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POEMS

ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS,

RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.

BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY,

NEGRO SERVANT TO MR. JOHN WHEATLEY, OF BOSTON, IN NEW-ENGLAND.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON, THE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. BY HER MUCH OBLIGED, VERY HUMBLE AND DEVOTED SERVANT. PHILLIS WHEATLEY.

BOSTON, JUNE 12, 1773.

TO MAECENAS

Thy favours call upon thy Bard divine To trace those lines majestic and sublime, That grace thy Virtues, and thy Worth proclaim, And consecrate to Fame thy noble Name.

The Muses, O MAECENAS, smile on thee, And from thy Hand expect a kind Decree; While polish'd Verse, by thy sagacious View, Is taught its native Excellence to shew.

With sweet Approbation crown the humble Lay, Nor turn from supplicating Virtue's Way. The noble Soul, that knows the pleasing Art To lend new Vigour to a struggling Heart, Shall find its Goodness echoed in the Skies, And in the Bosom of the great arise.

When, warm'd by thee, the Poet lifts his Sight To heavenly Scenes, and fills his Lines with Light, He sees the Dawn of an immortal Day, And hears the Muse in sweeter Accents play.

But when Distress, with iron Hand, appears, And pours the bitter Draught of anxious Fears, The Muse grows faint, her tuneful Voice is still'd, Her once-bright Lays with sudden Gloom are fill'd.

So did my Breast, beneath the heavy Load, Forbear to trace the Paths by Fame trod; Till the soft Call of Friendship urg'd the Strain, And broke the Bonds of Sorrow and of Pain.

If such a Muse, by thy kind Patronage, Can paint the Worth of an unhappy Age, If in the Lines the candid Reader find A glowing Zeal for all of human Kind, Then let the Voice of Favour still attend The humble Bard, and be a constant Friend. For thee, bright Patron, flows the grateful Song, To thee these Lines of honest Praise belong.

ON VIRTUE

THO' native Grace and Beauty gild the Bloom, And gentle Forms from fatal Errors bloom, Yet when without, no inward Worth we find, They leave but faint Impressions on the Mind.

Fair Virtue is the universal Good, The universal Good of human Kind; It spans the Globe, and flies on every Wind, It is the Soul's bright Ornament, the Mind's chief Good.

The God of Heav'n, in his exalted State, Surveys the Worlds, and fixes all their Fate; But chiefly views with an approving Eye The human Heart that strives to reach the Sky.

He smiles to see the modest Soul aspire To copy his sublime, celestial Fire; To tread the Paths where holy Footsteps trod, And gain the Approbation of his GOD.

What is the Pomp of Titles, or the Show Of golden Splendor, if the Heart be low? A gilded Cage, where empty Passions play, And Reason yields to Folly's careless Sway.

But she, who cultivates the inward Spring, Where humble Truth and sacred Honours cling, Shall find a Friend in every passing Hour, And bloom eternal with celestial Pow'r.

Ye Children of the Day, attend the Call, And prize this Jewel that outshines them all; For when the transient Glories of the Earth Are sunk in Dust, and lost to all their Worth, Then shall your Virtue, with celestial Light, Break thro' the Gloom of everlasting Night.

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, IN NEW ENGLAND

WHILE Phoebus with his golden Beams the Day With graceful Splendor doth adorn and sway, And Night's pale Lamp her silver Light bestows, And kindly Zephyr through the Garden blows; While ev'ry Bird in sweetest Notes doth sing, And all Creation doth its Bounty bring; While Nature's Face in ev'ry Object shines, And ev'ry Scene a pleasing Form defines;

Let others seek for that terrestial Prize, Which soon to Dust in dull Oblivion flies; Let the vain World pursue its fleeting Joys, And chase the Shadows that the Mind employs; But let my Soul to higher Things aspire, And join the Ranks of those who Heav'n admire.

When He, whose Hand the Scepter sways on high, Bids Liberty to rise, and Tyranny to die, Shall wake the Genius in each slumb'ring Breast, And rouse the Sons of Science from their Rest, Then shall they rise, and with united Force, Pursue the Streams of Knowledge to their Source.

O learn to bow before the eternal Throne, Where He resides, whose Glory is unknown; Whose mighty Hand the Wheels of Heaven has spun, And caus'd the Orb of Day to leave the Sun.

How fast the Moments fly, the Hours decay, And steal our golden Opportunities away! So teach your Souls to prize the precious Time, And seek that Wisdom that is truly sublime.

Taught by the Muses, let your Hearts aspire, And fill your Minds with intellectual Fire; Let sacred Hymns resound on ev'ry Shore, And praise the God whom Saints and Angels adore.

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY

Your Favours to the Muse inspire her Song, To grace the Theme that doth to Kings belong. Where'er the Muses in this Land appear, They tune their Harps, and banish ev'ry Fear.

In Britain's Isle, where Liberty has reign'd, And learned Arts by royal Grace sustain'd, The sacred Bards in tuneful Numbers rise, And sing the Praises that their Monarch prize.

So let Columbia, with a thankful Heart, Perform the Duties that to Subjects are a Part; And may the Scepter that supports the Right, Extend its Grace, and spread its saving Light.

May Heav'n bestow upon your royal Head The jewell'd Crown, by Saints and Angels fed; And may your Reign, with every Virtue crown'd, In distant Ages be with Glory crown'd!

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