICK.

AS it has been repeatedly suggested to the Publisher, by Persons, who have seen the Manuscript, that Numbers would be ready to suspect they were not really the Writings of PHILLIS, he has procured the following Attestation, from the most respectable Characters in Boston, that none might have the least Ground for disputing their Original.

        WE whose Names are under-written, do assure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page^[2],  were (as we verily believe) written by PHILLIS, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this Town. She has been examined by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.

• His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON, Governor,
• The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieutenant-Governor.

• The Hon. Thomas Hubbard,
• The Hon. John Erving,
• The Hon. James Pitts,
• The Hon. Harrison Gray,
• The Hon. James Bowdoin,
• John Hancock, Esq;
• Joseph Green, Esq;
• Richard Carey, Esq;
• The Rev. Charles Cheuney, D.D.
• The Rev. Mather Byles, D.D.
• The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D.D.
• The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D.D.
• The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D.D.
• The Rev. Mr. Samuel Mather,
• The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead,
• Mr. John Wheatley, her Master.

N. B. The original Attestation, signed by the above Gentlemen, may be seen by applying to Archibald Bell, Bookseller, No. 8, Aldgate-Street.

POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, IN NEW-ENGLAND.

WHILE an intrinsic ardor^[3] prompts to write,

The muses^[4] promise to assist my pen;

'Twas not long since I left my native shore

The land of errors, and Egyptian gloom^[5]:

Father of mercy, 'twas thy gracious hand         [5]

Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.

Students, to you 'tis giv'n to scan the heights

Above, to traverse the ethereal space,

And mark the systems of revolving worlds^[6].

Still more, ye sons of science ye receive        [10]

The blissful news by messengers from heav'n,

How Jesus' blood for your redemption flows.

See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross;

Immense compassion in his bosom glows;

He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn:        [15]

What matchless mercy in the Son of God!

When the whole human race by sin had fall'n,

He deign'd^[7] to die that they might rise again,

And share with him in the sublimest skies,

Life without death, and glory without end.        [20]

Improve your privileges while they stay,

Ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears

Or good or bad report of you to heav'n.

Let sin, that baneful evil to the soul,

By you be shunn'd, nor once remit your guard; [25]

Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.

Ye blooming plants of human race divine,

An Ethiop^[8] tells you 'tis your greatest foe;

Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain,

And in immense perdition^[9] sinks the soul.        [30]

On being brought from AFRICA to AMERICA.

'TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand

That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.

Some view^[10] our sable race with scornful eye,         [5]

"Their colour is a diabolic die."

Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain^[11],

May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

On IMAGINATION.

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,                         [5]

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,                        [10]

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,                                [15]

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.                        [20]

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,                        [25]

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:                        [30]

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,                                [35]

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.                        [40]

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.                        [45]

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,                                        [50]

And northern tempests damp the rising fire;

They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,

Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

To the Right Honourable WILLIAM, Earl of DARTMOUTH, His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for North America, &c.

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,           [5]

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:         [10]

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                [15]

Of wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain,

No longer shall 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,         [20]

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:                [25]

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                [30]

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.        [35]

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,                [40]

May fiery coursers sweep th' ethereal plain,

And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,

Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.

To S. M.,^[12] a young African Painter, on seeing his Works.

TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,

And thought in living characters to paint,

When first thy pencil did those beauties give,

And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,

How did those prospects give my soul delight,                         [5]

A new creation rushing on my sight?

Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,

On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:

Still may the painter's and the poet's fire

To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!                                 [10]

And may the charms of each seraphic theme

Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!

High to the blissful wonders of the skies

Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.

Thrice happy, when exalted to survey                                         [15]

That splendid city,^[13] crown'd with endless day,

Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:

Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.

Calm and serene thy moments glide along,

And may the muse inspire each future song!                                 [20]

Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd,

May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!

But when these shades of time are chas'd away,

And darkness ends in everlasting day,

On what seraphic pinions shall we move,                                 [25]

And view the landscapes in the realms above?

There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow,

And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow:

No more to tell of Damon's^[14] tender sighs,

Or rising radiance of Aurora's^[15] eyes,                                         [30]

For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,

And purer language on th' ethereal plain.

Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night

Now seals the fair creation from my sight.

AN HYMN TO THE MORNING

         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 thousand dies,                         [5]

  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.         [10]

            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                        [15]

  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.                [20]

AN HYMN TO THE EVENING.

 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,                        [5]

  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!                                [10]

 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                                        [15]

  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.

Content remixed from Literature in Context: An Open Anthology. http://anthologydev.lib.virginia.edu/ licensed under a CC-BY 4.0 International License.

*With the exception of “An Hymn to Morning” which is  from The Project Gutenberg EBook of Religious and Moral Poems, by Phillis Wheatley