BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//InvisionCommunity Events 5.0.18//EN METHOD:PUBLISH CALSCALE:GREGORIAN REFRESH-INTERVAL:PT15M X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT15M X-WR-CALNAME:RMCommunityCalendar NAME:RMCommunityCalendar BEGIN:VTIMEZONE TZID:Europe/London TZURL:https://tzurl.org/zoneinfo/Europe/London X-LIC-LOCATION:Europe/London BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:+0000 TZOFFSETTO:+0100 TZNAME:BST DTSTART:20250330T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=3;BYDAY=-1SU END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:+0100 TZOFFSETTO:+0000 TZNAME:GMT DTSTART:20251026T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=10;BYDAY=-1SU END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT SUMMARY:Poems on Various Subjects\, Religious and Moral from Phillis Wheatley DTSTAMP:20250724T022919Z SEQUENCE:0 UID:416-7-c3fe8195a3dde498d013e477e2142422@aalbc.com ORGANIZER;CN="richardmurray":noreply@aalbc.com DESCRIPTION:\n \n\n\n\n Published according to Act of Parliament\, Sept. r 1. 1773 by Arch.d Bell Bookseller No.8 near the Saracens Head Aldgate.\n \n\n\n TEXT\n\n\n\n https://aalbc.com/tc/blogs/entry/349-poems-on-various- subjects-religious-and-moral-from-phillis-wheatley/\n\n\n\n OR\n\n\n\n The Project Gutenberg EBook of Religious and Moral Poems\, by Phillis Wheatle y\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalm ost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it\, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this e Book or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Religious and Moral Poems\ n\nAuthor: Phillis Wheatley\n\nRelease Date: January\, 1996 [EBook #409]\n Last Updated: February 24\, 2019\n\n\nLanguage: English\n\nCharacter set e ncoding: UTF-8\n\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIOUS AND MORAL POEMS ***\n\n\n\n\nEtext produced by Judith Boss\n\nHTML file produc ed by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPOEMS\nON VARIOUS SUBJECTS\,\n RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.\nBy Phillis Wheatley\n(Negro Servant To Mr. John Whea tley\, Of Boston\, In New-England)\n1771\nCONTENTS\n\nPREFACE.\n\nTO THE P UBLIC.\n\nP O E M S\n\nTO M AE C E N A S.\n\nO N V I R T U E.\n\nTO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE\, IN NEW-ENGLAND.\n\nTO THE KING’S MOST EXCELLEN T MAJESTY. 1768.\n\nON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA.\n\nON THE DEA TH OF THE REV. DR. SEWELL\, 1769.\n\nON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE W HITEFIELD. 1770.\n\nON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF FIVE YEARS OF AGE.\n\n ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.\n\nTO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAN D.\n\nG O L I A T H O F G A T H.\n\nTHOUGHTS ON THE WORKS OF PROVIDENCE. \n\nTO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF THREE RELATIONS.\n\nTO A CLERGYMAN ON THE DE ATH OF HIS LADY.\n\nAN HYMN TO THE MORNING\n\nAN HYMN TO THE EVENING.\n\nI SAIAH lxiii. 1-8.\n\nON RECOLLECTION.\n\nON IMAGINATION.\n\nA FUNERAL POEM ON THE DEATH OF C. E. AN INFANT OF TWELVE MONTHS.\n\nTO CAPTAIN H—— —D\, OF THE 65TH REGIMENT.\n\nTO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM\, EARL OF DARTMOUTH\n\nO D E T O N E P T U N E.\n\nTO A LADY ON HER COMING TO NORT H-AMERICA WITH HER SON\, FOR THE RECOVERY OF HER HEALTH.\n\nTO A LADY ON H ER REMARKABLE PRESERVATION IN AN HURRICANE IN NORTH-CAROLINA.\n\nTO A LADY AND HER CHILDREN\, ON THE DEATH OF HER SON AND THEIR BROTHER.\n\nTO A GEN TLEMAN AND LADY ON THE DEATH OF THE LADY’S BROTHER AND SISTER\, AND A CH ILD OF THE NAME OF AVIS\, AGED ONE YEAR.\n\nON THE DEATH OF DR. SAMUEL MAR SHALL. 1771.\n\nTO A GENTLEMAN ON HIS VOYAGE TO GREAT-BRITAIN FOR THE RECO VERY OF HIS HEALTH.\n\nTO THE REV. DR. THOMAS AMORY\, ON READING HIS SERMO NS ON DAILY DEVOTION\, IN WHICH THAT DUTY IS RECOMMENDED AND ASSISTED.\n\n ON THE DEATH OF J. C. AN INFANT.\n\nAN H Y M N TO H U M A N I T Y. TO S . P. G. ESQ\;\n\nTO THE HONOURABLE T. H. ESQ\; ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTE R.\n\nNIOBE IN DISTRESS FOR HER CHILDREN SLAIN BY APOLLO\, FROM OVID’S M ETAMORPHOSES\, BOOK VI. AND FROM A VIEW OF THE PAINTING OF MR. RICHARD WIL SON.\n\nTO S. M. A YOUNG AFRICAN PAINTER\, ON SEEING HIS WORKS.\n\nTO HIS HONOUR THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR\, ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. MARCH 24\, 1773 .\n\nA FAREWEL TO AMERICA. TO MRS. S. W.\n\nA REBUS\, BY I. B.\n\nAN ANSWE R TO THE REBUS\, BY THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE R IGHT HONOURABLE THE\nCOUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON\,\nTHE FOLLOWING\nP O E M S\nA RE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.\nBY HER MUCH OBLIGED\,\nVERY HUMBLE\nAND D EVOTED SERVANT.\nPHILLIS WHEATLEY.\nBoston\, June 12\, 1771.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n \n\nPREFACE.\nTHE following POEMS were written originally for the Amusemen t of the Author\, as they were the Products of her leisure Moments. She ha d 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 g enerous Friends\; to whom she considers herself\, as under the greatest Ob ligations.\n\nAs her Attempts in Poetry are now sent into the World\, it i s hoped the Critic will not severely censure their Defects\; and we presum e they have too much Merit to be cast aside with Contempt\, as worthless a nd trifling Effusions.\n\nAs 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 t his Respect she had to encounter.\n\nWith all their Imperfections\, the Po ems are now humbly submitted to the Perusal of the Public.\n\nThe followin g is a Copy of a LETTER sent by the Author’s Master to the Publisher.\n\ nPHILLIS was brought from Africa to America\, in the Year 1761\, between s even and eight Years of Age. Without any Assistance 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 a n utter Stranger before\, to such a degree\, as to read any\, the most dif ficult Parts of the Sacred Writings\, to the great Astonishment of all who heard her.\n\nAs to her WRITING\, her own Curiosity led her to it\; and t his she learnt in so short a Time\, that in the Year 1765\, she wrote a Le tter to the Rev. Mr. OCCOM\, the Indian Minister\, while in England.\n\nSh e has a great Inclination to learn the Latin Tongue\, and has made some Pr ogress in it. This Relation is given by her Master who bought her\, and wi th whom she now lives.\n\nJOHN WHEATLEY.\nBoston\, Nov. 14\, 1772.\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE PUBLIC.\nAS it has been repeatedly suggested to the Pub lisher\, by Persons\, who have seen the Manuscript\, that Numbers would be ready to suspect they were not really the Writings of PHILLIS\, he has pr ocured the following Attestation\, from the most respectable Characters in Boston\, that none might have the least Ground for disputing their Origin al.\n\nWE whose Names are under-written\, do assure the World\, that the P OEMS specified in the following Page\,* were (as we verily believe) writte n by Phillis\, a young Negro Girl\, who was but a few Years since\, brough t an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa\, and has ever since been\, and no w is\, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this To wn. She has been examined by some of the best Judges\, and is thought qual ified to write them.\n\n His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON\, Governor.\n \n The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER\, Lieutenant-Governor.\n\n The Hon. Thomas H ubbard\, | The Rev. Charles Chauncey\, D. D.\n The Hon. John Erving\, | The Rev. Mather Byles\, D. D.\n The Hon. James Pitts\, | The Rev. Ed. Pemberton\, D. D.\n The Hon. Harrison Gray\, | The Rev. Andrew Ell iot\, D. D.\n The Hon. James Bowdoin\, | The Rev. Samuel Cooper\, D. D. \n John Hancock\, Esq\; | The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather\,\n Joseph G reen\, Esq\; | The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead\,\n Richard Carey\, Esq\ ; | Mr. John Wheat ey\, her Master.\n\n N. B. The original Attesta tion\, signed by the above Gentlemen\,\n may be seen by applying t o Archibald Bell\, Bookseller\,\n No. 8\, Aldgate-Street.\n\n ___ ______________________________________________________\n\n *The Words “following Page\,” allude to the Contents\n of the Manuscript Copy\, which are wrote at the\n Back of the above Attestation.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\ nP O E M S\nO N\nV A R I O U S S U B J E C T S.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO M A E C E N A S.\n MAECENAS\, you\, beneath the myrtle shade\,\n Read o’er what poets sung\, and shepherds play’d.\n What felt those poets but yo u feel the same?\n Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?\n Their noble strains your equal genius shares\n In softer language\, and diviner airs.\n While Homer paints\, lo! circumfus’d in air\,\n Celestial G ods in mortal forms appear\;\n Swift as they move hear each recess reboun d\,\n Heav’n quakes\, earth trembles\, and the shores resound.\n Great Sire of verse\, before my mortal eyes\,\n The lightnings blaze across th e vaulted skies\,\n And\, as the thunder shakes the heav’nly plains\,\n A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.\n When gentler strains demand thy graceful song\,\n The length’ning line moves languishing al ong.\n When great Patroclus courts Achilles’ aid\,\n The grateful trib ute of my tears is paid\;\n Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love \,\n And stern Pelides tend’rest passions move.\n Great Maro’s str ain in heav’nly numbers flows\,\n The Nine inspire\, and all the bosom glows.\n O could I rival thine and Virgil’s page\,\n Or claim the Muse s with the Mantuan Sage\;\n Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn\, \n And the same ardors in my soul should burn:\n Then should my song in bolder notes arise\,\n And all my numbers pleasingly surprise\;\n But he re I sit\, and mourn a grov’ling mind\,\n That fain would mount\, and r ide upon the wind.\n Not you\, my friend\, these plaintive strains beco me\,\n Not you\, whose bosom is the Muses home\;\n When they from tow’ ring Helicon retire\,\n They fan in you the bright immortal fire\,\n But I less happy\, cannot raise the song\,\n The fault’ring music dies upo n my tongue.\n The happier Terence* all the choir inspir’d\,\n His s oul replenish’d\, and his bosom fir’d\;\n But say\, ye Muses\, why th is partial grace\,\n To one alone of Afric’s sable race\;\n From age t o age transmitting thus his name\n With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?\n Thy virtues\, great Maecenas! shall be sung\n In praise of him \, from whom those virtues sprung:\n While blooming wreaths around thy te mples spread\,\n I’ll snatch a laurel from thine honour’d head\,\n W hile you indulgent smile upon the deed.\n\n *He was an African by bi rth.\n\n As long as Thames in streams majestic flows\,\n Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose\n While Phoebus reigns above the starry train\n W hile bright Aurora purples o’er the main\,\n So long\, great Sir\, the muse thy praise shall sing\,\n So long thy praise shal’ make Parnassus ring:\n Then grant\, Maecenas\, thy paternal rays\,\n Hear me propitious \, and defend my lays.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nO N V I R T U E.\n O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive\n To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare\ n Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.\n I cease to wonder\, and no m ore attempt\n Thine height t’ explore\, or fathom thy profound.\n But\ , O my soul\, sink not into despair\,\n Virtue is near thee\, and with ge ntle hand\n Would now embrace thee\, hovers o’er thine head.\n Fain wo uld the heav’n-born soul with her converse\,\n Then seek\, then court h er for her promis’d bliss.\n Auspicious queen\, thine heav’nly p inions spread\,\n And lead celestial Chastity along\;\n Lo! now her sacr ed retinue descends\,\n Array’d in glory from the orbs above.\n Attend me\, Virtue\, thro’ my youthful years!\n O leave me not to the false j oys of time!\n But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.\n Greatness \, or Goodness\, say what I shall call thee\,\n To give me an higher appe llation still\,\n Teach me a better strain\, a nobler lay\,\n O thou\, e nthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE UNIV ERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE\, IN NEW-ENGLAND.\n WHILE an intrinsic ardor prompts to write\,\n The muses promise to assist my pen\;\n ’Twas not long sin ce I left my native shore\n The land of errors\, and Egyptian gloom:\n F ather of mercy\, ’twas thy gracious hand\n Brought me in safety from th ose dark abodes.\n Students\, to you ’tis giv’n to scan the heig hts\n Above\, to traverse the ethereal space\,\n And mark the systems of revolving worlds.\n Still more\, ye sons of science ye receive\n The bl issful news by messengers from heav’n\,\n How Jesus’ blood for your r edemption flows.\n See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross\;\n Im mense compassion in his bosom glows\;\n He hears revilers\, nor resents t heir scorn:\n What matchless mercy in the Son of God!\n When the whole h uman race by sin had fall’n\,\n He deign’d to die that they might ris e again\,\n And share with him in the sublimest skies\,\n Life without d eath\, and glory without end.\n Improve your privileges while they s tay\,\n Ye pupils\, and each hour redeem\, that bears\n Or good or bad r eport of you to heav’n.\n Let sin\, that baneful evil to the soul\,\n By you be shun’d\, nor once remit your guard\;\n Suppress the deadly se rpent in its egg.\n Ye blooming plants of human race divine\,\n An Ethio p tells you ’tis your greatest foe\;\n Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain\,\n And in immense perdition sinks the soul.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\ n\nTO THE KING’S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. 1768.\n YOUR subjects hope\, d read Sire—\n The crown upon your brows may flourish long\,\n And that your arm may in your God be strong!\n O may your sceptre num’rous natio ns sway\,\n And all with love and readiness obey!\n But how shall we the British king reward!\n Rule thou in peace\, our father\, and our lord !\n Midst the remembrance of thy favours past\,\n The meanest peasants m ost admire the last*\n May George\, beloved by all the nations round\,\n Live with heav’ns choicest constant blessings crown’d!\n Great God\, direct\, and guard him from on high\,\n And from his head let ev’ry ev il fly!\n And may each clime with equal gladness see\n A monarch’s smi le can set his subjects free!\n\n * The Repeal of the Stamp Act.\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\nON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA.\n ’Twas mercy br ought me from my Pagan land\,\n Taught my benighted soul to understand\n That there’s a God\, that there’s a Saviour too:\n Once I redemption neither sought nor knew\,\n Some view our sable race with scornful eye\, \n “Their colour is a diabolic die.”\n Remember\, Christians\, Negr oes\, black as Cain\,\n May be refin’d\, and join th’ angelic train.\ n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF THE REV. DR. SEWELL\, 1769.\n ERE yet th e morn its lovely blushes spread\,\n See Sewell number’d with the happy dead.\n Hail\, holy man\, arriv’d th’ immortal shore\,\n Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.\n Come\, let us all behold with wis hful eyes\n The saint ascending to his native skies\;\n From hence the p rophet wing’d his rapt’rous way\n To the blest mansions in eternal da y.\n Then begging for the Spirit of our God\,\n And panting eager for th e same abode\,\n Come\, let us all with the same vigour rise\,\n And tak e a prospect of the blissful skies\;\n While on our minds Christ’s imag e is imprest\,\n And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.\n Thrice happy saint! to find thy heav’n at last\,\n What compensation for the e vils past!\n Great God\, incomprehensible\, unknown\n By sense\, we b ow at thine exalted throne.\n O\, while we beg thine excellence to feel\, \n Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal\,\n And give us of that mercy to partake\,\n Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!\n “Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.\n “Is Sew ell dead\,” my trembling tongue reply’d\,\n O what a blessing in his flight deny’d!\n How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!\n How oft t o us the Word of Life convey’d!\n By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close\,\n I for his tomb this epitaph compose.\n “Lo\, here a man\, redeem’d by Jesus’s blood\,\n “A sinner once\, but now a saint wit h God\;\n “Behold ye rich\, ye poor\, ye fools\, ye wise\,\n “Not le t his monument your heart surprise\;\n “Twill tell you what this holy m an has done\,\n “Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.\n “Li sten\, ye happy\, from your seats above.\n “I speak sincerely\, while I speak and love\,\n “He sought the paths of piety and truth\,\n “By these made happy from his early youth\;\n “In blooming years that grace divine he felt\,\n “Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.\ n “Mourn him\, ye indigent\, whom he has fed\,\n “And henceforth see k\, like him\, for living bread\;\n “Ev’n Christ\, the bread descendi ng from above\,\n “And ask an int’rest in his saving love.\n “Mour n him\, ye youth\, to whom he oft has told\n “God’s gracious wonders from the times of old.\n “I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn\,\ n “For he my monitor will not return.\n “O when shall we to his bles t state arrive?\n “When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”\n \n\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 1770.\n HAI L\, happy saint\, on thine immortal throne\,\n Possest of glory\, life\, and bliss unknown\;\n We hear no more the music of thy tongue\,\n Thy wo nted auditories cease to throng.\n Thy sermons in unequall’d accents fl ow’d\,\n And ev’ry bosom with devotion glow’d\;\n Thou didst in st rains of eloquence refin’d\n Inflame the heart\, and captivate the mind .\n Unhappy we the setting sun deplore\,\n So glorious once\, but ah! it shines no more.\n Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!\n He l eaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height\,\n And worlds unkno wn receive him from our sight.\n There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way\,\n And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.\n Thy pray’rs \, great saint\, and thine incessant cries\n Have pierc’d the bosom of thy native skies.\n Thou moon hast seen\, and all the stars of light\,\n How he has wrestled with his God by night.\n He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell\,\n He long’d to see America excell\;\n He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine\n Should with full lustre i n their conduct shine\;\n That Saviour\, which his soul did first receive \,\n The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give\,\n He freely offer’ d to the num’rous throng\,\n That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.\n “Take him\, ye wretched\, for your only good\,\n “Take hi m ye starving sinners\, for your food\;\n “Ye thirsty\, come to this li fe-giving stream\,\n “Ye preachers\, take him for your joyful theme\;\n “Take him my dear Americans\, he said\,\n “Be your complaints on hi s kind bosom laid:\n “Take him\, ye Africans\, he longs for you\,\n “Impartial Saviour is his title due:\n “Wash’d in the fountain of r edeeming blood\,\n “You shall be sons\, and kings\, and priests to Go d.”\n Great Countess\,* we Americans revere\n Thy name\, and mingle in thy grief sincere\;\n New England deeply feels\, the Orphans mourn\,\ n Their more than father will no more return.\n But\, though arrested by the hand of death\,\n Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath\ ,\n Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies\,\n Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise\;\n While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust\ ,\n Till life divine re-animates his dust.\n\n *The Countess of Huntingd on\, to whom Mr. Whitefield\n was Chaplain.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEAT H OF A YOUNG LADY OF FIVE YEARS OF AGE.\n FROM dark abodes to fair etheri al light\n Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight\;\n On th e kind bosom of eternal love\n She finds unknown beatitude above.\n This known\, ye parents\, nor her loss deplore\,\n She feels the iron hand of pain no more\;\n The dispensations of unerring grace\,\n Should turn yo ur sorrows into grateful praise\;\n Let then no tears for her henceforwar d flow\,\n No more distress’d in our dark vale below\,\n Her morning sun\, which rose divinely bright\,\n Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night\;\n But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair\,\n And learn to imitate her language there.\n “Thou\, Lord\, whom I behol d with glory crown’d\,\n “By what sweet name\, and in what tuneful so und\n “Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint\n “Infin ite love and majesty to paint.\n “To thee let all their graceful voices raise\,\n “And saints and angels join their songs of praise.”\n Perfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home\n Looks down\, and smiling beckons you to come\;\n Why then\, fond parents\, why these fruitless gro ans?\n Restrain your tears\, and cease your plaintive moans.\n Freed fro m a world of sin\, and snares\, and pain\,\n Why would you wish your daug hter back again?\n No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control\,\n And check the rising tumult of the soul.\n Calm in the prosperous\, and adverse day\,\n Adore the God who gives and takes away\;\n Eye him in al l\, his holy name revere\,\n Upright your actions\, and your hearts since re\,\n Till having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea\,\n And fro m its rocks\, and boist’rous billows free\,\n Yourselves\, safe landed on the blissful shore\,\n Shall join your happy babe to part no more.\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.\n WHO taught thee confli ct with the pow’rs of night\,\n To vanquish satan in the fields of ligh t?\n Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown\,\n How great thy con quest\, and how bright thy crown!\n War with each princedom\, throne\, an d pow’r is o’er\,\n The scene is ended to return no more.\n O could my muse thy seat on high behold\,\n How deckt with laurel\, how enrich’ d with gold!\n O could she hear what praise thine harp employs\,\n How s weet thine anthems\, how divine thy joys!\n What heav’nly grandeur shou ld exalt her strain!\n What holy raptures in her numbers reign!\n To soo th the troubles of the mind to peace\,\n To still the tumult of life’s tossing seas\,\n To ease the anguish of the parents heart\,\n What shall my sympathizing verse impart?\n Where is the balm to heal so deep a woun d?\n Where shall a sov’reign remedy be found?\n Look\, gracious Spirit \, from thine heav’nly bow’r\,\n And thy full joys into their bosoms pour\;\n The raging tempest of their grief control\,\n And spread the da wn of glory through the soul\,\n To eye the path the saint departed trod\ ,\n And trace him to the bosom of his God.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND.\n GRIM monarch! see\, depriv’d of vital breat h\,\n A young physician in the dust of death:\n Dost thou go on incessan t to destroy\,\n Our griefs to double\, and lay waste our joy?\n Enough thou never yet wast known to say\,\n Though millions die\, the vassals of thy sway:\n Nor youth\, nor science\, not the ties of love\,\n Nor ough t on earth thy flinty heart can move.\n The friend\, the spouse from his dire dart to save\,\n In vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.\n Fair mourner\, there see thy lov’d Leonard laid\,\n And o’er him spread th e deep impervious shade.\n Clos’d are his eyes\, and heavy fetters keep \n His senses bound in never-waking sleep\,\n Till time shall cease\, ti ll many a starry world\n Shall fall from heav’n\, in dire confusion h url’d\n Till nature in her final wreck shall lie\,\n And her last groa n shall rend the azure sky:\n Not\, not till then his active soul shall c laim\n His body\, a divine immortal frame.\n But see the softly-steali ng tears apace\n Pursue each other down the mourner’s face\;\n But cea se thy tears\, bid ev’ry sigh depart\,\n And cast the load of anguish f rom thine heart:\n From the cold shell of his great soul arise\,\n And l ook beyond\, thou native of the skies\;\n There fix thy view\, where flee ter than the wind\n Thy Leonard mounts\, and leaves the earth behind.\n Thyself prepare to pass the vale of night\n To join for ever on the hills of light:\n To thine embrace this joyful spirit moves\n To thee\, the p artner of his earthly loves\;\n He welcomes thee to pleasures more refi n’d\,\n And better suited to th’ immortal mind.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nG O L I A T H O F G A T H.\n 1 SAMUEL\, Chap. xvii.\n YE martial pow ’rs\, and all ye tuneful nine\,\n Inspire my song\, and aid my high des ign.\n The dreadful scenes and toils of war I write\,\n The ardent warri ors\, and the fields of fight:\n You best remember\, and you best can sin g\n The acts of heroes to the vocal string:\n Resume the lays with which your sacred lyre\,\n Did then the poet and the sage inspire.\n Now fr ont to front the armies were display’d\,\n Here Israel rang’d\, and t here the foes array’d\;\n The hosts on two opposing mountains stood\,\n Thick as the foliage of the waving wood\;\n Between them an extensive v alley lay\,\n O’er which the gleaming armour pour’d the day\,\n When from the camp of the Philistine foes\,\n Dreadful to view\, a mighty war rior rose\;\n In the dire deeds of bleeding battle skill’d\,\n The mon ster stalks the terror of the field.\n From Gath he sprung\, Goliath was his name\,\n Of fierce deportment\, and gigantic frame:\n A brazen helme t on his head was plac’d\,\n A coat of mail his form terrific grac’d\ ,\n The greaves his legs\, the targe his shoulders prest:\n Dreadful in arms high-tow’ring o’er the rest\n A spear he proudly wav’d\, whose iron head\,\n Strange to relate\, six hundred shekels weigh’d\;\n He strode along\, and shook the ample field\,\n While Phoebus blaz’d reful gent on his shield:\n Through Jacob’s race a chilling horror ran\,\n W hen thus the huge\, enormous chief began:\n “Say\, what the cause tha t in this proud array\n “You set your battle in the face of day?\n “ One hero find in all your vaunting train\,\n “Then see who loses\, and who wins the plain\;\n “For he who wins\, in triumph may demand\n “P erpetual service from the vanquish’d land:\n “Your armies I defy\, yo ur force despise\,\n “By far inferior in Philistia’s eyes:\n “Prod uce a man\, and let us try the fight\,\n “Decide the contest\, and the victor’s right.”\n Thus challeng’d he: all Israel stood amaz’d \,\n And ev’ry chief in consternation gaz’d\;\n But Jesse’s son in youthful bloom appears\,\n And warlike courage far beyond his years:\n He left the folds\, he left the flow’ry meads\,\n And soft recesses of the sylvan shades.\n Now Israel’s monarch\, and his troops arise\,\n W ith peals of shouts ascending to the skies\;\n In Elah’s vale the scene of combat lies.\n When the fair morning blush’d with orient red\,\n What David’s fire enjoin’d the son obey’d\,\n And swift of foot to wards the trench he came\,\n Where glow’d each bosom with the martial f lame.\n He leaves his carriage to another’s care\,\n And runs to greet his brethren of the war.\n While yet they spake the giant-chief arose\,\ n Repeats the challenge\, and insults his foes:\n Struck with the sound\ , and trembling at the view\,\n Affrighted Israel from its post withdrew. \n “Observe ye this tremendous foe\, they cry’d\,\n “Who in proud vaunts our armies hath defy’d:\n “Whoever lays him prostrate on the p lain\,\n “Freedom in Israel for his house shall gain\;\n “And on him wealth unknown the king will pour\,\n “And give his royal daughter for his dow’r.”\n Then Jesse’s youngest hope: “My brethren say\ ,\n “What shall be done for him who takes away\n “Reproach from Jaco b\, who destroys the chief.\n “And puts a period to his country’s gri ef.\n “He vaunts the honours of his arms abroad\,\n “And scorns the armies of the living God.”\n Thus spoke the youth\, th’ attentive people ey’d\n The wond’rous hero\, and again reply’d:\n “Such th e rewards our monarch will bestow\,\n “On him who conquers\, and destro ys his foe.”\n Eliab heard\, and kindled into ire\n To hear his she pherd brother thus inquire\,\n And thus begun: “What errand brought the e? say\n “Who keeps thy flock? or does it go astray?\n “I know the b ase ambition of thine heart\,\n “But back in safety from the field depa rt.”\n Eliab thus to Jesse’s youngest heir\,\n Express’d his wr ath in accents most severe.\n When to his brother mildly he reply’d.\ n “What have I done? or what the cause to chide?\n The words were to ld before the king\, who sent\n For the young hero to his royal tent:\n Before the monarch dauntless he began\,\n “For this Philistine fail no heart of man:\n “I’ll take the vale\, and with the giant fight:\n “I dread not all his boasts\, nor all his might.”\n When thus the ki ng: “Dar’st thou a stripling go\,\n “And venture combat with so gre at a foe?\n “Who all his days has been inur’d to fight\,\n “And ma de its deeds his study and delight:\n “Battles and bloodshed brought th e monster forth\,\n “And clouds and whirlwinds usher’d in his birth .”\n When David thus: “I kept the fleecy care\,\n “And out ther e rush’d a lion and a bear\;\n “A tender lamb the hungry lion took\ ,\n “And with no other weapon than my crook\n “Bold I pursu’d\, an d chas d him o’er the field\,\n “The prey deliver’d\, and the fel on kill’d:\n “As thus the lion and the bear I slew\,\n “So shall G oliath fall\, and all his crew:\n “The God\, who sav’d me from these beasts of prey\,\n “By me this monster in the dust shall lay.”\n So David spoke. The wond’ring king reply’d\;\n “Go thou with heav’ n and victory on thy side:\n “This coat of mail\, this sword gird on\ ,” he said\,\n And plac’d a mighty helmet on his head:\n The coat\, the sword\, the helm he laid aside\,\n Nor chose to venture with those ar ms untry’d\,\n Then took his staff\, and to the neighb’ring brook\n Instant he ran\, and thence five pebbles took.\n Mean time descended to P hilistia’s son\n A radiant cherub\, and he thus begun:\n “Goliath\, well thou know’st thou hast defy’d\n “Yon Hebrew armies\, and their God deny’d:\n “Rebellious wretch! audacious worm! forbear\,\n “No r tempt the vengeance of their God too far:\n “Them\, who with his Omni potence contend\,\n “No eye shall pity\, and no arm defend:\n “Proud as thou art\, in short liv’d glory great\,\n “I come to tell thee th ine approaching fate.\n “Regard my words. The Judge of all the gods\,\ n “Beneath whose steps the tow’ring mountain nods\,\n “Will give t hine armies to the savage brood\,\n “That cut the liquid air\, or range the wood.\n “Thee too a well-aim’d pebble shall destroy\,\n “And thou shalt perish by a beardless boy:\n “Such is the mandate from the r ealms above\,\n “And should I try the vengeance to remove\,\n “Mysel f a rebel to my king would prove.\n “Goliath say\, shall grace to him b e shown\,\n “Who dares heav’ns Monarch\, and insults his throne?” \n “Your words are lost on me\,” the giant cries\,\n While fear a nd wrath contended in his eyes\,\n When thus the messenger from heav’n replies:\n “Provoke no more Jehovah’s awful hand\n “To hurl its ve ngeance on thy guilty land:\n “He grasps the thunder\, and\, he wings t he storm\,\n “Servants their sov’reign’s orders to perform.”\n The angel spoke\, and turn’d his eyes away\,\n Adding new radiance to the rising day.\n Now David comes: the fatal stones demand\n His left \, the staff engag’d his better hand:\n The giant mov’d\, and from hi s tow’ring height\n Survey’d the stripling\, and disdain’d the figh t\,\n And thus began: “Am I a dog with thee?\n “Bring’st thou no a rmour\, but a staff to me?\n “The gods on thee their vollied curses pou r\,\n “And beasts and birds of prey thy flesh devour.”\n David un daunted thus\, “Thy spear and shield\n “Shall no protection to thy bo dy yield:\n “Jehovah’s name———no other arms I bear\,\n “I as k no other in this glorious war.\n “To-day the Lord of Hosts to me will give\n “Vict’ry\, to-day thy doom thou shalt receive\;\n “The fat e you threaten shall your own become\,\n “And beasts shall be your anim ated tomb\,\n “That all the earth’s inhabitants may know\n “That there’s a God\, who governs all below:\n “This great assembly too sh all witness stand\,\n “That needs nor sword\, nor spear\, th’ Almig hty’s\n hand:\n “The battle his\, the conquest he bestows\,\n “ And to our pow’r consigns our hated foes.”\n Thus David spoke\; Go liath heard and came\n To meet the hero in the field of fame.\n Ah! fata l meeting to thy troops and thee\,\n But thou wast deaf to the divine dec ree\;\n Young David meets thee\, meets thee not in vain\;\n ’Tis thine to perish on th’ ensanguin’d plain.\n And now the youth the forcef ul pebble slung\n Philistia trembled as it whizz’d along:\n In his dre ad forehead\, where the helmet ends\,\n Just o’er the brows the well- aim’d stone descends\,\n It pierc’d the skull\, and shatter’d all t he brain\,\n Prone on his face he tumbled to the plain:\n Goliath’s fa ll no smaller terror yields\n Than riving thunders in aerial fields:\n T he soul still ling’red in its lov’d abode\,\n Till conq’ring Davi d o’er the giant strode:\n Goliath’s sword then laid its master dead\ ,\n And from the body hew’d the ghastly head\;\n The blood in gushing torrents drench’d the plains\,\n The soul found passage through the spo uting veins.\n And now aloud th’ illustrious victor said\,\n “Wher e are your boastings now your champion’s\n “dead?”\n Scarce had he spoke\, when the Philistines fled:\n But fled in vain\; the conqu’r or swift pursu’d:\n What scenes of slaughter! and what seas of blood!\n There Saul thy thousands grasp’d th’ impurpled sand\n In pangs of d eath the conquest of thine hand\;\n And David there were thy ten thousand s laid:\n Thus Israel’s damsels musically play’d.\n Near Gath and Edron many an hero lay\,\n Breath’d out their souls\, and curs’d the light of day:\n Their fury\, quench’d by death\, no longer burns\,\n A nd David with Goliath’s head returns\,\n To Salem brought\, but in his tent he plac’d\n The load of armour which the giant grac’d.\n His mo narch saw him coming from the war\,\n And thus demanded of the son of Ner .\n “Say\, who is this amazing youth?” he cry’d\,\n When thus the leader of the host reply’d\;\n “As lives thy soul I know not whence h e sprung\,\n “So great in prowess though in years so young:”\n “I nquire whose son is he\,” the sov’reign said\,\n “Before whose co nq’ring arm Philistia fled.”\n Before the king behold the stripling stand\,\n Goliath’s head depending from his hand:\n To him the king: “Say of what martial line\n “Art thou\, young hero\, and what sire w as thine?”\n He humbly thus\; “The son of Jesse I:\n “I came the glories of the field to try.\n “Small is my tribe\, but valiant in the fight\;\n “Small is my city\, but thy royal right.”\n “Then take the promis’d gifts\,” the monarch cry’d\,\n Conferring riches and t he royal bride:\n “Knit to my soul for ever thou remain\n “With me\, nor quit my regal roof again.”\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHOUGHTS ON THE WORK S OF PROVIDENCE.\n A R I S E\, my soul\, on wings enraptur’d\, rise\n To praise the monarch of the earth and skies\,\n Whose goodness and benif icence appear\n As round its centre moves the rolling year\,\n Or when t he morning glows with rosy charms\,\n Or the sun slumbers in the ocean’ s arms:\n Of light divine be a rich portion lent\n To guide my soul\, an d favour my intend.\n Celestial muse\, my arduous flight sustain\n And r aise my mind to a seraphic strain!\n Ador’d for ever be the God unsee n\,\n Which round the sun revolves this vast machine\,\n Though to his e ye its mass a point appears:\n Ador’d the God that whirls surrounding s pheres\,\n Which first ordain’d that mighty Sol should reign\n The pee rless monarch of th’ ethereal train:\n Of miles twice forty millions is his height\,\n And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight\n So far benea th—from him th’ extended earth\n Vigour derives\, and ev’ry flow’ ry birth:\n Vast through her orb she moves with easy grace\n Around her Phoebus in unbounded space\;\n True to her course th’ impetuous storm d erides\,\n Triumphant o’er the winds\, and surging tides.\n Almighty \, in these wond’rous works of thine\,\n What Pow’r\, what Wisdom\, a nd what Goodness shine!\n And are thy wonders\, Lord\, by men explor’d\ ,\n And yet creating glory unador’d!\n Creation smiles in various be auty gay\,\n While day to night\, and night succeeds to day:\n That Wisd om\, which attends Jehovah’s ways\,\n Shines most conspicuous in the so lar rays:\n Without them\, destitute of heat and light\,\n This world wo uld be the reign of endless night:\n In their excess how would our race c omplain\,\n Abhorring life! how hate its length’ned chain!\n From air adust what num’rous ills would rise?\n What dire contagion taint the bu rning skies?\n What pestilential vapours\, fraught with death\,\n Would rise\, and overspread the lands beneath?\n Hail\, smiling morn\, that f rom the orient main\n Ascending dost adorn the heav’nly plain!\n So ri ch\, so various are thy beauteous dies\,\n That spread through all the ci rcuit of the skies\,\n That\, full of thee\, my soul in rapture soars\,\n And thy great God\, the cause of all adores.\n O’er beings infinite his love extends\,\n His Wisdom rules them\, and his Pow’r defends.\n When tasks diurnal tire the human frame\,\n The spirits faint\, and dim the vital flame\,\n Then too that ever active bounty shines\,\n Which no t infinity of space confines.\n The sable veil\, that Night in silence dr aws\,\n Conceals effects\, but shows th’ Almighty Cause\,\n Night seal s in sleep the wide creation fair\,\n And all is peaceful but the brow of care.\n Again\, gay Phoebus\, as the day before\,\n Wakes ev’ry eye\, but what shall wake no more\;\n Again the face of nature is renew’d\,\ n Which still appears harmonious\, fair\, and good.\n May grateful strai ns salute the smiling morn\,\n Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!\ n Shall day to day\, and night to night conspire\n To show the goodnes s of the Almighty Sire?\n This mental voice shall man regardless hear\,\n And never\, never raise the filial pray’r?\n To-day\, O hearken\, nor your folly mourn\n For time mispent\, that never will return.\n Bu t see the sons of vegetation rise\,\n And spread their leafy banners to t he skies.\n All-wise Almighty Providence we trace\n In trees\, and plant s\, and all the flow’ry race\;\n As clear as in the nobler frame of man \,\n All lovely copies of the Maker’s plan.\n The pow’r the same tha t forms a ray of light\,\n That call d creation from eternal night.\n “Let there be light\,” he said: from his profound\n Old Chaos heard\, and trembled at the sound:\n Swift as the word\, inspir’d by pow’r d ivine\,\n Behold the light around its Maker shine\,\n The first fair pro duct of th’ omnific God\,\n And now through all his works diffus’d ab road.\n As reason’s pow’rs by day our God disclose\,\n So we ma y trace him in the night’s repose:\n Say what is sleep? and dreams how passing strange!\n When action ceases\, and ideas range\n Licentious and unbounded o’er the plains\,\n Where Fancy’s queen in giddy triumph r eigns.\n Hear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh\n To a kind fair\, or rave in jealousy\;\n On pleasure now\, and now on vengeance bent\,\n The lab’ring passions struggle for a vent.\n What pow’r\, O man! thy reason then restores\,\n So long suspended in nocturnal hours?\n What s ecret hand returns the mental train\,\n And gives improv’d thine active pow’rs again?\n From thee\, O man\, what gratitude should rise!\n And \, when from balmy sleep thou op’st thine eyes\,\n Let thy first though ts be praises to the skies.\n How merciful our God who thus imparts\n O’erflowing tides of joy to human hearts\,\n When wants and woes might be our righteous lot\,\n Our God forgetting\, by our God forgot!\n Amo ng the mental pow’rs a question rose\,\n “What most the image of th ’ Eternal shows?”\n When thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove)\n Her g reat companion spoke immortal Love.\n “Say\, mighty pow’r\, how lon g shall strife prevail\,\n “And with its murmurs load the whisp’ring gale?\n “Refer the cause to Recollection’s shrine\,\n “Who loud pr oclaims my origin divine\,\n “The cause whence heav’n and earth began to be\,\n “And is not man immortaliz’d by me?\n “Reason let this most causeless strife subside.”\n Thus Love pronounc’d\, and Reason thus reply’d.\n “Thy birth\, coelestial queen! ’tis mine to own \,\n “In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown\;\n “Thy words persua de\, my soul enraptur’d feels\n “Resistless beauty which thy smile re veals.”\n Ardent she spoke\, and\, kindling at her charms\,\n She cla sp’d the blooming goddess in her arms.\n Infinite Love where’er we turn our eyes\n Appears: this ev’ry creature’s wants supplies\;\n Th is most is heard in Nature’s constant voice\,\n This makes the morn\, a nd this the eve rejoice\;\n This bids the fost’ring rains and dews desc end\n To nourish all\, to serve one gen’ral end\,\n The good of man: y et man ungrateful pays\n But little homage\, and but little praise.\n To him\, whose works arry’d with mercy shine\,\n What songs should rise\, how constant\, how divine!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A LADY ON THE DEATH OF THR EE RELATIONS.\n WE trace the pow’r of Death from tomb to tomb\,\n And his are all the ages yet to come.\n ’Tis his to call the planets from o n high\,\n To blacken Phoebus\, and dissolve the sky\;\n His too\, when all in his dark realms are hurl’d\,\n From its firm base to shake the s olid world\;\n His fatal sceptre rules the spacious whole\,\n And trembl ing nature rocks from pole to pole.\n Awful he moves\, and wide his win gs are spread:\n Behold thy brother number’d with the dead!\n From bon dage freed\, the exulting spirit flies\n Beyond Olympus\, and these starr y skies.\n Lost in our woe for thee\, blest shade\, we mourn\n In vain\; to earth thou never must return.\n Thy sisters too\, fair mourner\, feel the dart\n Of Death\, and with fresh torture rend thine heart.\n Weep n ot for them\, and leave the world behind.\n As a young plant by hurrica nes up torn\,\n So near its parent lies the newly born—\n But ‘midst the bright ehtereal train behold\n It shines superior on a throne of gol d:\n Then\, mourner\, cease\; let hope thy tears restrain\,\n Smile on t he tomb\, and sooth the raging pain.\n On yon blest regions fix thy longi ng view\,\n Mindless of sublunary scenes below\;\n Ascend the sacred mou nt\, in thought arise\,\n And seek substantial and immortal joys\;\n Whe re hope receives\, where faith to vision springs\,\n And raptur’d serap hs tune th’ immortal strings\n To strains extatic. Thou the chorus joi n\,\n And to thy father tune the praise divine.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A CLE RGYMAN ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.\n WHERE contemplation finds her sacred s pring\,\n Where heav’nly music makes the arches ring\,\n Where virtue reigns unsully’d and divine\,\n Where wisdom thron’d\, and all the gr aces shine\,\n There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng\,\n While praise eternal warbles from her tongue\;\n There choirs angelic shout he r welcome round\,\n With perfect bliss\, and peerless glory crown’d.\n While thy dear mate\, to flesh no more confin’d\,\n Exults a blest\, an heav’n-ascended mind\,\n Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow r ise?\n Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?\n Amid the seats of heav’n a place is free\,\n And angels open their bright ranks for thee\ ;\n For thee they wait\, and with expectant eye\n Thy spouse leans downw ard from th’ empyreal sky:\n “O come away\,” her longing spirit cri es\,\n “And share with me the raptures of the skies.\n “Our bliss di vine to mortals is unknown\;\n “Immortal life and glory are our own.\ n “There too may the dear pledges of our love\n “Arrive\, and taste with us the joys above\;\n “Attune the harp to more than mortal lays\,\ n “And join with us the tribute of their praise\n “To him\, who dy ’d stern justice to stone\,\n “And make eternal glory all our own.\ n “He in his death slew ours\, and\, as he rose\,\n “He crush’d th e dire dominion of our foes\;\n “Vain were their hopes to put the God t o flight\,\n “Chain us to hell\, and bar the gates of light.”\n S he spoke\, and turn’d from mortal scenes her eyes\,\n Which beam’d ce lestial radiance o’er the skies.\n Then thou dear man\, no more with grief retire\,\n Let grief no longer damp devotion’s fire\,\n But rise sublime\, to equal bliss aspire\,\n Thy sighs no more be wafted by the w ind\,\n No more complain\, but be to heav’n resign’d\n ’Twas thi ne t’ unfold the oracles divine\,\n To sooth our woes the task was also thine\;\n Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart\,\n Permit the muse a co rdial to impart\;\n Who can to thee their tend’rest aid refuse?\n To d ry thy tears how longs the heav’nly muse!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAN HYMN TO TH E MORNING\n ATTEND my lays\, ye ever honour’d nine\,\n Assist my labou rs\, and my strains refine\;\n In smoothest numbers pour the notes along\ ,\n For bright Aurora now demands my song.\n Aurora hail\, and all the thousand dies\,\n Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:\n The morn awakes\, and wide extends her rays\,\n On ev’ry leaf the gentl e zephyr plays\;\n Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume\,\n Dart the bright eye\, and shake the painted plume.\n Ye shady groves\, your verdant gloom display\n To shield your poet from the burning day:\n Call iope awake the sacred lyre\,\n While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fi re:\n The bow’rs\, the gales\, the variegated skies\n In all their ple asures in my bosom rise.\n See in the east th’ illustrious king of da y!\n His rising radiance drives the shades away—\n But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong\,\n And scarce begun\, concludes th’ abortive s ong.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAN HYMN TO THE EVENING.\n SOON as the sun forsook t he eastern main\n The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain\;\n Maj estic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing\,\n Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.\n Soft purl the streams\, the birds renew their notes\,\ n And through the air their mingled music floats.\n Through all the he av’ns what beauteous dies are spread!\n But the west glories in the dee pest red:\n So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow\,\n The living t emples of our God below!\n Fill’d with the praise of him who gives th e light\,\n And draws the sable curtains of the night\,\n Let placid slu mbers sooth each weary mind\,\n At morn to wake more heav’nly\, more re fin’d\;\n So shall the labours of the day begin\n More pure\, more gua rded from the snares of sin.\n Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes\,\n Then cease\, my song\, till fair Aurora rise.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n ISAIAH lxiii. 1-8.\n SAY\, heav’nly muse\, what king or mighty God\,\n That moves sublime from Idumea’s road?\n In Bosrah’s dies\, with mar tial glories join’d\,\n His purple vesture waves upon the wind.\n Why thus enrob’d delights he to appear\n In the dread image of the Pow’r of war?\n Compres’d in wrath the swelling wine-press groan’d\,\n I t bled\, and pour’d the gushing purple round.\n “Mine was the act \,” th’ Almighty Saviour said\,\n And shook the dazzling glories of h is head\,\n “When all forsook I trod the press alone\,\n “And conq uer’d by omnipotence my own\;\n “For man’s release sustain’d th e pond’rous load\,\n “For man the wrath of an immortal God:\n “To execute th’ Eternal’s dread command\n “My soul I sacrific’d with willing hand\;\n “Sinless I stood before the avenging frown\,\n “Ato ning thus for vices not my own.”\n His eye the ample field of battle round\n Survey’d\, but no created succours found\;\n His own omnipote nce sustain’d the right\,\n His vengeance sunk the haughty foes in nigh t\;\n Beneath his feet the prostrate troops were spread\,\n And round hi m lay the dying\, and the dead.\n Great God\, what light’ning flashes from thine eyes?\n What pow’r withstands if thou indignant rise?\n Against thy Zion though her foes may rage\,\n And all their cunning\, all their strength engage\,\n Yet she serenely on thy bosom lies\,\n Smiles at their arts\, and all their force defies.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON RECOLLECT ION.\n MNEME begin. Inspire\, ye sacred nine\,\n Your vent’rous Afric in her great design.\n Mneme\, immortal pow’r\, I trace thy spring:\n Assist my strains\, while I thy glories sing:\n The acts of long departe d years\, by thee\n Recover’d\, in due order rang’d we see:\n Thy pow’r the long-forgotten calls from night\,\n That sweetly plays before the fancy’s sight.\n Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours\n The ample treasure of her secret stores\;\n Swift from above the wings her silent flight\n Through Phoebe’s realms\, fair regent of the night\;\n And\, in her pomp of images display’d\,\n To the high-raptur’d poet gives h er aid\,\n Through the unbounded regions of the mind\,\n Diffusing light celestial and refin’d.\n The heav’nly phantom paints the actions don e\n By ev’ry tribe beneath the rolling sun.\n Mneme\, enthron’d wi thin the human breast\,\n Has vice condemn’d\, and ev’ry virtue blest .\n How sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear?\n Sweeter than music t o the ravish’d ear\,\n Sweeter than Maro’s entertaining strains\n Re sounding through the groves\, and hills\, and plains.\n But how is Mneme dreaded by the race\,\n Who scorn her warnings and despise her grace?\n By her unveil’d each horrid crime appears\,\n Her awful hand a cup of w ormwood bears.\n Days\, years mispent\, O what a hell of woe!\n Hers the worst tortures that our souls can know.\n Now eighteen years their des tin’d course have run\,\n In fast succession round the central sun.\n How did the follies of that period pass\n Unnotic’d\, but behold them w rit in brass!\n In Recollection see them fresh return\,\n And sure ’ti s mine to be asham’d\, and mourn.\n O Virtue\, smiling in immortal gr een\,\n Do thou exert thy pow’r\, and change the scene\;\n Be thine em ploy to guide my future days\,\n And mine to pay the tribute of my praise .\n Of Recollection such the pow’r enthron’d\n In ev’ry breast\, and thus her pow’r is own’d.\n The wretch\, who dar’d the vengeanc e of the skies\,\n At last awakes in horror and surprise\,\n By her alar m’d\, he sees impending fate\,\n He howls in anguish\, and repents too late.\n But O! what peace\, what joys are hers t’ impart\n To ev’ry holy\, ev’ry upright heart!\n Thrice blest the man\, who\, in her sacre d shrine\,\n Feels himself shelter’d from the wrath divine!\n\n\n\n\n\n \n\n\nON IMAGINATION.\n THY various works\, imperial queen\, we see\,\n How bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp\n by thee!\n Thy wo nd’rous acts in beauteous order stand\,\n And all attest how potent is thine hand.\n From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend\,\n Ye sacred choir\, and my attempts befriend:\n To tell her glories with a faithful t ongue\,\n Ye blooming graces\, triumph in my song.\n Now here\, now there\, the roving Fancy flies\,\n Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes\,\n Whose silken fetters all the senses bind\,\n And so ft captivity involves the mind.\n Imagination! who can sing thy force?\ n Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?\n Soaring through air to find the bright abode\,\n Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God\, \n We on thy pinions can surpass the wind\,\n And leave the rolling univ erse behind:\n From star to star the mental optics rove\,\n Measure the skies\, and range the realms above.\n There in one view we grasp the migh ty whole\,\n Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.\n Though W inter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes\n The fields may flourish\, and gay scenes arise\;\n The frozen deeps may break their iron bands\,\n An d bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.\n Fair Flora may resume her f ragrant reign\,\n And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain\;\n Sylva nus may diffuse his honours round\,\n And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:\n Show’rs may descend\, and dews their gems disclose\,\n And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.\n Such is thy pow’r\, nor a re thine orders vain\,\n O thou the leader of the mental train:\n In ful l perfection all thy works are wrought\,\n And thine the sceptre o’er t he realms of thought.\n Before thy throne the subject-passions bow\,\n O f subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou\;\n At thy command joy rushes o n the heart\,\n And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.\n Fanc y might now her silken pinions try\n To rise from earth\, and sweep th’ expanse on high:\n From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise\,\n Her ch eeks all glowing with celestial dies\,\n While a pure stream of light o ’erflows the skies.\n The monarch of the day I might behold\,\n And al l the mountains tipt with radiant gold\,\n But I reluctant leave the plea sing views\,\n Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse\;\n Winter auster e forbids me to aspire\,\n And northern tempests damp the rising fire\;\n They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea\,\n Cease then\, my song\ , cease the unequal lay.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA FUNERAL POEM ON THE DEATH OF C . E. AN INFANT OF TWELVE MONTHS.\n THROUGH airy roads he wings his instan t flight\n To purer regions of celestial light\;\n Enlarg’d he sees un number’d systems roll\,\n Beneath him sees the universal whole\,\n Pla nets on planets run their destin’d round\,\n And circling wonders fill the vast profound.\n Th’ ethereal now\, and now th’ empyreal skies\n With growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes:\n The angels view hi m with delight unknown\,\n Press his soft hand\, and seat him on his thro ne\;\n Then smilling thus: “To this divine abode\,\n “The seat of sa ints\, of seraphs\, and of God\,\n “Thrice welcome thou.” The rapt ur’d babe replies\,\n “Thanks to my God\, who snatch’d me to the sk ies\,\n “E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart\,\n “E’er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart\,\n “E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent\,\n “E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire inten t\;\n “E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt\,\n “E’er vani ty had led my way to guilt\,\n “But\, soon arriv’d at my celestial go al\,\n “Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”\n Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round\n Clapt their glad wings\, the heav’nly vaults resound.\n Say\, parents\, why this unavailing moan?\n Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?\n To Charles\, the happy subject of my son g\,\n A brighter world\, and nobler strains belong.\n Say would you tear him from the realms above\n By thoughtless wishes\, and prepost’rous l ove?\n Doth his felicity increase your pain?\n Or could you welcome to t his world again\n The heir of bliss? with a superior air\n Methinks he a nswers with a smile severe\,\n “Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me t here.”\n But still you cry\, “Can we the sigh forbear\,\n “And still and still must we not pour the tear?\n “Our only hope\, more dear than vital breath\,\n “Twelve moons revolv’d\, becomes the prey of d eath\;\n “Delightful infant\, nightly visions give\n “Thee to our ar ms\, and we with joy receive\,\n “We fain would clasp the Phantom to ou r breast\,\n “The Phantom flies\, and leaves the soul unblest.”\n To yon bright regions let your faith ascend\,\n Prepare to join your dea rest infant friend\n In pleasures without measure\, without end.\n\n\n\n\ n\n\n\n\nTO CAPTAIN H———D\, OF THE 65TH REGIMENT.\n SAY\, muse divi ne\, can hostile scenes delight\n The warrior’s bosom in the fields of fight?\n Lo! here the christian and the hero join\n With mutual grace to form the man divine.\n In H——-D see with pleasure and surprise\,\n Where valour kindles\, and where virtue lies:\n Go\, hero brave\, still g race the post of fame\,\n And add new glories to thine honour’d name\,\ n Still to the field\, and still to virtue true:\n Britannia glories in no son like you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM\, EARL O F DARTMOUTH\n His Majesty’s Principal\n Secretary of State for North -America\, &\;c.\n\n HAIL\, happy day\, when\, smiling like the morn\, \n Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:\n The northern clime beneath her genial ray\,\n Dartmouth\, congratulates thy blissful sway:\n Elate with hope her race no longer mourns\,\n Each soul expands\, each grateful bosom burns\,\n While in thine hand with pleasure we behold\n The silke n reins\, and Freedom’s charms unfold.\n Long lost to realms beneath th e northern skies\n She shines supreme\, while hated faction dies:\n Soon as appear’d the Goddess long desir’d\,\n Sick at the view\, she lang uish’d and expir’d\;\n Thus from the splendors of the morning light\n The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.\n No more\, America\, in mournful strain\n Of wrongs\, and grievance unredress’d complain\,\n No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain\,\n Which wanton Tyranny with l awless hand\n Had made\, and with it meant t’ enslave the land.\n Sh ould you\, my lord\, while you peruse my song\,\n Wonder from whence my l ove of Freedom sprung\,\n Whence flow these wishes for the common good\,\ n By feeling hearts alone best understood\,\n I\, young in life\, by see ming cruel fate\n Was snatch’d from Afric’s fancy’d happy seat:\n What pangs excruciating must molest\,\n What sorrows labour in my paren t’s breast?\n Steel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d\n That from a father seiz’d his babe belov’d:\n Such\, such my case. And ca n I then but pray\n Others may never feel tyrannic sway?\n For favours past\, great Sir\, our thanks are due\,\n And thee we ask thy favours to renew\,\n Since in thy pow’r\, as in thy will before\,\n To sooth the griefs\, which thou did’st once deplore.\n May heav’nly grace the sa cred sanction give\n To all thy works\, and thou for ever live\n Not onl y on the wings of fleeting Fame\,\n Though praise immortal crowns the pat riot’s name\,\n But to conduct to heav’ns refulgent fane\,\n May fie ry coursers sweep th’ ethereal plain\,\n And bear thee upwards to that blest abode\,\n Where\, like the prophet\, thou shalt find thy God.\n\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\nO D E T O N E P T U N E.\n On Mrs. W———‘s Voyage to England.\n\n I.\n\n WHILE raging tempests shake the shor e\,\n While AElus’ thunders round us roar\,\n And sweep impetuous o’ er the plain\n Be still\, O tyrant of the main\;\n Nor let thy brow cont racted frowns betray\,\n While my Susanna skims the wat’ry way.\n\n II.\n\n The Pow’r propitious hears the lay\,\n The blue -ey’d daughters of the sea\n With sweeter cadence glide along\,\n And Thames responsive joins the song.\n Pleas’d with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray\,\n And double radiance decks the face of day.\n\n III.\n\n To court thee to Britannia’s arms\n Serene the cli mes and mild the sky\,\n Her region boasts unnumber’d charms\,\n Thy welcome smiles in ev’ry eye.\n Thy promise\, Neptune keep\, record my pray’r\,\n Not give my wishes to the empty air.\n\n Boston\, October 12\, 1772.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A LADY ON HER COMING TO NORTH-AMERICA WITH HER SON\, FOR THE RECOVERY OF HER HEALTH.\n INDULGENT muse! my grov’li ng mind inspire\,\n And fill my bosom with celestial fire.\n See from Ja maica’s fervid shore she moves\,\n Like the fair mother of the blooming loves\,\n When from above the Goddess with her hand\n Fans the soft bre eze\, and lights upon the land\;\n Thus she on Neptune’s wat’ry realm reclin’d\n Appear’d\, and thus invites the ling’ring wind.\n “Arise\, ye winds\, America explore\,\n “Waft me\, ye gales\, from th is malignant shore\;\n “The Northern milder climes I long to greet\,\ n “There hope that health will my arrival meet.”\n Soon as she spok e in my ideal view\n The winds assented\, and the vessel flew.\n Madam \, your spouse bereft of wife and son\,\n In the grove’s dark recesses pours his moan\;\n Each branch\, wide-spreading to the ambient sky\,\n F orgets its verdure\, and submits to die.\n From thence I turn\, and lea ve the sultry plain\,\n And swift pursue thy passage o’er the main:\n The ship arrives before the fav’ring wind\,\n And makes the Philadelphi an port assign’d\,\n Thence I attend you to Bostonia’s arms\,\n Wher e gen’rous friendship ev’ry bosom warms:\n Thrice welcome here! may h ealth revive again\,\n Bloom on thy cheek\, and bound in ev’ry vein!\n Then back return to gladden ev’ry heart\,\n And give your spouse his s oul’s far dearer part\,\n Receiv’d again with what a sweet surprise\, \n The tear in transport starting from his eyes!\n While his attendant s on with blooming grace\n Springs to his father’s ever dear embrace.\n With shouts of joy Jamaica’s rocks resound\,\n With shouts of joy the c ountry rings around.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A LADY ON HER REMARKABLE PRESERVA TION IN AN HURRICANE IN NORTH-CAROLINA.\n THOUGH thou did’st hear the t empest from afar\,\n And felt’st the horrors of the wat’ry war\,\n T o me unknown\, yet on this peaceful shore\n Methinks I hear the storm tum ultuous roar\,\n And how stern Boreas with impetuous hand\n Compell’d the Nereids to usurp the land.\n Reluctant rose the daughters of the main \,\n And slow ascending glided o’er the plain\,\n Till AEolus in his r apid chariot drove\n In gloomy grandeur from the vault above:\n Furious he comes. His winged sons obey\n Their frantic sire\, and madden all the sea.\n The billows rave\, the wind’s fierce tyrant roars\,\n And with his thund’ring terrors shakes the shores:\n Broken by waves the vess el’s frame is rent\,\n And strows with planks the wat’ry element.\n But thee\, Maria\, a kind Nereid’s shield\n Preserv’d from sinking\ , and thy form upheld:\n And sure some heav’nly oracle design’d\n At that dread crisis to instruct thy mind\n Things of eternal consequence t o weigh\,\n And to thine heart just feelings to convey\n Of things above \, and of the future doom\,\n And what the births of the dread world to c ome.\n From tossing seas I welcome thee to land.\n “Resign her\, Ner eid\,” ’twas thy God’s command.\n Thy spouse late buried\, as thy f ears conceiv’d\,\n Again returns\, thy fears are all reliev’d:\n Thy daughter blooming with superior grace\n Again thou see’st\, again thin e arms embrace\;\n O come\, and joyful show thy spouse his heir\,\n And what the blessings of maternal care!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A LADY AND HER CH ILDREN\, ON THE DEATH OF HER SON AND THEIR BROTHER.\n O’ERWHELMING sorr ow now demands my song:\n From death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.\n W hat flowing tears? What hearts with grief opprest?\n What sighs on sighs heave the fond parent’s breast?\n The brother weeps\, the hapless sist ers join\n Th’ increasing woe\, and swell the crystal brine\;\n The po or\, who once his gen’rous bounty fed\,\n Droop\, and bewail their bene factor dead.\n In death the friend\, the kind companion lies\,\n And in one death what various comfort dies!\n Th’ unhappy mother sees the sa nguine rill\n Forget to flow\, and nature’s wheels stand still\,\n But see from earth his spirit far remov’d\,\n And know no grief recals you r best-belov’d:\n He\, upon pinions swifter than the wind\,\n Has left mortality’s sad scenes behind\n For joys to this terrestial state unkn own\,\n And glories richer than the monarch’s crown.\n Of virtue’s s teady course the prize behold!\n What blissful wonders to his mind unfold !\n But of celestial joys I sing in vain:\n Attempt not\, muse\, the too advent’rous strain.\n No more in briny show’rs\, ye friends around \,\n Or bathe his clay\, or waste them on the ground:\n Still do you wee p\, still wish for his return?\n How cruel thus to wish\, and thus to mou rn?\n No more for him the streams of sorrow pour\,\n But haste to join h im on the heav’nly shore\,\n On harps of gold to tune immortal lays\,\n And to your God immortal anthems raise.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A GENTLEMAN AND LADY ON THE DEATH OF THE LADY’S BROTHER AND SISTER\, AND A CHILD OF THE NAME OF AVIS\, AGED ONE YEAR.\n ON Death’s domain intent I fix my e yes\,\n Where human nature in vast ruin lies:\n With pensive mind I sear ch the drear abode\,\n Where the great conqu’ror has his spoils besto w’d\;\n There where the offspring of six thousand years\n In endless n umbers to my view appears:\n Whole kingdoms in his gloomy den are thrust\ ,\n And nations mix with their primeval dust:\n Insatiate still he gluts the ample tomb\;\n His is the present\, his the age to come.\n See here a brother\, here a sister spread\,\n And a sweet daughter mingled with t he dead.\n But\, Madam\, let your grief be laid aside\,\n And let the fountain of your tears be dry’d\,\n In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain\,\n Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain\,\n Your pains they witness\, but they can no more\,\n While Death reigns tyrant o’er this mortal shore.\n The glowing stars and silver queen of light\n At last must perish in the gloom of night:\n Resign thy friends to that Almighty hand\,\n Which gave them life\, and bow to his command\;\n Thine Avis g ive without a murm’ring heart\,\n Though half thy soul be fated to depa rt.\n To shining guards consign thine infant care\n To waft triumphant t hrough the seas of air:\n Her soul enlarg’d to heav’nly pleasure spri ngs\,\n She feeds on truth and uncreated things.\n Methinks I hear her i n the realms above\,\n And leaning forward with a filial love\,\n Invite you there to share immortal bliss\n Unknown\, untasted in a state like t his.\n With tow’ring hopes\, and growing grace arise\,\n And seek beat itude beyond the skies.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF DR. SAMUEL MARSHA LL. 1771.\n THROUGH thickest glooms look back\, immortal shade\,\n On th at confusion which thy death has made:\n Or from Olympus’ height look d own\, and see\n A Town involv’d in grief bereft of thee.\n Thy Lucy se es thee mingle with the dead\,\n And rends the graceful tresses from her head\,\n Wild in her woe\, with grief unknown opprest\n Sigh follows sig h deep heaving from her breast.\n Too quickly fled\, ah! whither art th ou gone?\n Ah! lost for ever to thy wife and son!\n The hapless child\, thine only hope and heir\,\n Clings round his mother’s neck\, and weeps his sorrows there.\n The loss of thee on Tyler’s soul returns\,\n And Boston for her dear physician mourns.\n When sickness call’d for Mar shall’s healing hand\,\n With what compassion did his soul expand?\n I n him we found the father and the friend:\n In life how lov’d! how hono ur’d in his end!\n And must not then our AEsculapius stay\n To bring his ling’ring infant into day?\n The babe unborn in the dark womb is t ost\,\n And seems in anguish for its father lost.\n Gone is Apollo fro m his house of earth\,\n But leaves the sweet memorials of his worth:\n The common parent\, whom we all deplore\,\n From yonder world unseen must come no more\,\n Yet ‘midst our woes immortal hopes attend\n The spou se\, the sire\, the universal friend.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A GENTLEMAN ON H IS VOYAGE TO GREAT-BRITAIN FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH.\n WHILE others chant of gay Elysian scenes\,\n Of balmy zephyrs\, and of flow’ry plai ns\,\n My song more happy speaks a greater name\,\n Feels higher motives and a nobler flame.\n For thee\, O R——-\, the muse attunes her strin gs\,\n And mounts sublime above inferior things.\n I sing not now of g reen embow’ring woods\,\n I sing not now the daughters of the floods\,\ n I sing not of the storms o’er ocean driv’n\,\n And how they howl ’d along the waste of heav’n.\n But I to R——- would paint the Bri tish shore\,\n And vast Atlantic\, not untry’d before:\n Thy life impa ir’d commands thee to arise\,\n Leave these bleak regions and inclement skies\,\n Where chilling winds return the winter past\,\n And nature sh udders at the furious blast.\n O thou stupendous\, earth-enclosing main \n Exert thy wonders to the world again!\n If ere thy pow’r prolong’ d the fleeting breath\,\n Turn’d back the shafts\, and mock’d the gat es of death\,\n If ere thine air dispens’d an healing pow’r\,\n Or s natch’d the victim from the fatal hour\,\n This equal case demands thin e equal care\,\n And equal wonders may this patient share.\n But unavail ing\, frantic is the dream\n To hope thine aid without the aid of him\n Who gave thee birth and taught thee where to flow\,\n And in thy waves hi s various blessings show.\n May R——- return to view his native shor e\n Replete with vigour not his own before\,\n Then shall we see with pl easure and surprise\,\n And own thy work\, great Ruler of the skies!\n\n\ n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE REV. DR. THOMAS AMORY\, ON READING HIS SERMONS ON DAIL Y DEVOTION\, IN WHICH THAT DUTY IS RECOMMENDED AND ASSISTED.\n TO cultiva te in ev’ry noble mind\n Habitual grace\, and sentiments refin’d\,\n Thus while you strive to mend the human heart\,\n Thus while the heav’ nly precepts you impart\,\n O may each bosom catch the sacred fire\,\n A nd youthful minds to Virtue’s throne aspire!\n When God’s eternal w ays you set in sight\,\n And Virtue shines in all her native light\,\n I n vain would Vice her works in night conceal\,\n For Wisdom’s eye perva des the sable veil.\n Artists may paint the sun’s effulgent rays\,\n But Amory’s pen the brighter God displays:\n While his great works in Amory’s pages shine\,\n And while he proves his essence all divine\,\n The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud\n Of chance\, or nature\, and e xclude the God\;\n As if the clay without the potter’s aid\n Should ri se in various forms\, and shapes self-made\,\n Or worlds above with orb o ’er orb profound\n Self-mov’d could run the everlasting round.\n It cannot be—unerring Wisdom guides\n With eye propitious\, and o’er all presides.\n Still prosper\, Amory! still may’st thou receive\n The warmest blessings which a muse can give\,\n And when this transitory stat e is o’er\,\n When kingdoms fall\, and fleeting Fame’s no more\,\n M ay Amory triumph in immortal fame\,\n A nobler title\, and superior name! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON THE DEATH OF J. C. AN INFANT.\n NO more the flow’r y scenes of pleasure rife\,\n Nor charming prospects greet the mental eye s\,\n No more with joy we view that lovely face\n Smiling\, disportive\, flush’d with ev’ry grace.\n The tear of sorrow flows from ev’ry eye\,\n Groans answer groans\, and sighs to sighs reply\;\n What sudden pangs shot thro’ each aching heart\,\n When\, Death\, thy messenger dis patch’d his dart?\n Thy dread attendants\, all-destroying Pow’r\,\n Hurried the infant to his mortal hour.\n Could’st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes?\n Or fail’d his artless beauties to surprise?\n Co uld not his innocence thy stroke controul\,\n Thy purpose shake\, and sof ten all thy soul?\n The blooming babe\, with shades of Death o’er-spr ead\,\n No more shall smile\, no more shall raise its head\,\n But\, lik e a branch that from the tree is torn\,\n Falls prostrate\, wither’d\, languid\, and forlorn.\n “Where flies my James?” ’tis thus I seem t o hear\n The parent ask\, “Some angel tell me where\n “He wings his passage thro’ the yielding air?”\n Methinks a cherub bending from th e skies\n Observes the question\, and serene replies\,\n “In heav’ns high palaces your babe appears:\n “Prepare to meet him\, and dismiss y our tears.”\n Shall not th’ intelligence your grief restrain\,\n An d turn the mournful to the cheerful strain?\n Cease your complaints\, sus pend each rising sigh\,\n Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky.\n Parent s\, no more indulge the falling tear:\n Let Faith to heav’n’s refulge nt domes repair\,\n There see your infant\, like a seraph glow:\n What c harms celestial in his numbers flow\n Melodious\, while the foul-enchanti ng strain\n Dwells on his tongue\, and fills th’ ethereal plain?\n Eno ugh—for ever cease your murm’ring breath\;\n Not as a foe\, but frien d converse with Death\,\n Since to the port of happiness unknown\n He br ought that treasure which you call your own.\n The gift of heav’n intru sted to your hand\n Cheerful resign at the divine command:\n Not at your bar must sov’reign Wisdom stand.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAN H Y M N TO H U M A N I T Y. TO S. P. G. ESQ\;\n I.\n\n LO! for this d ark terrestrial ball\n Forsakes his azure-paved hall\n A prince of h eav’nly birth!\n Divine Humanity behold\,\n What wonders rise\, what c harms unfold\n At his descent to earth!\n\n II.\n\n The bosoms of the great and good\n With wonder and delight he view’d\,\ n And fix’d his empire there:\n Him\, close compressing to his bre ast\,\n The sire of gods and men address’d\,\n “My son\, my he av’nly fair!\n\n III.\n\n “Descend to earth\, there p lace thy throne\;\n “To succour man’s afflicted son\n “Each hu man heart inspire:\n “To act in bounties unconfin’d\n “Enlarge the close contracted mind\,\n “And fill it with thy fire.”\n\n IV.\n\n Quick as the word\, with swift career\n He wings his course from star to star\,\n And leaves the bright abode.\n The Virt ue did his charms impart\;\n Their G——-! then thy raptur’d heart\n Perceiv’d the rushing God:\n\n V.\n\n For when thy pitying eye did see\n The languid muse in low degree\,\n Then\, the n at thy desire\n Descended the celestial nine\;\n O’er me methought t hey deign’d to shine\,\n And deign’d to string my lyre.\n\n VI.\n\n Can Afric’s muse forgetful prove?\n Or can such fri endship fail to move\n A tender human heart?\n Immortal Friendship l aurel-crown’d\n The smiling Graces all surround\n With ev’ry h eav’nly Art.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE HONOURABLE T. H. ESQ\; ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER.\n WHILE deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade\n The hand of Death\, and your dear daughter laid\n In dust\, whose absence gi ves your tears to flow\,\n And racks your bosom with incessant woe\,\n L et Recollection take a tender part\,\n Assuage the raging tortures of you r heart\,\n Still the wild tempest of tumultuous grief\,\n And pour the heav’nly nectar of relief:\n Suspend the sigh\, dear Sir\, and check th e groan\,\n Divinely bright your daughter’s Virtues shone:\n How free from scornful pride her gentle mind\,\n Which ne’er its aid to indigenc e declin’d!\n Expanding free\, it sought the means to prove\n Unfailin g charity\, unbounded love!\n She unreluctant flies to see no more\n H er dear-lov’d parents on earth’s dusky shore:\n Impatient heav’n’ s resplendent goal to gain\,\n She with swift progress cuts the azure pla in\,\n Where grief subsides\, where changes are no more\,\n And life’s tumultuous billows cease to roar\;\n She leaves her earthly mansion for the skies\,\n Where new creations feast her wond’ring eyes.\n To h eav’n’s high mandate cheerfully resign’d\n She mounts\, and leaves the rolling globe behind\;\n She\, who late wish’d that Leonard might r eturn\,\n Has ceas’d to languish\, and forgot to mourn\;\n To the same high empyreal mansions come\,\n She joins her spouse\, and smiles upon t he tomb:\n And thus I hear her from the realms above:\n “Lo! this the kingdom of celestial love!\n “Could ye\, fond parents\, see our present bliss\,\n “How soon would you each sigh\, each fear dismiss?\n “Ami dst unutter’d pleasures whilst I play\n “In the fair sunshine of cele stial day\,\n “As far as grief affects an happy soul\n “So far doth grief my better mind controul\,\n “To see on earth my aged parents mour n\,\n “And secret wish for T——-! to return:\n “Let brighter scen es your ev’ning-hours employ:\n “Converse with heav’n\, and taste t he promis’d joy”\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNIOBE IN DISTRESS FOR HER CHILDRE N SLAIN BY APOLLO\, FROM OVID’S METAMORPHOSES\, BOOK VI. AND FROM A VIEW OF THE PAINTING OF MR. RICHARD WILSON.\n APOLLO’s wrath to man the dre adful spring\n Of ills innum’rous\, tuneful goddess\, sing!\n Thou who did’st first th’ ideal pencil give\,\n And taught’st the painter i n his works to live\,\n Inspire with glowing energy of thought\,\n What Wilson painted\, and what Ovid wrote.\n Muse! lend thy aid\, nor let me s ue in vain\,\n Tho’ last and meanest of the rhyming train!\n O guide m y pen in lofty strains to show\n The Phrygian queen\, all beautiful in wo e.\n ’Twas where Maeonia spreads her wide domain\n Niobe dwelt\, and held her potent reign:\n See in her hand the regal sceptre shine\,\n Th e wealthy heir of Tantalus divine\,\n He most distinguish’d by Dodonean Jove\,\n To approach the tables of the gods above:\n Her grandsire Atla s\, who with mighty pains\n Th’ ethereal axis on his neck sustains:\n Her other grandsire on the throne on high\n Rolls the loud-pealing thunde r thro’ the sky.\n Her spouse\, Amphion\, who from Jove too springs\, \n Divinely taught to sweep the sounding strings.\n Seven sprightly so ns the royal bed adorn\,\n Seven daughters beauteous as the op’ning mor n\,\n As when Aurora fills the ravish’d sight\,\n And decks the orient realms with rosy light\n From their bright eyes the living splendors pla y\,\n Nor can beholders bear the flashing ray.\n Wherever\, Niobe\, th ou turn’st thine eyes\,\n New beauties kindle\, and new joys arise!\n But thou had’st far the happier mother prov’d\,\n If this fair offspr ing had been less belov’d:\n What if their charms exceed Aurora’s tei nt.\n No words could tell them\, and no pencil paint\,\n Thy love too ve hement hastens to destroy\n Each blooming maid\, and each celestial boy.\ n Now Manto comes\, endu’d with mighty skill\,\n The past to explore \, the future to reveal.\n Thro’ Thebes’ wide streets Tiresia’s dau ghter came\,\n Divine Latona’s mandate to proclaim:\n The Theban maids to hear the orders ran\,\n When thus Maeonia’s prophetess began:\n “Go\, Thebans! great Latona’s will obey\,\n “And pious tribute at her altars pay:\n “With rights divine\, the goddess be implor’d\,\ n “Nor be her sacred offspring unador’d.”\n Thus Manto spoke. Th e Theban maids obey\,\n And pious tribute to the goddess pay.\n The rich perfumes ascend in waving spires\,\n And altars blaze with consecrated f ires\;\n The fair assembly moves with graceful air\,\n And leaves of lau rel bind the flowing hair.\n Niobe comes with all her royal race\,\n W ith charms unnumber’d\, and superior grace:\n Her Phrygian garments of delightful hue\,\n Inwove with gold\, refulgent to the view\,\n Beyond d escription beautiful she moves\n Like heav’nly Venus\, ‘midst her smi les and loves:\n She views around the supplicating train\,\n And shakes her graceful head with stern disdain\,\n Proudly she turns around her lof ty eyes\,\n And thus reviles celestial deities:\n “What madness drives the Theban ladies fair\n “To give their incense to surrounding air?\ n “Say why this new sprung deity preferr’d?\n “Why vainly fancy yo ur petitions heard?\n “Or say why Caeus offspring is obey’d\,\n “W hile to my goddesship no tribute’s paid?\n “For me no altars blaze wi th living fires\,\n “No bullock bleeds\, no frankincense transpires\,\n “Tho’ Cadmus’ palace\, not unknown to fame\,\n “And Phrygian na tions all revere my name.\n “Where’er I turn my eyes vast wealth I fi nd\,\n “Lo! here an empress with a goddess join’d.\n “What\, shall a Titaness be deify’d\,\n “To whom the spacious earth a couch deny ’d!\n “Nor heav’n\, nor earth\, nor sea receiv’d your queen\,\n “Till pitying Delos took the wand’rer in.\n “Round me what a larg e progeny is spread!\n “No frowns of fortune has my soul to dread.\n “What if indignant she decrease my train\n “More than Latona’s num ber will remain\;\n “Then hence\, ye Theban dames\, hence haste away\,\ n “Nor longer off’rings to Latona pay\;\n “Regard the orders of Amphion’s spouse\,\n “And take the leaves of laurel from your brows .”\n Niobe spoke. The Theban maids obey’d\,\n Their brows unbound\ , and left the rights unpaid.\n The angry goddess heard\, then silence broke\n On Cynthus’ summit\, and indignant spoke\;\n “Phoebus! behol d\, thy mother in disgrace\,\n “Who to no goddess yields the prior plac e\n “Except to Juno’s self\, who reigns above\,\n “The spouse and sister of the thund’ring Jove.\n “Niobe\, sprung from Tantalus\, insp ires\n “Each Theban bosom with rebellious fires\;\n “No reason her i mperious temper quells\,\n “But all her father in her tongue rebels\;\n “Wrap her own sons for her blaspheming breath\,\n “Apollo! wrap the m in the shades of death.”\n Latona ceas’d\, and ardent thus replies \n The God\, whose glory decks th’ expanded skies.\n “Cease thy co mplaints\, mine be the task assign’d\n “To punish pride\, and scourge the rebel mind.”\n This Phoebe join’d.—They wing their instant fl ight\;\n Thebes trembled as th’ immortal pow’rs alight.\n With clo uds incompass’d glorious Phoebus stands\;\n The feather’d vengeance quiv’ring in his hands.\n Near Cadmus’ walls a plain extended l ay\,\n Where Thebes’ young princes pass’d in sport the day:\n There the bold coursers bounded o’er the plains\,\n While their great masters held the golden reins.\n Ismenus first the racing pastime led\,\n And r ul’d the fury of his flying steed.\n “Ah me\,” he sudden cries\, wi th shrieking breath\,\n While in his breast he feels the shaft of death\; \n He drops the bridle on his courser’s mane\,\n Before his eyes in sh adows swims the plain\,\n He\, the first-born of great Amphion’s bed\,\ n Was struck the first\, first mingled with the dead.\n Then didst tho u\, Sipylus\, the language hear\n Of fate portentous whistling in the air :\n As when th’ impending storm the sailor sees\n He spreads his canva s to the fav’ring breeze\,\n So to thine horse thou gav’st the golden reins\,\n Gav’st him to rush impetuous o’er the plains:\n But ah! a fatal shaft from Phoebus’ hand\n Smites thro’ thy neck\, and sinks t hee on the sand.\n Two other brothers were at wrestling found\,\n And in their pastime claspt each other round:\n A shaft that instant from Apo llo’s hand\n Transfixt them both\, and stretcht them on the sand:\n To gether they their cruel fate bemoan’d\,\n Together languish’d\, and t ogether groan’d:\n Together too th’ unbodied spirits fled\,\n And so ught the gloomy mansions of the dead.\n Alphenor saw\, and trembling at t he view\,\n Beat his torn breast\, that chang’d its snowy hue.\n He fl ies to raise them in a kind embrace\;\n A brother’s fondness triumphs i n his face:\n Alphenor fails in this fraternal deed\,\n A dart dispatc h’d him (so the fates decreed:)\n Soon as the arrow left the deadly wou nd\,\n His issuing entrails smoak’d upon the ground.\n What woes on blooming Damasichon wait!\n His sighs portend his near impending fate.\n Just where the well-made leg begins to be\,\n And the soft sinews form t he supple knee\,\n The youth sore wounded by the Delian god\n Attempts t ’ extract the crime-avenging rod\,\n But\, whilst he strives the will o f fate t’ avert\,\n Divine Apollo sends a second dart\;\n Swift thro ’ his throat the feather’d mischief flies\,\n Bereft of sense\, he dr ops his head\, and dies.\n Young Ilioneus\, the last\, directs his pray ’r\,\n And cries\, “My life\, ye gods celestial! spare.”\n Apollo heard\, and pity touch’d his heart\,\n But ah! too late\, for he had s ent the dart:\n Thou too\, O Ilioneus\, art doom’d to fall\,\n The fat es refuse that arrow to recal.\n On the swift wings of ever flying Fame \n To Cadmus’ palace soon the tidings came:\n Niobe heard\, and with i ndignant eyes\n She thus express’d her anger and surprise:\n “Why is such privilege to them allow’d?\n “Why thus insulted by the Delian g od?\n “Dwells there such mischief in the pow’rs above?\n “Why slee ps the vengeance of immortal Jove?”\n For now Amphion too\, with grief oppress’d\,\n Had plung’d the deadly dagger in his breast.\n Niobe now\, less haughty than before\,\n With lofty head directs her steps no m ore\n She\, who late told her pedigree divine\,\n And drove the Thebans from Latona’s shrine\,\n How strangely chang’d!—yet beautiful in wo e\,\n She weeps\, nor weeps unpity’d by the foe.\n On each pale corse the wretched mother spread\n Lay overwhelm’d with grief\, and kiss’d her dead\,\n Then rais’d her arms\, and thus\, in accents slow\,\n “ Be sated cruel Goddess! with my woe\;\n “If I’ve offended\, let these streaming eyes\,\n “And let this sev’nfold funeral suffice:\n “Ah ! take this wretched life you deign’d to save\,\n “With them I too am carried to the grave.\n “Rejoice triumphant\, my victorious foe\,\n “But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?\n “Tho’ I unha ppy mourn these children slain\,\n “Yet greater numbers to my lot remai n.”\n She ceas’d\, the bow string twang’d with awful sound\,\n Wh ich struck with terror all th’ assembly round\,\n Except the queen\, wh o stood unmov’d alone\,\n By her distresses more presumptuous grown.\n Near the pale corses stood their sisters fair\n In sable vestures and di shevell’d hair\;\n One\, while she draws the fatal shaft away\,\n Fain ts\, falls\, and sickens at the light of day.\n To sooth her mother\, lo! another flies\,\n And blames the fury of inclement skies\,\n And\, whil e her words a filial pity show\,\n Struck dumb—indignant seeks the shad es below.\n Now from the fatal place another flies\,\n Falls in her flig ht\, and languishes\, and dies.\n Another on her sister drops in death\;\ n A fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath\;\n While the sixth see ks some gloomy cave in vain\,\n Struck with the rest\, and mingled with t he slain.\n One only daughter lives\, and she the least\;\n The queen close clasp’d the daughter to her breast:\n “Ye heav’nly pow’rs\, ah spare me one\,” she cry’d\,\n “Ah! spare me one\,” the vocal hills reply’d:\n In vain she begs\, the Fates her suit deny\,\n In her embrace she sees her daughter die.\n * “The queen of all her family bereft\,\n “Without or husband\, son\, or daughter left\,\n “Grew st upid at the shock. The passing air\n “Made no impression on her stif f’ning hair.\n\n * This Verse To The End Is The Work Of Another Ha nd.\n\n “The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood\n “Pour’d fr om her cheeks\, quite fix’d her eye-balls\n “stood.\n “Her tongu e\, her palate both obdurate grew\,\n “Her curdled veins no longer moti on knew\;\n “The use of neck\, and arms\, and feet was gone\,\n “A nd ev’n her bowels hard’ned into stone:\n “A marble statue now the queen appears\,\n “But from the marble steal the silent tears.”\n \n\ n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO S. M. A YOUNG AFRICAN PAINTER\, ON SEEING HIS WORKS.\n TO show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent\,\n And thought in living ch aracters to paint\,\n When first thy pencil did those beauties give\,\n And breathing figures learnt from thee to live\,\n How did those prospect s give my soul delight\,\n A new creation rushing on my sight?\n Still\, wond’rous youth! each noble path pursue\,\n On deathless glories fix t hine ardent view:\n Still may the painter’s and the poet’s fire\n To aid thy pencil\, and thy verse conspire!\n And may the charms of each se raphic theme\n Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!\n High to the bli ssful wonders of the skies\n Elate thy soul\, and raise thy wishful eyes. \n Thrice happy\, when exalted to survey\n That splendid city\, crown’ d with endless day\,\n Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:\n C elestial Salem blooms in endless spring.\n Calm and serene thy moments glide along\,\n And may the muse inspire each future song!\n Still\, wit h the sweets of contemplation bless’d\,\n May peace with balmy wings yo ur soul invest!\n But when these shades of time are chas’d away\,\n An d darkness ends in everlasting day\,\n On what seraphic pinions shall we move\,\n And view the landscapes in the realms above?\n There shall thy tongue in heav’nly murmurs flow\,\n And there my muse with heav’nly t ransport glow:\n No more to tell of Damon’s tender sighs\,\n Or rising radiance of Aurora’s eyes\,\n For nobler themes demand a nobler strain \,\n And purer language on th’ ethereal plain.\n Cease\, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night\n Now seals the fair creation from my sight.\n\ n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO HIS HONOUR THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR\, ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. MARCH 24\, 1773.\n ALL-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow’r \,\n Hope’s tow’ring plumage falls to rise no more!\n Of scenes terr estrial how the glories fly\,\n Forget their splendors\, and submit to di e!\n Who ere escap’d thee\, but the saint * of old\n Beyond the flood in sacred annals told\,\n And the great sage\, + whom fiery coursers drew \n To heav’n’s bright portals from Elisha’s view\;\n Wond’ring he gaz’d at the refulgent car\,\n Then snatch’d the mantle floating on the air.\n From Death these only could exemption boast\,\n And withou t dying gain’d th’ immortal coast.\n Not falling millions sate the ty rant’s mind\,\n Nor can the victor’s progress be confin’d.\n But c ease thy strife with Death\, fond Nature\, cease:\n He leads the virtuous to the realms of peace\;\n\n * Enoch. + Elijah.\n\n His t o conduct to the immortal plains\,\n Where heav’n’s Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.\n There sits\, illustrious Sir\, thy beauteous spouse \;\n A gem-blaz’d circle beaming on her brows.\n Hail’d with acclaim among the heav’nly choirs\,\n Her soul new-kindling with seraphic fire s\,\n To notes divine she tunes the vocal strings\,\n While heav’n’s high concave with the music rings.\n Virtue’s rewards can mortal penci l paint?\n No—all descriptive arts\, and eloquence are faint\;\n Nor c anst thou\, Oliver\, assent refuse\n To heav’nly tidings from the Afric muse.\n As soon may change thy laws\, eternal fate\,\n As the saint m iss the glories I relate\;\n Or her Benevolence forgotten lie\,\n Which wip’d the trick’ling tear from Misry’s eye.\n Whene’er the advers e winds were known to blow\,\n When loss to loss * ensu’d\, and woe to woe\,\n Calm and serene beneath her father’s hand\n She sat resign’d to the divine command.\n No longer then\, great Sir\, her death deplor e\,\n And let us hear the mournful sigh no more\,\n Restrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye\,\n Be all thy future moments crown’d with joy !\n Nor let thy wishes be to earth confin’d\,\n But soaring high pursu e th’ unbodied mind.\n Forgive the muse\, forgive th’ advent’rous l ays\,\n That fain thy soul to heav’nly scenes would raise.\n\n\n\n\n\n\ n\n\nA FAREWEL TO AMERICA. TO MRS. S. W.\n I.\n\n ADIEU\, New-England’s smiling meads\,\n Adieu\, the flow’ry plain:\n I leave thine op’ning charms\, O spring\,\n And tempt the roaring mai n.\n\n II.\n\n In vain for me the flow’rets rise\,\n And boast their gaudy pride\,\n While here beneath the northern skies\ n I mourn for health deny’d.\n\n III.\n\n Celestia l maid of rosy hue\,\n O let me feel thy reign!\n I languish till th y face I view\,\n Thy vanish’d joys regain.\n\n IV. \n\n Susanna mourns\, nor can I bear\n To see the crystal show’r\, \n Or mark the tender falling tear\n At sad departure’s hour\;\n\n V.\n\n Not unregarding can I see\n Her soul with gr ief opprest:\n But let no sighs\, no groans for me\,\n Steal from he r pensive breast.\n\n VI.\n\n In vain the feather’d war blers sing\,\n In vain the garden blooms\,\n And on the bosom of the spring\n Breathes out her sweet perfumes.\n\n VII.\n \n While for Britannia’s distant shore\n We sweep the liquid plain \,\n And with astonish’d eyes explore\n The wide-extended main.\n\ n VIII.\n\n Lo! Health appears! celestial dame!\n Co mplacent and serene\,\n With Hebe’s mantle o’er her Frame\,\n Wi th soul-delighting mein.\n\n IX.\n\n To mark the vale whe re London lies\n With misty vapours crown’d\,\n Which cloud Auro ra’s thousand dyes\,\n And veil her charms around.\n\n X.\n\n Why\, Phoebus\, moves thy car so slow?\n So slow thy risi ng ray?\n Give us the famous town to view\,\n Thou glorious king of day!\n XI.\n\n For thee\, Britannia\, I resign\n New -England’s smiling fields\;\n To view again her charms divine\,\n What joy the prospect yields!\n\n XII.\n\n But thou! Tem ptation hence away\,\n With all thy fatal train\,\n Nor once seduce my soul away\,\n By thine enchanting strain.\n\n XIII .\n\n Thrice happy they\, whose heav’nly shield\n Secures their so uls from harms\,\n And fell Temptation on the field\n Of all its pow ’r disarms!\n\n Boston\, May 7\, 1773.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA REBUS\, BY I. B.\n I.\n\n A BIRD delicious to the taste\,\n On whic h an army once did feast\,\n Sent by an hand unseen\;\n A creature of the horned race\,\n Which Britain’s royal standards grace\;\n A gem of vivid green\;\n\n II.\n\n A town of gaiety and sport\, \n Where beaux and beauteous nymphs resort\,\n And gallantry doth reig n\;\n A Dardan hero fam’d of old\n For youth and beauty\, as we’re t old\,\n And by a monarch slain\;\n\n III.\n\n A peer o f popular applause\,\n Who doth our violated laws\,\n And grievances p roclaim.\n Th’ initials show a vanquish’d town\,\n That adds fresh g lory and renown\n To old Britannia’s fame.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAN ANSWER TO THE REBUS\, BY THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.\n THE poet asks\, and Phill is can’t refuse\n To show th’ obedience of the Infant muse.\n She kn ows the Quail of most inviting taste\n Fed Israel’s army in the dreary waste\;\n And what’s on Britain’s royal standard borne\,\n But the t all\, graceful\, rampant Unicorn?\n The Emerald with a vivid verdure glow s\n Among the gems which regal crowns compose\;\n Boston’s a town\, po lite and debonair\,\n To which the beaux and beauteous nymphs repair\,\n Each Helen strikes the mind with sweet surprise\,\n While living lightni ng flashes from her eyes\,\n See young Euphorbus of the Dardan line\n By Manelaus’ hand to death resign:\n The well known peer of popular appla use\n Is C——m zealous to support our laws.\n Quebec now vanquish’d must obey\,\n She too much annual tribute pay\n To Britain of immortal fame.\n And add new glory to her name.\n F I N I S.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\ n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Religious and Moral Poems\, by Phillis Wheatley\n\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIOUS AND MORAL P OEMS ***\n\n***** This file should be named 409-h.htm or 409-h.zip *****\n This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n https://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/409/\n\nEtext produced by Judith Boss\n\nH TML file produced by David Widger\n\nUpdated editions will replace the pre vious one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from p ublic domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyri ght in these works\, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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