Phillis Wheatley

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,

Thro' thickest glooms look back, immortal shade,
On that confusion which thy death has made:
Or from Olympus' height look down, and seeA Town involv'd in grief bereft of thee
Thy Lucy sees thee mingle with the dead,

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

Though thou did'st hear the tempest from afar,
And felt'st the horrors of the wat'ry war,
To me unknown, yet on this peaceful
Methinks I hear the storm tumultuous roar,

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

Your subjects hope, dread Sire—The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong
O may your sceptre num'rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness obey

Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway: