On the Death of JC an Infant
No more the flow'ry scenes of pleasure rife,
Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
No more with joy we view that lovely
Smiling, disportive, flush'd with ev'ry grace. The tear of sorrow flows from ev'ry eye,
Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply;
What sudden pangs shot thro' each aching heart,
When,
Death, thy messenger dispatch'd his dart?
Thy dread attendants, all-destroying Pow'r,
Hurried the infant to his mortal hour.
Could'st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes?
Or fail'd his artless beauties to surprise?
Could not his innocence thy stroke control,
Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul? The blooming babe, with shades of Death o'erspread,
No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head,
But, like a branch that from the tree is torn,
Falls prostrate, wither'd, languid, and forlorn."Where flies my James?" 'tis thus I seem to
The parent ask, "Some angel tell me where"He wings his passage thro' the yielding air?"Methinks a cherub bending from the
Observes the question, and serene replies,"In heav'ns high palaces your babe appears:"Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears."Shall not th' intelligence your grief restrain,
And turn the mournful to the cheerful strain?
Cease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh,
Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky.
Parents, no more indulge the falling tear:
Let Faith to heav'n's refulgent domes repair,
There see your infant, like a seraph glow:
What charms celestial in his numbers
Melodious, while the foul-enchanting
Dwells on his tongue, and fills th' ethereal plain?
Enough—for ever cease your murm'ring breath;
Not as a foe, but friend converse with Death,
Since to the port of happiness
He brought that treasure which you call your own.
The gift of heav'n intrusted to your
Cheerful resign at the divine command:
Not at your bar must sov'reign Wisdom stand.
Phillis Wheatley
Other author posts
To a Clergyman on the Death of His Lady
Where contemplation finds her sacred spring, Where heav'nly music makes the arches ring, Where virtue reigns unsully'd and divine, Where wisdom thron'd, and all the graces shine,
On Imagination
Thy various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms how deck'd with pomp by thee Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand
To the Rev Dr Thomas Amory
To cultivate in ev'ry noble Habitual grace, and sentiments refin'd, Thus while you strive to mend the human heart, Thus while the heav'nly precepts you impart,
Isaiah LXIII
Say, heav'nly muse, what king or mighty God, That moves sublime from Idumea's road In Bosrah's dies, with martial glories join'd, His purple vesture waves upon the wind