Religious and Moral Poems by Phillis Wheatley (books to read as a couple TXT) đ
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âSay, mighty powâr, how long shall strife prevail, âAnd with its murmurs load the whispâring gale? âRefer the cause to Recollectionâs shrine, âWho loud proclaims my origin divine, âThe cause whence heavân and earth began to be, âAnd is not man immortalizâd by me? âReason let this most causeless strife subside.â Thus Love pronouncâd, and Reason thus replyâd.
âThy birth, coelestial queen! âtis mine to own, âIn thee resplendent is the Godhead shown; âThy words persuade, my soul enrapturâd feels âResistless beauty which thy smile reveals.â Ardent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms, She claspâd the blooming goddess in her arms.
Infinite Love whereâer we turn our eyes Appears: this evâry creatureâs wants supplies; This most is heard in Natureâs constant voice, This makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice; This bids the fostâring rains and dews descend To nourish all, to serve one genâral end, The good of man: yet man ungrateful pays But little homage, and but little praise. To him, whose works arryâd with mercy shine, What songs should rise, how constant, how divine!
To a Lady on the Death of three Relations.
WE trace the powâr of Death from tomb to tomb, And his are all the ages yet to come. âTis his to call the planets from on high, To blacken Phoebus, and dissolve the sky; His too, when all in his dark realms are hurlâd, From its firm base to shake the solid world; His fatal sceptre rules the spacious whole, And trembling nature rocks from pole to pole.
Awful he moves, and wide his wings are spread: Behold thy brother numberâd with the dead! From bondage freed, the exulting spirit flies Beyond Olympus, and these starry skies. Lost in our woe for thee, blest shade, we mourn In vain; to earth thou never must return. Thy sisters too, fair mourner, feel the dart Of Death, and with fresh torture rend thine heart. Weep not for them, and leave the world behind.
As a young plant by hurricanes up torn, So near its parent lies the newly bornâ But âmidst the bright ehtereal train behold It shines superior on a throne of gold: Then, mourner, cease; let hope thy tears restrain, Smile on the tomb, and sooth the raging pain. On yon blest regions fix thy longing view, Mindless of sublunary scenes below; Ascend the sacred mount, in thought arise, And seek substantial and immortal joys; Where hope receives, where faith to vision springs, And rapturâd seraphs tune thâ immortal strings To strains extatic. Thou the chorus join, And to thy father tune the praise divine.
To a Clergyman on the Death of his Lady.
WHERE contemplation finds her sacred spring, Where heavânly music makes the arches ring, Where virtue reigns unsullyâd and divine, Where wisdom thronâd, and all the graces shine, There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng, While praise eternal warbles from her tongue; There choirs angelic shout her welcome round, With perfect bliss, and peerless glory crownâd.
While thy dear mate, to flesh no more confinâd, Exults a blest, an heav n-ascended mind, Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise? Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes? Amid the seats of heavân a place is free, And angels open their bright ranks for thee; For thee they wait, and with expectant eye Thy spouse leans downward from thâ empyreal sky: âO come away,â her longing spirit cries, âAnd share with me the raptures of the skies. âOur bliss divine to mortals is unknown; âImmortal life and glory are our own. âThere too may the dear pledges of our love âArrive, and taste with us the joys above; âAttune the harp to more than mortal lays, âAnd join with us the tribute of their praise âTo him, who dyâd stern justice to stone, âAnd make eternal glory all our own. âHe in his death slew ours, and, as he rose, âHe crushâd the dire dominion of our foes; âVain were their hopes to put the God to flight, âChain us to hell, and bar the gates of light.â
She spoke, and turnâd from mortal scenes her eyes, Which beamâd celestial radiance oâer the skies.
Then thou dear man, no more with grief retire, Let grief no longer damp devotionâs fire, But rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire, Thy sighs no more be wafted by the wind, No more complain, but be to heavân resignâd âTwas thine tâ unfold the oracles divine, To sooth our woes the task was also thine; Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart, Permit the muse a cordial to impart; Who can to thee their tendârest aid refuse? To dry thy tears how longs the heavânly muse!
An HYMN to the MORNING
ATTEND my lays, ye ever honourâd nine, Assist my labours, and my strains refine; In smoothest numbers pour the notes along, For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On evâry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the featherâd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day: Calliope awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire: The bowârs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
See in the east thâ illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades awayâ But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong, And scarce begun, concludes thâ abortive song.
An HYMN to the EVENING.
SOON as the sun forsook the eastern main The pealing thunder shook the heavânly plain; Majestic grandeur! From the zephyrâs wing, Exhales the incense of the blooming spring. Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heavâns what beauteous dies are
spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with evâry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below!
Fillâd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heavânly, more refinâd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Nightâs leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.
ISAIAH lxiii. 1ââ8.
SAY, heavânly muse, what king or mighty God, That moves sublime from Idumeaâs road? In Bosrahâs dies, with martial glories joinâd, His purple vesture waves upon the wind. Why thus enrobâd delights he to appear In the dread image of the Powâr of war?
Compresâd in wrath the swelling wine-press groanâd, It bled, and pourâd the gushing purple round.
âMine was the act,â thâ Almighty Saviour said, And shook the dazzling glories of his head, âWhen all forsook I trod the press alone, âAnd conquerâd by omnipotence my own; âFor manâs release sustainâd the pondârous load, âFor man the wrath of an immortal God: âTo execute thâ Eternalâs dread command âMy soul I sacrificâd with willing hand; âSinless I stood before the avenging frown, âAtoning thus for vices not my own.â
His eye the ample field of battle round Surveyâd, but no created succours found; His own omnipotence sustainâd the right, His vengeance sunk the haughty foes in night; Beneath his feet the prostrate troops were spread, And round him lay the dying, and the dead.
Great God, what lightâning flashes from thine eyes? What powâr withstands if thou indignant rise?
Against thy Zion though her foes may rage, And all their cunning, all their strength engage, Yet she serenely on thy bosom lies, Smiles at their arts, and all their force defies.
On RECOLLECTION.
MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine, Your ventârous Afric in her great design. Mneme, immortal powâr, I trace thy spring: Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing: The acts of long departed years, by thee Recoverâd, in due order rangâd we see: Thy powâr the long-forgotten calls from night, That sweetly plays before the fancyâs sight. Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours The ample treasure of her secret stores; Swift from above the wings her silent flight Through Phoebeâs realms, fair regent of the night; And, in her pomp of images displayâd, To the high-rapturâd poet gives her aid, Through the unbounded regions of the mind, Diffusing light celestial and refinâd. The heavânly phantom paints the actions done By evâry tribe beneath the rolling sun.
Mneme, enthronâd within the human breast, Has vice condemnâd, and evâry virtue blest. How sweet the sound when we her plaudit hear? Sweeter than music to the ravishâd ear, Sweeter than Maroâs entertaining strains Resounding through the groves, and hills, and plains. But how is Mneme dreaded by the race, Who scorn her warnings and despise her grace? By her unveilâd each horrid crime appears, Her awful hand a cup of wormwood bears. Days, years mispent, O what a hell of woe! Hers the worst tortures that our souls can know.
Now eighteen years their destinâd course have run, In fast succession round the central sun. How did the follies of that period pass Unnoticâd, but behold them writ in brass! In Recollection see them fresh return, And sure âtis mine to be ashamâd, and mourn.
O Virtue, smiling in immortal green, Do thou exert thy powâr, and change the scene; Be thine employ to guide my future days, And mine to pay the tribute of my praise.
Of Recollection such the powâr enthronâd In evâry breast, and thus her powâr is ownâd. The wretch, who darâd the vengeance of the skies, At last awakes in horror and surprise, By her alarmâd, he sees impending fate, He howls in anguish, and repents too late. But O! what peace, what joys are hers tâ impart To evâry holy, evâry upright heart! Thrice blest the man, who, in her sacred shrine, Feels himself shelterâd from the wrath divine!
On IMAGINATION.
THY various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms! how deckâd with pomp
by thee! Thy wondârous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Heliconâs refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lovâd object strikes her wandâring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Thâ empyreal palace of the thundâring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze thâ unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancyâs rapturâd eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur oâer the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flowâry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crownâd: Showârs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy powâr, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre oâer the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions
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