POEMS<\/p>\r\n
ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS,<\/p>\r\n
RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.<\/p>\r\n
BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY,<\/p>\r\n
NEGRO SERVANT TO MR. JOHN WHEATLEY,\r\nOF BOSTON, IN NEW-ENGLAND.<\/p>\r\n\r\n
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON,\r\nTHE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.\r\nBY HER MUCH OBLIGED, VERY HUMBLE AND DEVOTED SERVANT.\r\nPHILLIS WHEATLEY.<\/p>\r\n
BOSTON, JUNE 12, 1773.<\/p>\r\nP R E F A C E.\r\n\r\nTHE following POEMS were written originally for the Amusement of the\u00a0Author, as they were the Products of her leisure Moments. She had no\u00a0Intention ever to have published them; nor would they now have made\u00a0their Appearance, but at the Importunity of many of her best, and most\u00a0generous Friends; to whom she considers herself, as under the greatest\u00a0Obligations.\r\n\r\nAs her Attempts in Poetry are now sent into the World, it is hoped the\u00a0Critic will not severely censure their Defects; and we presume they\u00a0have too much Merit to be cast aside with Contempt, as worthless and\u00a0trifling Effusions.\r\n\r\nAs to the Disadvantages she has laboured under, with Regard to Learning,\u00a0nothing needs to be offered, as her Master's Letter in the following\u00a0Page will sufficiently show the Difficulties in this Respect she had to\u00a0encounter.\r\n\r\nWith all their Imperfections, the Poems are now humbly submitted to the\u00a0Perusal of the Public.\r\n\r\nThe following is a Copy of a LETTER sent by the Author's Master to the\u00a0Publisher.\r\n\r\nPHILLIS was brought from Africa to America, in the Year 1761, between\u00a0seven and eight Years of Age. Without any Assistance from School\u00a0Education, and by only what she was taught in the Family, she, in\u00a0sixteen Months Time from her Arrival, attained the English language,\u00a0to which she was an utter Stranger before, to such a degree, as to\u00a0read any, the most difficult Parts of the Sacred Writings, to the\u00a0great Astonishment of all who heard her.\r\n\r\nAs to her WRITING, her own Curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt\u00a0in so short a Time, that in the Year 1765, she wrote a Letter to the\u00a0Rev. Mr. OCCOM, the Indian Minister, while in England.\r\n\r\nShe has a great Inclination to learn the Latin Tongue, and has made some\u00a0Progress in it. This Relation is given by her Master who bought her,\u00a0and with whom she now lives.\r\n\r\nJOHN WHEATLEY.\r\n\r\nBoston, Nov. 14, 1772.\r\n\r\n \r\n\r\n \r\n
POEMS<\/p>\n
ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS,<\/p>\n
RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.<\/p>\n
BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY,<\/p>\n
NEGRO SERVANT TO MR. JOHN WHEATLEY,
\nOF BOSTON, IN NEW-ENGLAND.<\/p>\n
To Maecenas
\nOn Virtue
\nTo the University of Cambridge, in New England
\nTo the King’s Most Excellent Majesty
\nOn being brought from Africa
\nOn the Rev. Dr. Sewell
\nOn the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield
\nOn the Death of a young Lady of five Years of Age
\nOn the Death of a young Gentleman
\nTo a Lady on the Death of her Husband
\nGoliath of Gath
\nThoughts on the Works of Providence
\nTo a Lady on the Death of three Relations
\nTo a Clergyman on the Death of his Lady
\nAn Hymn to the Morning
\nAn Hymn to the Evening
\nOn Isaiah lxiii. 1-8
\nOn Recollection
\nOn Imagination
\nA Funeral Poem on the Death of an Infant aged twelve Months
\nTo Captain H. D. of the 65th Regiment
\nTo the Right Hon. William, Earl of Dartmouth
\nOde to Neptune
\nTo a Lady on her coming to North America with her Son, for the Recovery of her Health
\nTo a Lady on her remarkable Preservation in a Hurricane in North Carolina
\nTo a Lady and her Children on the Death of the Lady’s Brother and Sister, and a Child of the Name of Avis, aged one Year
\nOn the Death of Dr. Samuel Marshall
\nTo a Gentleman on his Voyage to Great-Britain, for the Recovery of his Health
\nTo the Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory on reading his Sermons on Daily Devotion, in which that Duty is recommended and assisted
\nOn the Death of J. C. an Infant
\nAn Hymn to Humanity
\nTo the Hon. T. H. Esq; on the Death of his Daughter
\nNiobe in Distress for her Children slain by Apollo, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book VI, and from a View of the Painting of Mr. Richard Wilson<\/p>\n
To S. M. a young African Painter, on seeing his Works
\nTo his Honour the Lieutenant-Governor, on the Death of his Lady
\nA Farewel to America
\nA Rebus by I. B.
\nAn Answer to ditto, by Phillis Wheatley<\/p>\n
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON,
\nTHE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
\nBY HER MUCH OBLIGED, VERY HUMBLE AND DEVOTED SERVANT.
\nPHILLIS WHEATLEY.<\/p>\n
BOSTON, JUNE 12, 1773.<\/p>\n
P R E F A C E.<\/p>\n
THE following POEMS were written originally for the Amusement of the\u00a0Author, as they were the Products of her leisure Moments. She had no\u00a0Intention ever to have published them; nor would they now have made\u00a0their Appearance, but at the Importunity of many of her best, and most\u00a0generous Friends; to whom she considers herself, as under the greatest\u00a0Obligations.<\/p>\n
As her Attempts in Poetry are now sent into the World, it is hoped the\u00a0Critic will not severely censure their Defects; and we presume they\u00a0have too much Merit to be cast aside with Contempt, as worthless and\u00a0trifling Effusions.<\/p>\n
As to the Disadvantages she has laboured under, with Regard to Learning,\u00a0nothing needs to be offered, as her Master’s Letter in the following\u00a0Page will sufficiently show the Difficulties in this Respect she had to\u00a0encounter.<\/p>\n
With all their Imperfections, the Poems are now humbly submitted to the\u00a0Perusal of the Public.<\/p>\n
The following is a Copy of a LETTER sent by the Author’s Master to the\u00a0Publisher.<\/p>\n
PHILLIS was brought from Africa to America, in the Year 1761, between\u00a0seven and eight Years of Age. Without any Assistance from School\u00a0Education, and by only what she was taught in the Family, she, in\u00a0sixteen Months Time from her Arrival, attained the English language,\u00a0to which she was an utter Stranger before, to such a degree, as to\u00a0read any, the most difficult Parts of the Sacred Writings, to the\u00a0great Astonishment of all who heard her.<\/p>\n
As to her WRITING, her own Curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt\u00a0in so short a Time, that in the Year 1765, she wrote a Letter to the\u00a0Rev. Mr. OCCOM, the Indian Minister, while in England.<\/p>\n
She has a great Inclination to learn the Latin Tongue, and has made some\u00a0Progress in it. This Relation is given by her Master who bought her,\u00a0and with whom she now lives.<\/p>\n
JOHN WHEATLEY.<\/p>\n
Boston, Nov. 14, 1772.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade, As long as Thames in streams majestic flows, O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive WHILE an intrinsic ardor prompts to write, YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire– ‘TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land, ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread, HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne, FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light WHO taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night, GRIM monarch! see, depriv’d of vital breath, YE martial pow’rs, and all ye tuneful nine, A R I S E, my soul, on wings enraptur’d, rise WE trace the pow’r of Death from tomb to tomb, WHERE contemplation finds her sacred spring, ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour’d nine, SOON as the sun forsook the eastern main SAY, heav’nly muse, what king or mighty God, MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine, THY various works, imperial queen, we see, THROUGH airy roads he wings his instant flight SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight To the Right Honourable WILLIAM, Earl HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, I.<\/p>\n WHILE raging tempests shake the shore, II.<\/p>\n The Pow’r propitious hears the lay, III.<\/p>\n To court thee to Britannia’s arms Boston, October 12, 1772.<\/p>\n INDULGENT muse! my grov’ling mind inspire, THOUGH thou did’st hear the tempest from afar, O’ERWHELMING sorrow now demands my song: ON Death’s domain intent I fix my eyes, THROUGH thickest glooms look back, immortal shade, WHILE others chant of gay Elysian scenes, TO cultivate in ev’ry noble mind NO more the flow’ry scenes of pleasure rife, LO! for this dark terrestrial ball The bosoms of the great and good “Descend to earth, there place thy throne; Quick as the word, with swift career For when thy pitying eye did see Can Afric’s muse forgetful prove? WHILE deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade APOLLO’s wrath to man the dreadful spring “The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood TO show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent, ALL-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow’r, His to conduct to the immortal plains, ADIEU, New-England’s smiling meads, In vain for me the flow’rets rise, Celestial maid of rosy hue, Susanna mourns, nor can I bear Not unregarding can I see In vain the feather’d warblers sing, While for Britannia’s distant shore Lo! Health appears! celestial dame! To mark the vale where London lies Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow? For thee, Britannia, I resign But thou! Temptation hence away, Thrice happy they, whose heav’nly shield Boston, May 7, 1773.<\/p>\n A BIRD delicious to the taste, A town of gaiety and sport, A peer of popular applause, THE poet asks, and Phillis can’t refuse F I N I S.<\/p>\n\n\t\t\t
\nRead o’er what poets sung, and shepherds play’d.
\nWhat felt those poets but you feel the same?
\nDoes not your soul possess the sacred flame?
\nTheir noble strains your equal genius shares
\nIn softer language, and diviner airs.
\nWhile Homer paints, lo! circumfus’d in air,
\nCelestial Gods in mortal forms appear;
\nSwift as they move hear each recess rebound,
\nHeav’n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.
\nGreat Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,
\nThe lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,
\nAnd, as the thunder shakes the heav’nly plains,
\nA deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.
\nWhen gentler strains demand thy graceful song,
\nThe length’ning line moves languishing along.
\nWhen great Patroclus courts Achilles’ aid,
\nThe grateful tribute of my tears is paid;
\nProne on the shore he feels the pangs of love,
\nAnd stern Pelides tend’rest passions move.
\nGreat Maro’s strain in heav’nly numbers flows,
\nThe Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.
\nO could I rival thine and Virgil’s page,
\nOr claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;
\nSoon the same beauties should my mind adorn,
\nAnd the same ardors in my soul should burn:
\nThen should my song in bolder notes arise,
\nAnd all my numbers pleasingly surprise;
\nBut here I sit, and mourn a grov’ling mind,
\nThat fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
\nNot you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
\nNot you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
\nWhen they from tow’ring Helicon retire,
\nThey fan in you the bright immortal fire,
\nBut I less happy, cannot raise the song,
\nThe fault’ring music dies upon my tongue.
\nThe happier Terence[1]<\/sup><\/a> all the choir inspir’d,
\nHis soul replenish’d, and his bosom fir’d;
\nBut say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
\nTo one alone of Afric’s sable race;
\nFrom age to age transmitting thus his name
\nWith the finest glory in the rolls of fame?
\nThy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung
\nIn praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:
\nWhile blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,
\nI’ll snatch a laurel from thine honour’d head,
\nWhile you indulgent smile upon the deed.<\/p>\n
\nOr Naiads in their oozy beds repose
\nWhile Phoebus reigns above the starry train
\nWhile bright Aurora purples o’er the main,
\nSo long, great Sir, the muse thy praise shall sing,
\nSo long thy praise shal’ make Parnassus ring:
\nThen grant, Maecenas, thy paternal rays,
\nHear me propitious, and defend my lays.<\/p>\nOn Virtue.<\/h2>\n
\nTo comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
\nWisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
\nI cease to wonder, and no more attempt
\nThine height t’ explore, or fathom thy profound.
\nBut, O my soul, sink not into despair,
\nVirtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
\nWould now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
\nFain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
\nThen seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.
\nAuspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
\nAnd lead celestial Chastity along;
\nLo! now her sacred retinue descends,
\nArray’d in glory from the orbs above.
\nAttend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
\nO leave me not to the false joys of time!
\nBut guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
\nGreatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
\nTo give me an higher appellation still,
\nTeach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
\nO thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day.<\/p>\nTO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, IN NEW-ENGLAND.<\/h2>\n
\nThe muses promise to assist my pen;
\n‘Twas not long since I left my native shore
\nThe land of errors, and Egyptian gloom:
\nFather of mercy, ’twas thy gracious hand
\nBrought me in safety from those dark abodes.
\nStudents, to you ’tis giv’n to scan the heights
\nAbove, to traverse the ethereal space,
\nAnd mark the systems of revolving worlds.
\nStill more, ye sons of science ye receive
\nThe blissful news by messengers from heav’n,
\nHow Jesus’ blood for your redemption flows.
\nSee him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross;
\nImmense compassion in his bosom glows;
\nHe hears revilers, nor resents their scorn:
\nWhat matchless mercy in the Son of God!
\nWhen the whole human race by sin had fall’n,
\nHe deign’d to die that they might rise again,
\nAnd share with him in the sublimest skies,
\nLife without death, and glory without end.
\nImprove your privileges while they stay,
\nYe pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears
\nOr good or bad report of you to heav’n.
\nLet sin, that baneful evil to the soul,
\nBy you be shun’d, nor once remit your guard;
\nSuppress the deadly serpent in its egg.
\nYe blooming plants of human race divine,
\nAn Ethiop tells you ’tis your greatest foe;
\nIts transient sweetness turns to endless pain,
\nAnd in immense perdition sinks the soul.<\/p>\nTO THE KING’S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. 1768.<\/h2>\n
\nThe crown upon your brows may flourish long,
\nAnd that your arm may in your God be strong!
\nO may your sceptre num’rous nations sway,
\nAnd all with love and readiness obey!
\nBut how shall we the British king reward!
\nRule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!
\nMidst the remembrance of thy favours past,
\nThe meanest peasants most admire the last[2]<\/sup><\/a>
\nMay George, beloved by all the nations round,
\nLive with heav’ns choicest constant blessings crown’d!
\nGreat God, direct, and guard him from on high,
\nAnd from his head let ev’ry evil fly!
\nAnd may each clime with equal gladness see
\nA monarch’s smile can set his subjects free!<\/p>\nOn being brought from Africa to America.<\/h2>\n
\nTaught my benighted soul to understand
\nThat there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
\nOnce I redemption neither fought nor knew,
\nSome view our sable race with scornful eye,
\n“Their colour is a diabolic die.”
\nRemember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
\nMay be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.<\/p>\nOn the Death of the Rev. Dr. SEWELL, 1769.<\/h2>\n
\nSee Sewell number’d with the happy dead.
\nHail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore,
\nThough we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
\nCome, let us all behold with wishful eyes
\nThe saint ascending to his native skies;
\nFrom hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way
\nTo the blest mansions in eternal day.
\nThen begging for the Spirit of our God,
\nAnd panting eager for the same abode,
\nCome, let us all with the same vigour rise,
\nAnd take a prospect of the blissful skies;
\nWhile on our minds Christ’s image is imprest,
\nAnd the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.
\nThrice happy saint! to find thy heav’n at last,
\nWhat compensation for the evils past!
\nGreat God, incomprehensible, unknown
\nBy sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
\nO, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
\nThy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
\nAnd give us of that mercy to partake,
\nWhich thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!
\n“Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.
\n“Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d,
\nO what a blessing in his flight deny’d!
\nHow oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!
\nHow oft to us the Word of Life convey’d!
\nBy duty urg’d my mournful verse to close,
\nI for his tomb this epitaph compose.
\n“Lo, here a man, redeem’d by Jesus’s blood,
\n“A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
\n“Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
\n“Not let his monument your heart surprise;
\n“Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
\n“Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
\n“Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
\n“I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
\n“He fought the paths of piety and truth,
\n“By these made happy from his early youth;
\n“In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
\n“Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
\n“Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
\n“And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
\n“Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above,
\n“And ask an int’rest in his saving love.
\n“Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
\n“God’s gracious wonders from the times of old.
\n“I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
\n“For he my monitor will not return.
\n“O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
\n“When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”<\/p>\nOn the Death of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 1770.<\/h2>\n
\nPossest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
\nWe hear no more the music of thy tongue,
\nThy wonted auditories cease to throng.
\nThy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,
\nAnd ev’ry bosom with devotion glow’d;
\nThou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d
\nInflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
\nUnhappy we the setting sun deplore,
\nSo glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
\nBehold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!
\nHe leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height,
\nAnd worlds unknown receive him from our sight.
\nThere Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,
\nAnd sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
\nThy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries
\nHave pierc’d the bosom of thy native skies.
\nThou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
\nHow he has wrestled with his God by night.
\nHe pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,
\nHe long’d to see America excell;
\nHe charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine
\nShould with full lustre in their conduct shine;
\nThat Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
\nThe greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,
\nHe freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,
\nThat on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.
\n“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
\n“Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;
\n“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
\n“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
\n“Take him my dear Americans, he said,
\n“Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:
\n“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
\n“Impartial Saviour is his title due:
\n“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,
\n“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
\nGreat Countess,[3]<\/sup><\/a> we Americans revere
\nThy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
\nNew England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
\nTheir more than father will no more return.
\nBut, though arrested by the hand of death,
\nWhitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
\nYet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,
\nLet ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;
\nWhile the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
\nTill life divine re-animates his dust.<\/p>\nOn the Death of a young Lady of Five Years of Age.<\/h2>\n
\nTh’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight;
\nOn the kind bosom of eternal love
\nShe finds unknown beatitude above.
\nThis known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,
\nShe feels the iron hand of pain no more;
\nThe dispensations of unerring grace,
\nShould turn your sorrows into grateful praise;
\nLet then no tears for her henceforward flow,
\nNo more distress’d in our dark vale below,
\nHer morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
\nWas quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
\nBut hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair,
\nAnd learn to imitate her language there.
\n“Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d,
\n“By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound
\n“Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint
\n“Infinite love and majesty to paint.
\n“To thee let all their graceful voices raise,
\n“And saints and angels join their songs of praise.”
\nPerfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home
\nLooks down, and smiling beckons you to come;
\nWhy then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?
\nRestrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
\nFreed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
\nWhy would you wish your daughter back again?
\nNo–bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control,
\nAnd check the rising tumult of the soul.
\nCalm in the prosperous, and adverse day,
\nAdore the God who gives and takes away;
\nEye him in all, his holy name revere,
\nUpright your actions, and your hearts sincere,
\nTill having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea,
\nAnd from its rocks, and boist’rous billows free,
\nYourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,
\nShall join your happy babe to part no more.<\/p>\nOn the Death of a young Gentleman.<\/h2>\n
\nTo vanquish satan in the fields of light?
\nWho strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,
\nHow great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
\nWar with each princedom, throne, and pow’r is o’er,
\nThe scene is ended to return no more.
\nO could my muse thy seat on high behold,
\nHow deckt with laurel, how enrich’d with gold!
\nO could she hear what praise thine harp employs,
\nHow sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!
\nWhat heav’nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
\nWhat holy raptures in her numbers reign!
\nTo sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,
\nTo still the tumult of life’s tossing seas,
\nTo ease the anguish of the parents heart,
\nWhat shall my sympathizing verse impart?
\nWhere is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
\nWhere shall a sov’reign remedy be found?
\nLook, gracious Spirit, from thine heav’nly bow’r,
\nAnd thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
\nThe raging tempest of their grief control,
\nAnd spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
\nTo eye the path the saint departed trod,
\nAnd trace him to the bosom of his God.<\/p>\nTo a Lady on the Death of her Husband.<\/h2>\n
\nA young physician in the dust of death:
\nDost thou go on incessant to destroy,
\nOur griefs to double, and lay waste our joy?
\nEnough thou never yet wast known to say,
\nThough millions die, the vassals of thy sway:
\nNor youth, nor science, not the ties of love,
\nNor ought on earth thy flinty heart can move.
\nThe friend, the spouse from his dire dart to save,
\nIn vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.
\nFair mourner, there see thy lov’d Leonard laid,
\nAnd o’er him spread the deep impervious shade.
\nClos’d are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep
\nHis senses bound in never-waking sleep,
\nTill time shall cease, till many a starry world
\nShall fall from heav’n, in dire confusion hurl’d
\nTill nature in her final wreck shall lie,
\nAnd her last groan shall rend the azure sky:
\nNot, not till then his active soul shall claim
\nHis body, a divine immortal frame.
\nBut see the softly-stealing tears apace
\nPursue each other down the mourner’s face;
\nBut cease thy tears, bid ev’ry sigh depart,
\nAnd cast the load of anguish from thine heart:
\nFrom the cold shell of his great soul arise,
\nAnd look beyond, thou native of the skies;
\nThere fix thy view, where fleeter than the wind
\nThy Leonard mounts, and leaves the earth behind.
\nThyself prepare to pass the vale of night
\nTo join for ever on the hills of light:
\nTo thine embrace this joyful spirit moves
\nTo thee, the partner of his earthly loves;
\nHe welcomes thee to pleasures more refin’d,
\nAnd better suited to th’ immortal mind.<\/p>\nGoliath of Gath.<\/h2>\n
1 SAMUEL, Chap. xvii.<\/h3>\n
\nInspire my song, and aid my high design.
\nThe dreadful scenes and toils of war I write,
\nThe ardent warriors, and the fields of fight:
\nYou best remember, and you best can sing
\nThe acts of heroes to the vocal string:
\nResume the lays with which your sacred lyre,
\nDid then the poet and the sage inspire.
\nNow front to front the armies were display’d,
\nHere Israel rang’d, and there the foes array’d;
\nThe hosts on two opposing mountains stood,
\nThick as the foliage of the waving wood;
\nBetween them an extensive valley lay,
\nO’er which the gleaming armour pour’d the day,
\nWhen from the camp of the Philistine foes,
\nDreadful to view, a mighty warrior rose;
\nIn the dire deeds of bleeding battle skill’d,
\nThe monster stalks the terror of the field.
\nFrom Gath he sprung, Goliath was his name,
\nOf fierce deportment, and gigantic frame:
\nA brazen helmet on his head was plac’d,
\nA coat of mail his form terrific grac’d,
\nThe greaves his legs, the targe his shoulders prest:
\nDreadful in arms high-tow’ring o’er the rest
\nA spear he proudly wav’d, whose iron head,
\nStrange to relate, six hundred shekels weigh’d;
\nHe strode along, and shook the ample field,
\nWhile Phoebus blaz’d refulgent on his shield:
\nThrough Jacob’s race a chilling horror ran,
\nWhen thus the huge, enormous chief began:
\n“Say, what the cause that in this proud array
\n“You set your battle in the face of day?
\n“One hero find in all your vaunting train,
\n“Then see who loses, and who wins the plain;
\n“For he who wins, in triumph may demand
\n“Perpetual service from the vanquish’d land:
\n“Your armies I defy, your force despise,
\n“By far inferior in Philistia’s eyes:
\n“Produce a man, and let us try the fight,
\n“Decide the contest, and the victor’s right.”
\nThus challeng’d he: all Israel stood amaz’d,
\nAnd ev’ry chief in consternation gaz’d;
\nBut Jesse’s son in youthful bloom appears,
\nAnd warlike courage far beyond his years:
\nHe left the folds, he left the flow’ry meads,
\nAnd soft recesses of the sylvan shades.
\nNow Israel’s monarch, and his troops arise,
\nWith peals of shouts ascending to the skies;
\nIn Elah’s vale the scene of combat lies.
\nWhen the fair morning blush’d with orient red,
\nWhat David’s fire enjoin’d the son obey’d,
\nAnd swift of foot towards the trench he came,
\nWhere glow’d each bosom with the martial flame.
\nHe leaves his carriage to another’s care,
\nAnd runs to greet his brethren of the war.
\nWhile yet they spake the giant-chief arose,
\nRepeats the challenge, and insults his foes:
\nStruck with the sound, and trembling at the view,
\nAffrighted Israel from its post withdrew.
\n“Observe ye this tremendous foe, they cry’d,
\n“Who in proud vaunts our armies hath defy’d:
\n“Whoever lays him prostrate on the plain,
\n“Freedom in Israel for his house shall gain;
\n“And on him wealth unknown the king will pour,
\n“And give his royal daughter for his dow’r.”
\nThen Jesse’s youngest hope: “My brethren say,
\n“What shall be done for him who takes away
\n“Reproach from Jacob, who destroys the chief.
\n“And puts a period to his country’s grief.
\n“He vaunts the honours of his arms abroad,
\n“And scorns the armies of the living God.”
\nThus spoke the youth, th’ attentive people ey’d
\nThe wond’rous hero, and again reply’d:
\n“Such the rewards our monarch will bestow,
\n“On him who conquers, and destroys his foe.”
\nEliab heard, and kindled into ire
\nTo hear his shepherd brother thus inquire,
\nAnd thus begun: “What errand brought thee? say
\n“Who keeps thy flock? or does it go astray?
\n“I know the base ambition of thine heart,
\n“But back in safety from the field depart.”
\nEliab thus to Jesse’s youngest heir,
\nExpress’d his wrath in accents most severe.
\nWhen to his brother mildly he reply’d.
\n“What have I done? or what the cause to chide?
\nThe words were told before the king, who sent
\nFor the young hero to his royal tent:
\nBefore the monarch dauntless he began,
\n“For this Philistine fail no heart of man:
\n“I’ll take the vale, and with the giant fight:
\n“I dread not all his boasts, nor all his might.”
\nWhen thus the king: “Dar’st thou a stripling go,
\n“And venture combat with so great a foe?
\n“Who all his days has been inur’d to fight,
\n“And made its deeds his study and delight:
\n“Battles and bloodshed brought the monster forth,
\n“And clouds and whirlwinds usher’d in his birth.”
\nWhen David thus: “I kept the fleecy care,
\n“And out there rush’d a lion and a bear;
\n“A tender lamb the hungry lion took,
\n“And with no other weapon than my crook
\n“Bold I pursu’d, and chas d him o’er the field,
\n“The prey deliver’d, and the felon kill’d:
\n“As thus the lion and the bear I slew,
\n“So shall Goliath fall, and all his crew:
\n“The God, who sav’d me from these beasts of prey,
\n“By me this monster in the dust shall lay.”
\nSo David spoke. The wond’ring king reply’d;
\n“Go thou with heav’n and victory on thy side:
\n“This coat of mail, this sword gird on,” he said,
\nAnd plac’d a mighty helmet on his head:
\nThe coat, the sword, the helm he laid aside,
\nNor chose to venture with those arms untry’d,
\nThen took his staff, and to the neighb’ring brook
\nInstant he ran, and thence five pebbles took.
\nMean time descended to Philistia’s son
\nA radiant cherub, and he thus begun:
\n“Goliath, well thou know’st thou hast defy’d
\n“Yon Hebrew armies, and their God deny’d:
\n“Rebellious wretch! audacious worm! forbear,
\n“Nor tempt the vengeance of their God too far:
\n“Them, who with his Omnipotence contend,
\n“No eye shall pity, and no arm defend:
\n“Proud as thou art, in short liv’d glory great,
\n“I come to tell thee thine approaching fate.
\n“Regard my words. The Judge of all the gods,
\n“Beneath whose steps the tow’ring mountain nods,
\n“Will give thine armies to the savage brood,
\n“That cut the liquid air, or range the wood.
\n“Thee too a well-aim’d pebble shall destroy,
\n“And thou shalt perish by a beardless boy:
\n“Such is the mandate from the realms above,
\n“And should I try the vengeance to remove,
\n“Myself a rebel to my king would prove.
\n“Goliath say, shall grace to him be shown,
\n“Who dares heav’ns Monarch, and insults his throne?”
\n“Your words are lost on me,” the giant cries,
\nWhile fear and wrath contended in his eyes,
\nWhen thus the messenger from heav’n replies:
\n“Provoke no more Jehovah’s awful hand
\n“To hurl its vengeance on thy guilty land:
\n“He grasps the thunder, and, he wings the storm,
\n“Servants their sov’reign’s orders to perform.”
\nThe angel spoke, and turn’d his eyes away,
\nAdding new radiance to the rising day.
\nNow David comes: the fatal stones demand
\nHis left, the staff engag’d his better hand:
\nThe giant mov’d, and from his tow’ring height
\nSurvey’d the stripling, and disdain’d the fight,
\nAnd thus began: “Am I a dog with thee?
\n“Bring’st thou no armour, but a staff to me?
\n“The gods on thee their vollied curses pour,
\n“And beasts and birds of prey thy flesh devour.”
\nDavid undaunted thus, “Thy spear and shield
\n“Shall no protection to thy body yield:
\n“Jehovah’s name——no other arms I bear,
\n“I ask no other in this glorious war.
\n“To-day the Lord of Hosts to me will give
\n“Vict’ry, to-day thy doom thou shalt receive;
\n“The fate you threaten shall your own become,
\n“And beasts shall be your animated tomb,
\n“That all the earth’s inhabitants may know
\n“That there’s a God, who governs all below:
\n“This great assembly too shall witness stand,
\n“That needs nor sword, nor spear, th’ Almighty’s
\nhand:
\n“The battle his, the conquest he bestows,
\n“And to our pow’r consigns our hated foes.”
\nThus David spoke; Goliath heard and came
\nTo meet the hero in the field of fame.
\nAh! fatal meeting to thy troops and thee,
\nBut thou wast deaf to the divine decree;
\nYoung David meets thee, meets thee not in vain;
\n‘Tis thine to perish on th’ ensanguin’d plain.
\nAnd now the youth the forceful pebble slung
\nPhilistia trembled as it whizz’d along:
\nIn his dread forehead, where the helmet ends,
\nJust o’er the brows the well-aim’d stone descends,
\nIt pierc’d the skull, and shatter’d all the brain,
\nProne on his face he tumbled to the plain:
\nGoliath’s fall no smaller terror yields
\nThan riving thunders in aerial fields:
\nThe soul still ling’red in its lov’d abode,
\nTill conq’ring David o’er the giant strode:
\nGoliath’s sword then laid its master dead,
\nAnd from the body hew’d the ghastly head;
\nThe blood in gushing torrents drench’d the plains,
\nThe soul found passage through the spouting veins.
\nAnd now aloud th’ illustrious victor said,
\n“Where are your boastings now your champion’s
\n“dead?”
\nScarce had he spoke, when the Philistines fled:
\nBut fled in vain; the conqu’ror swift pursu’d:
\nWhat scenes of slaughter! and what seas of blood!
\nThere Saul thy thousands grasp’d th’ impurpled sand
\nIn pangs of death the conquest of thine hand;
\nAnd David there were thy ten thousands laid:
\nThus Israel’s damsels musically play’d.
\nNear Gath and Edron many an hero lay,
\nBreath’d out their souls, and curs’d the light of day:
\nTheir fury, quench’d by death, no longer burns,
\nAnd David with Goliath’s head returns,
\nTo Salem brought, but in his tent he plac’d
\nThe load of armour which the giant grac’d.
\nHis monarch saw him coming from the war,
\nAnd thus demanded of the son of Ner.
\n“Say, who is this amazing youth?” he cry’d,
\nWhen thus the leader of the host reply’d;
\n“As lives thy soul I know not whence he sprung,
\n“So great in prowess though in years so young:”
\n“Inquire whose son is he,” the sov’reign said,
\n“Before whose conq’ring arm Philistia fled.”
\nBefore the king behold the stripling stand,
\nGoliath’s head depending from his hand:
\nTo him the king: “Say of what martial line
\n“Art thou, young hero, and what sire was thine?”
\nHe humbly thus; “The son of Jesse I:
\n“I came the glories of the field to try.
\n“Small is my tribe, but valiant in the fight;
\n“Small is my city, but thy royal right.”
\n“Then take the promis’d gifts,” the monarch cry’d,
\nConferring riches and the royal bride:
\n“Knit to my soul for ever thou remain
\n“With me, nor quit my regal roof again.”<\/p>\nThoughts on the WORKS OF PROVIDENCE.<\/h2>\n
\nTo praise the monarch of the earth and skies,
\nWhose goodness and benificence appear
\nAs round its centre moves the rolling year,
\nOr when the morning glows with rosy charms,
\nOr the sun slumbers in the ocean’s arms:
\nOf light divine be a rich portion lent
\nTo guide my soul, and favour my intend.
\nCelestial muse, my arduous flight sustain
\nAnd raise my mind to a seraphic strain!
\nAdor’d for ever be the God unseen,
\nWhich round the sun revolves this vast machine,
\nThough to his eye its mass a point appears:
\nAdor’d the God that whirls surrounding spheres,
\nWhich first ordain’d that mighty Sol should reign
\nThe peerless monarch of th’ ethereal train:
\nOf miles twice forty millions is his height,
\nAnd yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight
\nSo far beneath–from him th’ extended earth
\nVigour derives, and ev’ry flow’ry birth:
\nVast through her orb she moves with easy grace
\nAround her Phoebus in unbounded space;
\nTrue to her course th’ impetuous storm derides,
\nTriumphant o’er the winds, and surging tides.
\nAlmighty, in these wond’rous works of thine,
\nWhat Pow’r, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine!
\nAnd are thy wonders, Lord, by men explor’d,
\nAnd yet creating glory unador’d!
\nCreation smiles in various beauty gay,
\nWhile day to night, and night succeeds to day:
\nThat Wisdom, which attends Jehovah’s ways,
\nShines most conspicuous in the solar rays:
\nWithout them, destitute of heat and light,
\nThis world would be the reign of endless night:
\nIn their excess how would our race complain,
\nAbhorring life! how hate its length’ned chain!
\nFrom air adust what num’rous ills would rise?
\nWhat dire contagion taint the burning skies?
\nWhat pestilential vapours, fraught with death,
\nWould rise, and overspread the lands beneath?
\nHail, smiling morn, that from the orient main
\nAscending dost adorn the heav’nly plain!
\nSo rich, so various are thy beauteous dies,
\nThat spread through all the circuit of the skies,
\nThat, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
\nAnd thy great God, the cause of all adores.
\nO’er beings infinite his love extends,
\nHis Wisdom rules them, and his Pow’r defends.
\nWhen tasks diurnal tire the human frame,
\nThe spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,
\nThen too that ever active bounty shines,
\nWhich not infinity of space confines.
\nThe sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
\nConceals effects, but shows th’ Almighty Cause,
\nNight seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
\nAnd all is peaceful but the brow of care.
\nAgain, gay Phoebus, as the day before,
\nWakes ev’ry eye, but what shall wake no more;
\nAgain the face of nature is renew’d,
\nWhich still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
\nMay grateful strains salute the smiling morn,
\nBefore its beams the eastern hills adorn!
\nShall day to day, and night to night conspire
\nTo show the goodness of the Almighty Sire?
\nThis mental voice shall man regardless hear,
\nAnd never, never raise the filial pray’r?
\nTo-day, O hearken, nor your folly mourn
\nFor time mispent, that never will return.
\nBut see the sons of vegetation rise,
\nAnd spread their leafy banners to the skies.
\nAll-wise Almighty Providence we trace
\nIn trees, and plants, and all the flow’ry race;
\nAs clear as in the nobler frame of man,
\nAll lovely copies of the Maker’s plan.
\nThe pow’r the same that forms a ray of light,
\nThat call d creation from eternal night.
\n“Let there be light,” he said: from his profound
\nOld Chaos heard, and trembled at the sound:
\nSwift as the word, inspir’d by pow’r divine,
\nBehold the light around its Maker shine,
\nThe first fair product of th’ omnific God,
\nAnd now through all his works diffus’d abroad.
\nAs reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose,
\nSo we may trace him in the night’s repose:
\nSay what is sleep? and dreams how passing strange!
\nWhen action ceases, and ideas range
\nLicentious and unbounded o’er the plains,
\nWhere Fancy’s queen in giddy triumph reigns.
\nHear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh
\nTo a kind fair, or rave in jealousy;
\nOn pleasure now, and now on vengeance bent,
\nThe lab’ring passions struggle for a vent.
\nWhat pow’r, O man! thy reason then restores,
\nSo long suspended in nocturnal hours?
\nWhat secret hand returns the mental train,
\nAnd gives improv’d thine active pow’rs again?
\nFrom thee, O man, what gratitude should rise!
\nAnd, when from balmy sleep thou op’st thine eyes,
\nLet thy first thoughts be praises to the skies.
\nHow merciful our God who thus imparts
\nO’erflowing tides of joy to human hearts,
\nWhen wants and woes might be our righteous lot,
\nOur God forgetting, by our God forgot!
\nAmong the mental pow’rs a question rose,
\n“What most the image of th’ Eternal shows?”
\nWhen thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove)
\nHer great companion spoke immortal Love.
\n“Say, mighty pow’r, how long shall strife prevail,
\n“And with its murmurs load the whisp’ring gale?
\n“Refer the cause to Recollection’s shrine,
\n“Who loud proclaims my origin divine,
\n“The cause whence heav’n and earth began to be,
\n“And is not man immortaliz’d by me?
\n“Reason let this most causeless strife subside.”
\nThus Love pronounc’d, and Reason thus reply’d.
\n“Thy birth, coelestial queen! ’tis mine to own,
\n“In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown;
\n“Thy words persuade, my soul enraptur’d feels
\n“Resistless beauty which thy smile reveals.”
\nArdent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms,
\nShe clasp’d the blooming goddess in her arms.
\nInfinite Love where’er we turn our eyes
\nAppears: this ev’ry creature’s wants supplies;
\nThis most is heard in Nature’s constant voice,
\nThis makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice;
\nThis bids the fost’ring rains and dews descend
\nTo nourish all, to serve one gen’ral end,
\nThe good of man: yet man ungrateful pays
\nBut little homage, and but little praise.
\nTo him, whose works arry’d with mercy shine,
\nWhat songs should rise, how constant, how divine!<\/p>\nTo a Lady on the Death of three Relations.<\/h2>\n
\nAnd his are all the ages yet to come.
\n‘Tis his to call the planets from on high,
\nTo blacken Phoebus, and dissolve the sky;
\nHis too, when all in his dark realms are hurl’d,
\nFrom its firm base to shake the solid world;
\nHis fatal sceptre rules the spacious whole,
\nAnd trembling nature rocks from pole to pole.
\nAwful he moves, and wide his wings are spread:
\nBehold thy brother number’d with the dead!
\nFrom bondage freed, the exulting spirit flies
\nBeyond Olympus, and these starry skies.
\nLost in our woe for thee, blest shade, we mourn
\nIn vain; to earth thou never must return.
\nThy sisters too, fair mourner, feel the dart
\nOf Death, and with fresh torture rend thine heart.
\nWeep not for them, and leave the world behind.
\nAs a young plant by hurricanes up torn,
\nSo near its parent lies the newly born–
\nBut ‘midst the bright ehtereal train behold
\nIt shines superior on a throne of gold:
\nThen, mourner, cease; let hope thy tears restrain,
\nSmile on the tomb, and sooth the raging pain.
\nOn yon blest regions fix thy longing view,
\nMindless of sublunary scenes below;
\nAscend the sacred mount, in thought arise,
\nAnd seek substantial and immortal joys;
\nWhere hope receives, where faith to vision springs,
\nAnd raptur’d seraphs tune th’ immortal strings
\nTo strains extatic. Thou the chorus join,
\nAnd to thy father tune the praise divine.<\/p>\nTo a Clergyman on the Death of his Lady.<\/h2>\n
\nWhere heav’nly music makes the arches ring,
\nWhere virtue reigns unsully’d and divine,
\nWhere wisdom thron’d, and all the graces shine,
\nThere sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
\nWhile praise eternal warbles from her tongue;
\nThere choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
\nWith perfect bliss, and peerless glory crown’d.
\nWhile thy dear mate, to flesh no more confin’d,
\nExults a blest, an heav’n-ascended mind,
\nSay in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise?
\nSay shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?
\nAmid the seats of heav’n a place is free,
\nAnd angels open their bright ranks for thee;
\nFor thee they wait, and with expectant eye
\nThy spouse leans downward from th’ empyreal sky:
\n“O come away,” her longing spirit cries,
\n“And share with me the raptures of the skies.
\n“Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown;
\n“Immortal life and glory are our own.
\n“There too may the dear pledges of our love
\n“Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
\n“Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
\n“And join with us the tribute of their praise
\n“To him, who dy’d stern justice to stone,
\n“And make eternal glory all our own.
\n“He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
\n“He crush’d the dire dominion of our foes;
\n“Vain were their hopes to put the God to flight,
\n“Chain us to hell, and bar the gates of light.”
\nShe spoke, and turn’d from mortal scenes her eyes,
\nWhich beam’d celestial radiance o’er the skies.
\nThen thou dear man, no more with grief retire,
\nLet grief no longer damp devotion’s fire,
\nBut rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire,
\nThy sighs no more be wafted by the wind,
\nNo more complain, but be to heav’n resign’d
\n‘Twas thine t’ unfold the oracles divine,
\nTo sooth our woes the task was also thine;
\nNow sorrow is incumbent on thy heart,
\nPermit the muse a cordial to impart;
\nWho can to thee their tend’rest aid refuse?
\nTo dry thy tears how longs the heav’nly muse!<\/p>\nAn HYMN to the MORNING<\/h2>\n
\nAssist my labours, and my strains refine;
\nIn smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
\nFor bright Aurora now demands my song.
\nAurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
\nWhich deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
\nThe morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
\nOn ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
\nHarmonious lays the feather’d race resume,
\nDart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
\nYe shady groves, your verdant gloom display
\nTo shield your poet from the burning day:
\nCalliope awake the sacred lyre,
\nWhile thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
\nThe bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies
\nIn all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
\nSee in the east th’ illustrious king of day!
\nHis rising radiance drives the shades away–
\nBut Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
\nAnd scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song.<\/p>\nAn HYMN to the EVENING.<\/h2>\n
\nThe pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
\nMajestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
\nExhales the incense of the blooming spring.
\nSoft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
\nAnd through the air their mingled music floats.
\nThrough all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
\nBut the west glories in the deepest red:
\nSo may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
\nThe living temples of our God below!
\nFill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
\nAnd draws the sable curtains of the night,
\nLet placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
\nAt morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
\nSo shall the labours of the day begin
\nMore pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
\nNight’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
\nThen cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.<\/p>\nISAIAH lxiii. 1-8.<\/h2>\n
\nThat moves sublime from Idumea’s road?
\nIn Bosrah’s dies, with martial glories join’d,
\nHis purple vesture waves upon the wind.
\nWhy thus enrob’d delights he to appear
\nIn the dread image of the Pow’r of war?
\nCompres’d in wrath the swelling wine-press groan’d,
\nIt bled, and pour’d the gushing purple round.
\n“Mine was the act,” th’ Almighty Saviour said,
\nAnd shook the dazzling glories of his head,
\n“When all forsook I trod the press alone,
\n“And conquer’d by omnipotence my own;
\n“For man’s release sustain’d the pond’rous load,
\n“For man the wrath of an immortal God:
\n“To execute th’ Eternal’s dread command
\n“My soul I sacrific’d with willing hand;
\n“Sinless I stood before the avenging frown,
\n“Atoning thus for vices not my own.”
\nHis eye the ample field of battle round
\nSurvey’d, but no created succours found;
\nHis own omnipotence sustain’d the right,
\nHis vengeance sunk the haughty foes in night;
\nBeneath his feet the prostrate troops were spread,
\nAnd round him lay the dying, and the dead.
\nGreat God, what light’ning flashes from thine eyes?
\nWhat pow’r withstands if thou indignant rise?
\nAgainst thy Zion though her foes may rage,
\nAnd all their cunning, all their strength engage,
\nYet she serenely on thy bosom lies,
\nSmiles at their arts, and all their force defies.<\/p>\nOn RECOLLECTION.<\/h2>\n
\nYour vent’rous Afric in her great design.
\nMneme, immortal pow’r, I trace thy spring:
\nAssist my strains, while I thy glories sing:
\nThe acts of long departed years, by thee
\nRecover’d, in due order rang’d we see:
\nThy pow’r the long-forgotten calls from night,
\nThat sweetly plays before the fancy’s sight.
\nMneme in our nocturnal visions pours
\nThe ample treasure of her secret stores;
\nSwift from above the wings her silent flight
\nThrough Phoebe’s realms, fair regent of the night;
\nAnd, in her pomp of images display’d,
\nTo the high-raptur’d poet gives her aid,
\nThrough the unbounded regions of the mind,
\nDiffusing light celestial and refin’d.
\nThe heav’nly phantom paints the actions done
\nBy ev’ry tribe beneath the rolling sun.
\nMneme, enthron’d within the human breast,
\nHas vice condemn’d, and ev’ry virtue blest.
\nHow sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear?
\nSweeter than music to the ravish’d ear,
\nSweeter than Maro’s entertaining strains
\nResounding through the groves, and hills, and plains.
\nBut how is Mneme dreaded by the race,
\nWho scorn her warnings and despise her grace?
\nBy her unveil’d each horrid crime appears,
\nHer awful hand a cup of wormwood bears.
\nDays, years mispent, O what a hell of woe!
\nHers the worst tortures that our souls can know.
\nNow eighteen years their destin’d course have run,
\nIn fast succession round the central sun.
\nHow did the follies of that period pass
\nUnnotic’d, but behold them writ in brass!
\nIn Recollection see them fresh return,
\nAnd sure ’tis mine to be asham’d, and mourn.
\nO Virtue, smiling in immortal green,
\nDo thou exert thy pow’r, and change the scene;
\nBe thine employ to guide my future days,
\nAnd mine to pay the tribute of my praise.
\nOf Recollection such the pow’r enthron’d
\nIn ev’ry breast, and thus her pow’r is own’d.
\nThe wretch, who dar’d the vengeance of the skies,
\nAt last awakes in horror and surprise,
\nBy her alarm’d, he sees impending fate,
\nHe howls in anguish, and repents too late.
\nBut O! what peace, what joys are hers t’ impart
\nTo ev’ry holy, ev’ry upright heart!
\nThrice blest the man, who, in her sacred shrine,
\nFeels himself shelter’d from the wrath divine!<\/p>\nOn IMAGINATION.<\/h2>\n
\nHow bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp
\nby thee!
\nThy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
\nAnd all attest how potent is thine hand.
\nFrom Helicon’s refulgent heights attend,
\nYe sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
\nTo tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
\nYe blooming graces, triumph in my song.
\nNow here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
\nTill some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
\nWhose silken fetters all the senses bind,
\nAnd soft captivity involves the mind.
\nImagination! who can sing thy force?
\nOr who describe the swiftness of thy course?
\nSoaring through air to find the bright abode,
\nTh’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
\nWe on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
\nAnd leave the rolling universe behind:
\nFrom star to star the mental optics rove,
\nMeasure the skies, and range the realms above.
\nThere in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
\nOr with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.
\nThough Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
\nThe fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
\nThe frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
\nAnd bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
\nFair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
\nAnd with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
\nSylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
\nAnd all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:
\nShow’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
\nAnd nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
\nSuch is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
\nO thou the leader of the mental train:
\nIn full perfection all thy works are wrought,
\nAnd thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
\nBefore thy throne the subject-passions bow,
\nOf subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou;
\nAt thy command joy rushes on the heart,
\nAnd through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
\nFancy might now her silken pinions try
\nTo rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high:
\nFrom Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
\nHer cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
\nWhile a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
\nThe monarch of the day I might behold,
\nAnd all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
\nBut I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
\nWhich Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
\nWinter austere forbids me to aspire,
\nAnd northern tempests damp the rising fire;
\nThey chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
\nCease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.<\/p>\nA Funeral POEM on the Death of C. E.
\nan Infant of Twelve Months.<\/h2>\n
\nTo purer regions of celestial light;
\nEnlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,
\nBeneath him sees the universal whole,
\nPlanets on planets run their destin’d round,
\nAnd circling wonders fill the vast profound.
\nTh’ ethereal now, and now th’ empyreal skies
\nWith growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes:
\nThe angels view him with delight unknown,
\nPress his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
\nThen smilling thus: “To this divine abode,
\n“The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
\n“Thrice welcome thou.” The raptur’d babe replies,
\n“Thanks to my God, who snatch’d me to the skies,
\n“E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart,
\n“E’er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,
\n“E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent,
\n“E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire intent;
\n“E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
\n“E’er vanity had led my way to guilt,
\n“But, soon arriv’d at my celestial goal,
\n“Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”
\nJoyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
\nClapt their glad wings, the heav’nly vaults resound.
\nSay, parents, why this unavailing moan?
\nWhy heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
\nTo Charles, the happy subject of my song,
\nA brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
\nSay would you tear him from the realms above
\nBy thoughtless wishes, and prepost’rous love?
\nDoth his felicity increase your pain?
\nOr could you welcome to this world again
\nThe heir of bliss? with a superior air
\nMethinks he answers with a smile severe,
\n“Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.”
\nBut still you cry, “Can we the sigh forbear,
\n“And still and still must we not pour the tear?
\n“Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
\n“Twelve moons revolv’d, becomes the prey of death;
\n“Delightful infant, nightly visions give
\n“Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
\n“We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
\n“The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.”
\nTo yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
\nPrepare to join your dearest infant friend
\nIn pleasures without measure, without end.<\/p>\nTo Captain H—–D, of the 65th Regiment.<\/h2>\n
\nThe warrior’s bosom in the fields of fight?
\nLo! here the christian and the hero join
\nWith mutual grace to form the man divine.
\nIn H—–D see with pleasure and surprise,
\nWhere valour kindles, and where virtue lies:
\nGo, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,
\nAnd add new glories to thine honour’d name,
\nStill to the field, and still to virtue true:
\nBritannia glories in no son like you.<\/p>\n
\nof DARTMOUTH, His Majesty’s Principal
\nSecretary of State for North-America, &c.<\/p>\n
\nFair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
\nThe northern clime beneath her genial ray,
\nDartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
\nElate with hope her race no longer mourns,
\nEach soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,
\nWhile in thine hand with pleasure we behold
\nThe silken reins, and Freedom’s charms unfold.
\nLong lost to realms beneath the northern skies
\nShe shines supreme, while hated faction dies:
\nSoon as appear’d the Goddess long desir’d,
\nSick at the view, she languish’d and expir’d;
\nThus from the splendors of the morning light
\nThe owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
\nNo more, America, in mournful strain
\nOf wrongs, and grievance unredress’d complain,
\nNo longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,
\nWhich wanton Tyranny with lawless hand
\nHad made, and with it meant t’ enslave the land.
\nShould you, my lord, while you peruse my song,
\nWonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
\nWhence flow these wishes for the common good,
\nBy feeling hearts alone best understood,
\nI, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
\nWas snatch’d from Afric’s fancy’d happy seat:
\nWhat pangs excruciating must molest,
\nWhat sorrows labour in my parent’s breast?
\nSteel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d
\nThat from a father seiz’d his babe belov’d:
\nSuch, such my case. And can I then but pray
\nOthers may never feel tyrannic sway?
\nFor favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,
\nAnd thee we ask thy favours to renew,
\nSince in thy pow’r, as in thy will before,
\nTo sooth the griefs, which thou did’st once deplore.
\nMay heav’nly grace the sacred sanction give
\nTo all thy works, and thou for ever live
\nNot only on the wings of fleeting Fame,
\nThough praise immortal crowns the patriot’s name,
\nBut to conduct to heav’ns refulgent fane,
\nMay fiery coursers sweep th’ ethereal plain,
\nAnd bear thee upwards to that blest abode,
\nWhere, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.<\/p>\nOde on Neptune.<\/h2>\n
On Mrs. W—–‘s Voyage to England.<\/h3>\n
\nWhile AElus’ thunders round us roar,
\nAnd sweep impetuous o’er the plain
\nBe still, O tyrant of the main;
\nNor let thy brow contracted frowns betray,
\nWhile my Susanna skims the wat’ry way.<\/p>\n
\nThe blue-ey’d daughters of the sea
\nWith sweeter cadence glide along,
\nAnd Thames responsive joins the song.
\nPleas’d with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,
\nAnd double radiance decks the face of day.<\/p>\n
\nSerene the climes and mild the sky,
\nHer region boasts unnumber’d charms,
\nThy welcome smiles in ev’ry eye.
\nThy promise, Neptune keep, record my pray’r,
\nNot give my wishes to the empty air.<\/p>\nTo a LADY on her coming to North-America\u00a0with her Son, for the Recovery of her Health.<\/h2>\n
\nAnd fill my bosom with celestial fire.
\nSee from Jamaica’s fervid shore she moves,
\nLike the fair mother of the blooming loves,
\nWhen from above the Goddess with her hand
\nFans the soft breeze, and lights upon the land;
\nThus she on Neptune’s wat’ry realm reclin’d
\nAppear’d, and thus invites the ling’ring wind.
\n“Arise, ye winds, America explore,
\n“Waft me, ye gales, from this malignant shore;
\n“The Northern milder climes I long to greet,
\n“There hope that health will my arrival meet.”
\nSoon as she spoke in my ideal view
\nThe winds assented, and the vessel flew.
\nMadam, your spouse bereft of wife and son,
\nIn the grove’s dark recesses pours his moan;
\nEach branch, wide-spreading to the ambient sky,
\nForgets its verdure, and submits to die.
\nFrom thence I turn, and leave the sultry plain,
\nAnd swift pursue thy passage o’er the main:
\nThe ship arrives before the fav’ring wind,
\nAnd makes the Philadelphian port assign’d,
\nThence I attend you to Bostonia’s arms,
\nWhere gen’rous friendship ev’ry bosom warms:
\nThrice welcome here! may health revive again,
\nBloom on thy cheek, and bound in ev’ry vein!
\nThen back return to gladden ev’ry heart,
\nAnd give your spouse his soul’s far dearer part,
\nReceiv’d again with what a sweet surprise,
\nThe tear in transport starting from his eyes!
\nWhile his attendant son with blooming grace
\nSprings to his father’s ever dear embrace.
\nWith shouts of joy Jamaica’s rocks resound,
\nWith shouts of joy the country rings around.<\/p>\nTo a LADY on her remarkable Preservation
\nin an Hurricane in North-Carolina.<\/h2>\n
\nAnd felt’st the horrors of the wat’ry war,
\nTo me unknown, yet on this peaceful shore
\nMethinks I hear the storm tumultuous roar,
\nAnd how stern Boreas with impetuous hand
\nCompell’d the Nereids to usurp the land.
\nReluctant rose the daughters of the main,
\nAnd slow ascending glided o’er the plain,
\nTill AEolus in his rapid chariot drove
\nIn gloomy grandeur from the vault above:
\nFurious he comes. His winged sons obey
\nTheir frantic sire, and madden all the sea.
\nThe billows rave, the wind’s fierce tyrant roars,
\nAnd with his thund’ring terrors shakes the shores:
\nBroken by waves the vessel’s frame is rent,
\nAnd strows with planks the wat’ry element.
\nBut thee, Maria, a kind Nereid’s shield
\nPreserv’d from sinking, and thy form upheld:
\nAnd sure some heav’nly oracle design’d
\nAt that dread crisis to instruct thy mind
\nThings of eternal consequence to weigh,
\nAnd to thine heart just feelings to convey
\nOf things above, and of the future doom,
\nAnd what the births of the dread world to come.
\nFrom tossing seas I welcome thee to land.
\n“Resign her, Nereid,” ’twas thy God’s command.
\nThy spouse late buried, as thy fears conceiv’d,
\nAgain returns, thy fears are all reliev’d:
\nThy daughter blooming with superior grace
\nAgain thou see’st, again thine arms embrace;
\nO come, and joyful show thy spouse his heir,
\nAnd what the blessings of maternal care!<\/p>\nTo a LADY and her Children, on the Death
\nof her Son and their Brother.<\/h2>\n
\nFrom death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.
\nWhat flowing tears? What hearts with grief opprest?
\nWhat sighs on sighs heave the fond parent’s breast?
\nThe brother weeps, the hapless sisters join
\nTh’ increasing woe, and swell the crystal brine;
\nThe poor, who once his gen’rous bounty fed,
\nDroop, and bewail their benefactor dead.
\nIn death the friend, the kind companion lies,
\nAnd in one death what various comfort dies!
\nTh’ unhappy mother sees the sanguine rill
\nForget to flow, and nature’s wheels stand still,
\nBut see from earth his spirit far remov’d,
\nAnd know no grief recals your best-belov’d:
\nHe, upon pinions swifter than the wind,
\nHas left mortality’s sad scenes behind
\nFor joys to this terrestial state unknown,
\nAnd glories richer than the monarch’s crown.
\nOf virtue’s steady course the prize behold!
\nWhat blissful wonders to his mind unfold!
\nBut of celestial joys I sing in vain:
\nAttempt not, muse, the too advent’rous strain.
\nNo more in briny show’rs, ye friends around,
\nOr bathe his clay, or waste them on the ground:
\nStill do you weep, still wish for his return?
\nHow cruel thus to wish, and thus to mourn?
\nNo more for him the streams of sorrow pour,
\nBut haste to join him on the heav’nly shore,
\nOn harps of gold to tune immortal lays,
\nAnd to your God immortal anthems raise.<\/p>\nTo a GENTLEMAN and LADY on the Death of the Lady’s Brother and Sister, and a Child of the Name of Avis, aged one Year.<\/h2>\n
\nWhere human nature in vast ruin lies:
\nWith pensive mind I search the drear abode,
\nWhere the great conqu’ror has his spoils bestow’d;
\nThere where the offspring of six thousand years
\nIn endless numbers to my view appears:
\nWhole kingdoms in his gloomy den are thrust,
\nAnd nations mix with their primeval dust:
\nInsatiate still he gluts the ample tomb;
\nHis is the present, his the age to come.
\nSee here a brother, here a sister spread,
\nAnd a sweet daughter mingled with the dead.
\nBut, Madam, let your grief be laid aside,
\nAnd let the fountain of your tears be dry’d,
\nIn vain they flow to wet the dusty plain,
\nYour sighs are wafted to the skies in vain,
\nYour pains they witness, but they can no more,
\nWhile Death reigns tyrant o’er this mortal shore.
\nThe glowing stars and silver queen of light
\nAt last must perish in the gloom of night:
\nResign thy friends to that Almighty hand,
\nWhich gave them life, and bow to his command;
\nThine Avis give without a murm’ring heart,
\nThough half thy soul be fated to depart.
\nTo shining guards consign thine infant care
\nTo waft triumphant through the seas of air:
\nHer soul enlarg’d to heav’nly pleasure springs,
\nShe feeds on truth and uncreated things.
\nMethinks I hear her in the realms above,
\nAnd leaning forward with a filial love,
\nInvite you there to share immortal bliss
\nUnknown, untasted in a state like this.
\nWith tow’ring hopes, and growing grace arise,
\nAnd seek beatitude beyond the skies.<\/p>\nOn the Death of Dr. SAMUEL MARSHALL. 1771.<\/h2>\n
\nOn that confusion which thy death has made:
\nOr from Olympus’ height look down, and see
\nA Town involv’d in grief bereft of thee.
\nThy Lucy sees thee mingle with the dead,
\nAnd rends the graceful tresses from her head,
\nWild in her woe, with grief unknown opprest
\nSigh follows sigh deep heaving from her breast.
\nToo quickly fled, ah! whither art thou gone?
\nAh! lost for ever to thy wife and son!
\nThe hapless child, thine only hope and heir,
\nClings round his mother’s neck, and weeps his sorrows there.
\nThe loss of thee on Tyler’s soul returns,
\nAnd Boston for her dear physician mourns.
\nWhen sickness call’d for Marshall’s healing hand,
\nWith what compassion did his soul expand?
\nIn him we found the father and the friend:
\nIn life how lov’d! how honour’d in his end!
\nAnd must not then our AEsculapius stay
\nTo bring his ling’ring infant into day?
\nThe babe unborn in the dark womb is tost,
\nAnd seems in anguish for its father lost.
\nGone is Apollo from his house of earth,
\nBut leaves the sweet memorials of his worth:
\nThe common parent, whom we all deplore,
\nFrom yonder world unseen must come no more,
\nYet ‘midst our woes immortal hopes attend
\nThe spouse, the sire, the universal friend.<\/p>\nTo a GENTLEMAN on his Voyage to Great-Britain for the Recovery of his Health.<\/h2>\n
\nOf balmy zephyrs, and of flow’ry plains,
\nMy song more happy speaks a greater name,
\nFeels higher motives and a nobler flame.
\nFor thee, O R—–, the muse attunes her strings,
\nAnd mounts sublime above inferior things.
\nI sing not now of green embow’ring woods,
\nI sing not now the daughters of the floods,
\nI sing not of the storms o’er ocean driv’n,
\nAnd how they howl’d along the waste of heav’n.
\nBut I to R—– would paint the British shore,
\nAnd vast Atlantic, not untry’d before:
\nThy life impair’d commands thee to arise,
\nLeave these bleak regions and inclement skies,
\nWhere chilling winds return the winter past,
\nAnd nature shudders at the furious blast.
\nO thou stupendous, earth-enclosing main
\nExert thy wonders to the world again!
\nIf ere thy pow’r prolong’d the fleeting breath,
\nTurn’d back the shafts, and mock’d the gates of death,
\nIf ere thine air dispens’d an healing pow’r,
\nOr snatch’d the victim from the fatal hour,
\nThis equal case demands thine equal care,
\nAnd equal wonders may this patient share.
\nBut unavailing, frantic is the dream
\nTo hope thine aid without the aid of him
\nWho gave thee birth and taught thee where to flow,
\nAnd in thy waves his various blessings show.
\nMay R—– return to view his native shore
\nReplete with vigour not his own before,
\nThen shall we see with pleasure and surprise,
\nAnd own thy work, great Ruler of the skies!<\/p>\nTo the Rev. DR. THOMAS AMORY, on reading his Sermons on DAILY DEVOTION, in which that Duty is recommended and
\nassisted.<\/h2>\n
\nHabitual grace, and sentiments refin’d,
\nThus while you strive to mend the human heart,
\nThus while the heav’nly precepts you impart,
\nO may each bosom catch the sacred fire,
\nAnd youthful minds to Virtue’s throne aspire!
\nWhen God’s eternal ways you set in sight,
\nAnd Virtue shines in all her native light,
\nIn vain would Vice her works in night conceal,
\nFor Wisdom’s eye pervades the sable veil.
\nArtists may paint the sun’s effulgent rays,
\nBut Amory’s pen the brighter God displays:
\nWhile his great works in Amory’s pages shine,
\nAnd while he proves his essence all divine,
\nThe Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
\nOf chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
\nAs if the clay without the potter’s aid
\nShould rise in various forms, and shapes self-made,
\nOr worlds above with orb o’er orb profound
\nSelf-mov’d could run the everlasting round.
\nIt cannot be–unerring Wisdom guides
\nWith eye propitious, and o’er all presides.
\nStill prosper, Amory! still may’st thou receive
\nThe warmest blessings which a muse can give,
\nAnd when this transitory state is o’er,
\nWhen kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame’s no more,
\nMay Amory triumph in immortal fame,
\nA nobler title, and superior name!<\/p>\nOn the Death of J. C. an Infant.<\/h2>\n
\nNor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
\nNo more with joy we view that lovely face
\nSmiling, disportive, flush’d with ev’ry grace.
\nThe tear of sorrow flows from ev’ry eye,
\nGroans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply;
\nWhat sudden pangs shot thro’ each aching heart,
\nWhen, Death, thy messenger dispatch’d his dart?
\nThy dread attendants, all-destroying Pow’r,
\nHurried the infant to his mortal hour.
\nCould’st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes?
\nOr fail’d his artless beauties to surprise?
\nCould not his innocence thy stroke controul,
\nThy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul?
\nThe blooming babe, with shades of Death o’er-spread,
\nNo more shall smile, no more shall raise its head,
\nBut, like a branch that from the tree is torn,
\nFalls prostrate, wither’d, languid, and forlorn.
\n“Where flies my James?” ’tis thus I seem to hear
\nThe parent ask, “Some angel tell me where
\n“He wings his passage thro’ the yielding air?”
\nMethinks a cherub bending from the skies
\nObserves the question, and serene replies,
\n“In heav’ns high palaces your babe appears:
\n“Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears.”
\nShall not th’ intelligence your grief restrain,
\nAnd turn the mournful to the cheerful strain?
\nCease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh,
\nCease to accuse the Ruler of the sky.
\nParents, no more indulge the falling tear:
\nLet Faith to heav’n’s refulgent domes repair,
\nThere see your infant, like a seraph glow:
\nWhat charms celestial in his numbers flow
\nMelodious, while the foul-enchanting strain
\nDwells on his tongue, and fills th’ ethereal plain?
\nEnough–for ever cease your murm’ring breath;
\nNot as a foe, but friend converse with Death,
\nSince to the port of happiness unknown
\nHe brought that treasure which you call your own.
\nThe gift of heav’n intrusted to your hand
\nCheerful resign at the divine command:
\nNot at your bar must sov’reign Wisdom stand.<\/p>\nAn H Y M N to H U M A N I T Y.
\nTo S. P. G. Esq;<\/h2>\nI.<\/h3>\n
\nForsakes his azure-paved hall
\nA prince of heav’nly birth!
\nDivine Humanity behold,
\nWhat wonders rise, what charms unfold
\nAt his descent to earth!<\/p>\nII.<\/h3>\n
\nWith wonder and delight he view’d,
\nAnd fix’d his empire there:
\nHim, close compressing to his breast,
\nThe sire of gods and men address’d,
\n“My son, my heav’nly fair!<\/p>\nIII.<\/h3>\n
\n“To succour man’s afflicted son
\n“Each human heart inspire:
\n“To act in bounties unconfin’d
\n“Enlarge the close contracted mind,
\n“And fill it with thy fire.”<\/p>\nIV.<\/h3>\n
\nHe wings his course from star to star,
\nAnd leaves the bright abode.
\nThe Virtue did his charms impart;
\nTheir G—–! then thy raptur’d heart
\nPerceiv’d the rushing God:<\/p>\nV.<\/h3>\n
\nThe languid muse in low degree,
\nThen, then at thy desire
\nDescended the celestial nine;
\nO’er me methought they deign’d to shine,
\nAnd deign’d to string my lyre.<\/p>\nVI.<\/h3>\n
\nOr can such friendship fail to move
\nA tender human heart?
\nImmortal Friendship laurel-crown’d
\nThe smiling Graces all surround
\nWith ev’ry heav’nly Art.<\/p>\nTo the Honourable T. H. Esq; on the Death of his Daughter.<\/h2>\n
\nThe hand of Death, and your dear daughter laid
\nIn dust, whose absence gives your tears to flow,
\nAnd racks your bosom with incessant woe,
\nLet Recollection take a tender part,
\nAssuage the raging tortures of your heart,
\nStill the wild tempest of tumultuous grief,
\nAnd pour the heav’nly nectar of relief:
\nSuspend the sigh, dear Sir, and check the groan,
\nDivinely bright your daughter’s Virtues shone:
\nHow free from scornful pride her gentle mind,
\nWhich ne’er its aid to indigence declin’d!
\nExpanding free, it sought the means to prove
\nUnfailing charity, unbounded love!
\nShe unreluctant flies to see no more
\nHer dear-lov’d parents on earth’s dusky shore:
\nImpatient heav’n’s resplendent goal to gain,
\nShe with swift progress cuts the azure plain,
\nWhere grief subsides, where changes are no more,
\nAnd life’s tumultuous billows cease to roar;
\nShe leaves her earthly mansion for the skies,
\nWhere new creations feast her wond’ring eyes.
\nTo heav’n’s high mandate cheerfully resign’d
\nShe mounts, and leaves the rolling globe behind;
\nShe, who late wish’d that Leonard might return,
\nHas ceas’d to languish, and forgot to mourn;
\nTo the same high empyreal mansions come,
\nShe joins her spouse, and smiles upon the tomb:
\nAnd thus I hear her from the realms above:
\n“Lo! this the kingdom of celestial love!
\n“Could ye, fond parents, see our present bliss,
\n“How soon would you each sigh, each fear dismiss?
\n“Amidst unutter’d pleasures whilst I play
\n“In the fair sunshine of celestial day,
\n“As far as grief affects an happy soul
\n“So far doth grief my better mind controul,
\n“To see on earth my aged parents mourn,
\n“And secret wish for T—–! to return:
\n“Let brighter scenes your ev’ning-hours employ:
\n“Converse with heav’n, and taste the promis’d joy”<\/p>\nNIOBE in Distress for her Children slain by APOLLO, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book VI. and from a view of the Painting of Mr. Richard Wilson.<\/h2>\n
\nOf ills innum’rous, tuneful goddess, sing!
\nThou who did’st first th’ ideal pencil give,
\nAnd taught’st the painter in his works to live,
\nInspire with glowing energy of thought,
\nWhat Wilson painted, and what Ovid wrote.
\nMuse! lend thy aid, nor let me sue in vain,
\nTho’ last and meanest of the rhyming train!
\nO guide my pen in lofty strains to show
\nThe Phrygian queen, all beautiful in woe.
\n‘Twas where Maeonia spreads her wide domain
\nNiobe dwelt, and held her potent reign:
\nSee in her hand the regal sceptre shine,
\nThe wealthy heir of Tantalus divine,
\nHe most distinguish’d by Dodonean Jove,
\nTo approach the tables of the gods above:
\nHer grandsire Atlas, who with mighty pains
\nTh’ ethereal axis on his neck sustains:
\nHer other grandsire on the throne on high
\nRolls the loud-pealing thunder thro’ the sky.
\nHer spouse, Amphion, who from Jove too springs,
\nDivinely taught to sweep the sounding strings.
\nSeven sprightly sons the royal bed adorn,
\nSeven daughters beauteous as the op’ning morn,
\nAs when Aurora fills the ravish’d sight,
\nAnd decks the orient realms with rosy light
\nFrom their bright eyes the living splendors play,
\nNor can beholders bear the flashing ray.
\nWherever, Niobe, thou turn’st thine eyes,
\nNew beauties kindle, and new joys arise!
\nBut thou had’st far the happier mother prov’d,
\nIf this fair offspring had been less belov’d:
\nWhat if their charms exceed Aurora’s teint.
\nNo words could tell them, and no pencil paint,
\nThy love too vehement hastens to destroy
\nEach blooming maid, and each celestial boy.
\nNow Manto comes, endu’d with mighty skill,
\nThe past to explore, the future to reveal.
\nThro’ Thebes’ wide streets Tiresia’s daughter came,
\nDivine Latona’s mandate to proclaim:
\nThe Theban maids to hear the orders ran,
\nWhen thus Maeonia’s prophetess began:
\n“Go, Thebans! great Latona’s will obey,
\n“And pious tribute at her altars pay:
\n“With rights divine, the goddess be implor’d,
\n“Nor be her sacred offspring unador’d.”
\nThus Manto spoke. The Theban maids obey,
\nAnd pious tribute to the goddess pay.
\nThe rich perfumes ascend in waving spires,
\nAnd altars blaze with consecrated fires;
\nThe fair assembly moves with graceful air,
\nAnd leaves of laurel bind the flowing hair.
\nNiobe comes with all her royal race,
\nWith charms unnumber’d, and superior grace:
\nHer Phrygian garments of delightful hue,
\nInwove with gold, refulgent to the view,
\nBeyond description beautiful she moves
\nLike heav’nly Venus, ‘midst her smiles and loves:
\nShe views around the supplicating train,
\nAnd shakes her graceful head with stern disdain,
\nProudly she turns around her lofty eyes,
\nAnd thus reviles celestial deities:
\n“What madness drives the Theban ladies fair
\n“To give their incense to surrounding air?
\n“Say why this new sprung deity preferr’d?
\n“Why vainly fancy your petitions heard?
\n“Or say why Caeus offspring is obey’d,
\n“While to my goddesship no tribute’s paid?
\n“For me no altars blaze with living fires,
\n“No bullock bleeds, no frankincense transpires,
\n“Tho’ Cadmus’ palace, not unknown to fame,
\n“And Phrygian nations all revere my name.
\n“Where’er I turn my eyes vast wealth I find,
\n“Lo! here an empress with a goddess join’d.
\n“What, shall a Titaness be deify’d,
\n“To whom the spacious earth a couch deny’d!
\n“Nor heav’n, nor earth, nor sea receiv’d your queen,
\n“Till pitying Delos took the wand’rer in.
\n“Round me what a large progeny is spread!
\n“No frowns of fortune has my soul to dread.
\n“What if indignant she decrease my train
\n“More than Latona’s number will remain;
\n“Then hence, ye Theban dames, hence haste away,
\n“Nor longer off’rings to Latona pay;
\n“Regard the orders of Amphion’s spouse,
\n“And take the leaves of laurel from your brows.”
\nNiobe spoke. The Theban maids obey’d,
\nTheir brows unbound, and left the rights unpaid.
\nThe angry goddess heard, then silence broke
\nOn Cynthus’ summit, and indignant spoke;
\n“Phoebus! behold, thy mother in disgrace,
\n“Who to no goddess yields the prior place
\n“Except to Juno’s self, who reigns above,
\n“The spouse and sister of the thund’ring Jove.
\n“Niobe, sprung from Tantalus, inspires
\n“Each Theban bosom with rebellious fires;
\n“No reason her imperious temper quells,
\n“But all her father in her tongue rebels;
\n“Wrap her own sons for her blaspheming breath,
\n“Apollo! wrap them in the shades of death.”
\nLatona ceas’d, and ardent thus replies
\nThe God, whose glory decks th’ expanded skies.
\n“Cease thy complaints, mine be the task assign’d
\n“To punish pride, and scourge the rebel mind.”
\nThis Phoebe join’d.–They wing their instant flight;
\nThebes trembled as th’ immortal pow’rs alight.
\nWith clouds incompass’d glorious Phoebus stands;
\nThe feather’d vengeance quiv’ring in his hands.
\nNear Cadmus’ walls a plain extended lay,
\nWhere Thebes’ young princes pass’d in sport the day:
\nThere the bold coursers bounded o’er the plains,
\nWhile their great masters held the golden reins.
\nIsmenus first the racing pastime led,
\nAnd rul’d the fury of his flying steed.
\n“Ah me,” he sudden cries, with shrieking breath,
\nWhile in his breast he feels the shaft of death;
\nHe drops the bridle on his courser’s mane,
\nBefore his eyes in shadows swims the plain,
\nHe, the first-born of great Amphion’s bed,
\nWas struck the first, first mingled with the dead.
\nThen didst thou, Sipylus, the language hear
\nOf fate portentous whistling in the air:
\nAs when th’ impending storm the sailor sees
\nHe spreads his canvas to the fav’ring breeze,
\nSo to thine horse thou gav’st the golden reins,
\nGav’st him to rush impetuous o’er the plains:
\nBut ah! a fatal shaft from Phoebus’ hand
\nSmites thro’ thy neck, and sinks thee on the sand.
\nTwo other brothers were at wrestling found,
\nAnd in their pastime claspt each other round:
\nA shaft that instant from Apollo’s hand
\nTransfixt them both, and stretcht them on the sand:
\nTogether they their cruel fate bemoan’d,
\nTogether languish’d, and together groan’d:
\nTogether too th’ unbodied spirits fled,
\nAnd sought the gloomy mansions of the dead.
\nAlphenor saw, and trembling at the view,
\nBeat his torn breast, that chang’d its snowy hue.
\nHe flies to raise them in a kind embrace;
\nA brother’s fondness triumphs in his face:
\nAlphenor fails in this fraternal deed,
\nA dart dispatch’d him (so the fates decreed:)
\nSoon as the arrow left the deadly wound,
\nHis issuing entrails smoak’d upon the ground.
\nWhat woes on blooming Damasichon wait!
\nHis sighs portend his near impending fate.
\nJust where the well-made leg begins to be,
\nAnd the soft sinews form the supple knee,
\nThe youth sore wounded by the Delian god
\nAttempts t’ extract the crime-avenging rod,
\nBut, whilst he strives the will of fate t’ avert,
\nDivine Apollo sends a second dart;
\nSwift thro’ his throat the feather’d mischief flies,
\nBereft of sense, he drops his head, and dies.
\nYoung Ilioneus, the last, directs his pray’r,
\nAnd cries, “My life, ye gods celestial! spare.”
\nApollo heard, and pity touch’d his heart,
\nBut ah! too late, for he had sent the dart:
\nThou too, O Ilioneus, art doom’d to fall,
\nThe fates refuse that arrow to recal.
\nOn the swift wings of ever flying Fame
\nTo Cadmus’ palace soon the tidings came:
\nNiobe heard, and with indignant eyes
\nShe thus express’d her anger and surprise:
\n“Why is such privilege to them allow’d?
\n“Why thus insulted by the Delian god?
\n“Dwells there such mischief in the pow’rs above?
\n“Why sleeps the vengeance of immortal Jove?”
\nFor now Amphion too, with grief oppress’d,
\nHad plung’d the deadly dagger in his breast.
\nNiobe now, less haughty than before,
\nWith lofty head directs her steps no more
\nShe, who late told her pedigree divine,
\nAnd drove the Thebans from Latona’s shrine,
\nHow strangely chang’d!–yet beautiful in woe,
\nShe weeps, nor weeps unpity’d by the foe.
\nOn each pale corse the wretched mother spread
\nLay overwhelm’d with grief, and kiss’d her dead,
\nThen rais’d her arms, and thus, in accents slow,
\n“Be sated cruel Goddess! with my woe;
\n“If I’ve offended, let these streaming eyes,
\n“And let this sev’nfold funeral suffice:
\n“Ah! take this wretched life you deign’d to save,
\n“With them I too am carried to the grave.
\n“Rejoice triumphant, my victorious foe,
\n“But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?
\n“Tho’ I unhappy mourn these children slain,
\n“Yet greater numbers to my lot remain.”
\nShe ceas’d, the bow string twang’d with awful sound,
\nWhich struck with terror all th’ assembly round,
\nExcept the queen, who stood unmov’d alone,
\nBy her distresses more presumptuous grown.
\nNear the pale corses stood their sisters fair
\nIn sable vestures and dishevell’d hair;
\nOne, while she draws the fatal shaft away,
\nFaints, falls, and sickens at the light of day.
\nTo sooth her mother, lo! another flies,
\nAnd blames the fury of inclement skies,
\nAnd, while her words a filial pity show,
\nStruck dumb–indignant seeks the shades below.
\nNow from the fatal place another flies,
\nFalls in her flight, and languishes, and dies.
\nAnother on her sister drops in death;
\nA fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath;
\nWhile the sixth seeks some gloomy cave in vain,
\nStruck with the rest, and mingled with the slain.
\nOne only daughter lives, and she the least;
\nThe queen close clasp’d the daughter to her breast:
\n“Ye heav’nly pow’rs, ah spare me one,” she cry’d,
\n“Ah! spare me one,” the vocal hills reply’d:
\nIn vain she begs, the Fates her suit deny,
\nIn her embrace she sees her daughter die.
\n[4]<\/sup><\/a>“The queen of all her family bereft,
\n“Without or husband, son, or daughter left,
\n“Grew stupid at the shock. The passing air
\n“Made no impression on her stiff’ning hair.<\/p>\n
\n“Pour’d from her cheeks, quite fix’d her eye-balls
\n“stood.
\n“Her tongue, her palate both obdurate grew,
\n“Her curdled veins no longer motion knew;
\n“The use of neck, and arms, and feet was gone,
\n“And ev’n her bowels hard’ned into stone:
\n“A marble statue now the queen appears,
\n“But from the marble steal the silent tears.”<\/p>\nTo S. M. a young African Painter, on seeing his Works.<\/h2>\n
\nAnd thought in living characters to paint,
\nWhen first thy pencil did those beauties give,
\nAnd breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
\nHow did those prospects give my soul delight,
\nA new creation rushing on my sight?
\nStill, wond’rous youth! each noble path pursue,
\nOn deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
\nStill may the painter’s and the poet’s fire
\nTo aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
\nAnd may the charms of each seraphic theme
\nConduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!
\nHigh to the blissful wonders of the skies
\nElate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.
\nThrice happy, when exalted to survey
\nThat splendid city, crown’d with endless day,
\nWhose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:
\nCelestial Salem blooms in endless spring.
\nCalm and serene thy moments glide along,
\nAnd may the muse inspire each future song!
\nStill, with the sweets of contemplation bless’d,
\nMay peace with balmy wings your soul invest!
\nBut when these shades of time are chas’d away,
\nAnd darkness ends in everlasting day,
\nOn what seraphic pinions shall we move,
\nAnd view the landscapes in the realms above?
\nThere shall thy tongue in heav’nly murmurs flow,
\nAnd there my muse with heav’nly transport glow:
\nNo more to tell of Damon’s tender sighs,
\nOr rising radiance of Aurora’s eyes,
\nFor nobler themes demand a nobler strain,
\nAnd purer language on th’ ethereal plain.
\nCease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night
\nNow seals the fair creation from my sight.<\/p>\nTo his Honour the Lieutenant-Governor, on the Death of his Lady. March 24, 1773.<\/h2>\n
\nHope’s tow’ring plumage falls to rise no more!
\nOf scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
\nForget their splendors, and submit to die!
\nWho ere escap’d thee, but the saint[5]<\/sup><\/a> of old
\nBeyond the flood in sacred annals told,
\nAnd the great sage, + whom fiery coursers drew
\nTo heav’n’s bright portals from Elisha’s view;
\nWond’ring he gaz’d at the refulgent car,
\nThen snatch’d the mantle floating on the air.
\nFrom Death these only could exemption boast,
\nAnd without dying gain’d th’ immortal coast.
\nNot falling millions sate the tyrant’s mind,
\nNor can the victor’s progress be confin’d.
\nBut cease thy strife with Death, fond Nature, cease:
\nHe leads the virtuous to the realms of peace;<\/p>\n
\nWhere heav’n’s Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.
\nThere sits, illustrious Sir, thy beauteous spouse;
\nA gem-blaz’d circle beaming on her brows.
\nHail’d with acclaim among the heav’nly choirs,
\nHer soul new-kindling with seraphic fires,
\nTo notes divine she tunes the vocal strings,
\nWhile heav’n’s high concave with the music rings.
\nVirtue’s rewards can mortal pencil paint?
\nNo–all descriptive arts, and eloquence are faint;
\nNor canst thou, Oliver, assent refuse
\nTo heav’nly tidings from the Afric muse.
\nAs soon may change thy laws, eternal fate,
\nAs the saint miss the glories I relate;
\nOr her Benevolence forgotten lie,
\nWhich wip’d the trick’ling tear from Misry’s eye.
\nWhene’er the adverse winds were known to blow,
\nWhen loss to loss * ensu’d, and woe to woe,
\nCalm and serene beneath her father’s hand
\nShe sat resign’d to the divine command.
\nNo longer then, great Sir, her death deplore,
\nAnd let us hear the mournful sigh no more,
\nRestrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye,
\nBe all thy future moments crown’d with joy!
\nNor let thy wishes be to earth confin’d,
\nBut soaring high pursue th’ unbodied mind.
\nForgive the muse, forgive th’ advent’rous lays,
\nThat fain thy soul to heav’nly scenes would raise.<\/p>\nA Farewell to AMERICA. To Mrs. S. W.<\/h2>\n
I.<\/h3>\n
\nAdieu, the flow’ry plain:
\nI leave thine op’ning charms, O spring,
\nAnd tempt the roaring main.<\/p>\nII.<\/h3>\n
\nAnd boast their gaudy pride,
\nWhile here beneath the northern skies
\nI mourn for health deny’d.<\/p>\nIII.<\/h3>\n
\nO let me feel thy reign!
\nI languish till thy face I view,
\nThy vanish’d joys regain.<\/p>\nIV.<\/h3>\n
\nTo see the crystal show’r,
\nOr mark the tender falling tear
\nAt sad departure’s hour;<\/p>\nV.<\/h3>\n
\nHer soul with grief opprest:
\nBut let no sighs, no groans for me,
\nSteal from her pensive breast.<\/p>\nVI.<\/h3>\n
\nIn vain the garden blooms,
\nAnd on the bosom of the spring
\nBreathes out her sweet perfumes.<\/p>\nVII.<\/h3>\n
\nWe sweep the liquid plain,
\nAnd with astonish’d eyes explore
\nThe wide-extended main.<\/p>\nVIII.<\/h3>\n
\nComplacent and serene,
\nWith Hebe’s mantle o’er her Frame,
\nWith soul-delighting mein.<\/p>\nIX.<\/h3>\n
\nWith misty vapours crown’d,
\nWhich cloud Aurora’s thousand dyes,
\nAnd veil her charms around.<\/p>\nX.<\/h3>\n
\nSo slow thy rising ray?
\nGive us the famous town to view,
\nThou glorious king of day!<\/p>\nXI.<\/h3>\n
\nNew-England’s smiling fields;
\nTo view again her charms divine,
\nWhat joy the prospect yields!<\/p>\nXII.<\/h3>\n
\nWith all thy fatal train,
\nNor once seduce my soul away,
\nBy thine enchanting strain.<\/p>\nXIII.<\/h3>\n
\nSecures their souls from harms,
\nAnd fell Temptation on the field
\nOf all its pow’r disarms!<\/p>\nA REBUS, by I. B.<\/h2>\n
I.<\/h3>\n
\nOn which an army once did feast,
\nSent by an hand unseen;
\nA creature of the horned race,
\nWhich Britain’s royal standards grace;
\nA gem of vivid green;<\/p>\nII.<\/h3>\n
\nWhere beaux and beauteous nymphs resort,
\nAnd gallantry doth reign;
\nA Dardan hero fam’d of old
\nFor youth and beauty, as we’re told,
\nAnd by a monarch slain;<\/p>\nIII.<\/h3>\n
\nWho doth our violated laws,
\nAnd grievances proclaim.
\nTh’ initials show a vanquish’d town,
\nThat adds fresh glory and renown
\nTo old Britannia’s fame.<\/p>\nAn ANSWER to the Rebus, by the Author of these POEMS.<\/h2>\n
\nTo show th’ obedience of the Infant muse.
\nShe knows the Quail of most inviting taste
\nFed Israel’s army in the dreary waste;
\nAnd what’s on Britain’s royal standard borne,
\nBut the tall, graceful, rampant Unicorn?
\nThe Emerald with a vivid verdure glows
\nAmong the gems which regal crowns compose;
\nBoston’s a town, polite and debonair,
\nTo which the beaux and beauteous nymphs repair,
\nEach Helen strikes the mind with sweet surprise,
\nWhile living lightning flashes from her eyes,
\nSee young Euphorbus of the Dardan line
\nBy Manelaus’ hand to death resign:
\nThe well known peer of popular applause
\nIs C—-m zealous to support our laws.
\nQuebec now vanquish’d must obey,
\nShe too much annual tribute pay
\nTo Britain of immortal fame.
\nAnd add new glory to her name.<\/p>\nCandela Citations<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t