On the Death of a Young Gentleman
Who taught thee conflict with the pow'rs of night,
To vanquish satan in the fields of light?
Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,
How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
War with each princedom, throne, and pow'r is o'er,
The scene is ended to return no more.
O could my muse thy seat on high behold,
How deckt with laurel, how enrich'd with gold!
O could she hear what praise thine harp employs,
How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!
What heav'nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
What holy raptures in her numbers reign!
To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,
To still the tumult of life's tossing seas,
To ease the anguish of the parents heart,
What shall my sympathizing verse impart?
Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sov'reign remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav'nly bow'r,
And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
The raging tempest of their grief control,
And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
To eye the path the saint departed trod,
And trace him to the bosom of his God.
Phillis Wheatley
Other author posts
To the University of Cambridge
While an intrinsic ardor prompts to write, The muses promise to assist my pen;'Twas not long since I left my native The land of errors, and Egyptian gloom: Father of mercy, 'twas thy gracious
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,
To a Lady on Her Coming to North-America
Indulgent muse my grov'ling mind inspire, And fill my bosom with celestial fire See from Jamaica's fervid shore she moves,
To His Honour the Lieutenant-Governor
All-Conquering Death by thy resistless pow'r, Hope's tow'ring plumage falls to rise no more Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
