Poems on various subjects, religious and moral Part 1

Religious and Moral Poems.

by Phillis Wheatley.

P R E F A C E.

THE following POEMS were written originally for the Amus.e.m.e.nt 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, as 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 show the Difficulties in this Respect she had to encounter.

With all their Imperfections, the Poems are now humbly submitted to the Perusal of the Public.

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 a.s.sistance 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, to 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, 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 PUBLIC.

AS it has been repeatedly suggested to the Publisher, by Persons, who have seen the Ma.n.u.script, 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 a.s.sure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page,* 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 Rev. Charles Chauncey, D. D.

The Hon. John Erving, The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D.

The Hon. James Pitts, The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D. D.

The Hon. Harrison Gray, The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D.

The Hon. James Bowdoin, The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D.

John Hanc.o.c.k, Esq; The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather, Joseph Green, Esq; The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead, Richard Carey, Esq; Mr. John Wheat ey, 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.

To M AE C E N A S.

MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade, Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.

What felt those poets but you feel the same?

Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?

Their n.o.ble strains your equal genius shares In softer language, and diviner airs.

While Homer paints, lo! circ.u.mfus'd in air, Celestial G.o.ds in mortal forms appear; Swift as they move hear each recess rebound, Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the sh.o.r.es resound.

Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes, The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies, And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains, A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.

When gentler strains demand thy graceful song, The length'ning line moves languis.h.i.+ng along.

When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid, The grateful tribute of my tears is paid; p.r.o.ne on the sh.o.r.e he feels the pangs of love, And stern Pelides tend'rest pa.s.sions move.

Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows, The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.

O could I rival thine and Virgil's page, Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage; Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn, And the same ardors in my soul should burn: Then should my song in bolder notes arise, And all my numbers pleasingly surprise; But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind, That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.

Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become, Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home; When they from tow'ring Helicon retire, They fan in you the bright immortal fire, But I less happy, cannot raise the song, The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.

The happier Terence* all the choir inspir'd, His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd; But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace, To one alone of Afric's sable race; From age to age transmitting thus his name With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?

Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung: While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread, I'll s.n.a.t.c.h a laurel from thine honour'd head, While you indulgent smile upon the deed.

*He was an African by birth.

As long as Thames in streams majestic flows, Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose While Phoebus reigns above the starry train While bright Aurora purples o'er the main, So long, great Sir, the muse thy praise shall sing, So long thy praise shal' make Parna.s.sus ring: Then grant, Maecenas, thy paternal rays, Hear me propitious, and defend my lays.

O N V I R T U E.

O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.

I cease to wonder, and no more attempt Thine height t' explore, or fathom thy profound.

But, O my soul, sink not into despair, Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand Would now embrace thee, hovers o'er thine head.

Fain would the heav'n-born soul with her converse, Then seek, then court her for her promis'd bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heav'nly pinions spread, And lead celestial Chast.i.ty along; Lo! now her sacred retinue descends, Array'd in glory from the orbs above.

Attend me, Virtue, thro' my youthful years!

O leave me not to the false joys of time!

But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.

Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee, To give me an higher appellation still, Teach me a better strain, a n.o.bler lay, O thou, enthron'd with Cherubs in the realms of day.

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, IN NEW-ENGLAND.

WHILE an intrinsic ardor prompts to write, The muses promise to a.s.sist my pen; 'Twas not long since I left my native sh.o.r.e The land of errors, and Egyptain gloom: Father of mercy, 'twas thy gracious hand Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.

Students, to you 'tis giv'n to scan the heights Above, to traverse the ethereal s.p.a.ce, And mark the systems of revolving worlds.

Still more, ye sons of science ye receive 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 compa.s.sion in his bosom glows; He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn: What matchless mercy in the Son of G.o.d!

When the whole human race by sin had fall'n, He deign'd to die that they might rise again, And share with him in the sublimest skies, Life without death, and glory without end.

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 shun'd, nor once remit your guard; Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.

Ye blooming plants of human race divine, An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe; Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain, And in immense perdition sinks the soul.