Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral Phillis Wheatley (first color ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Phillis Wheatley
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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 bow,
Of subject-passions sovâreign ruler Thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep thâ expanse on high;
From Tithonâs bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light oâerflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancyâs flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
Through airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;
Enlargâd he sees unnumberâd systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destinâd round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Thâ ethereal now, and now thâ empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wondâring eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smilling thus: âTo this divine abode,
âThe seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
âThrice welcome thou.â The rapturâd babe replies,
âThanks to my God, who snatchâd me to the skies,
âEâer vice triumphant had possessâd my heart,
âEâer yet the tempter had beguilâd my heart,
âEâer yet on sinâs base actions I was bent,
âEâer yet I knew temptationâs dire intent;
âEâer yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
âEâer vanity had led my way to guilt,
âBut, soon arrivâd at my celestial goal,
âFull glories rush on my expanding soul.â
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heavânly vaults resound.
Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepostârous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
âThrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.â
But still you cry, âCan we the sigh forbear,
âAnd still and still must we not pour the tear?
âOur only hope, more dear than vital breath,
âTwelve moons revolvâd, becomes the prey of death;
âDelightful infant, nightly visions give
âThee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
âWe fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
âThe Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.â
To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.
Say, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warriorâs bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In Hâ âžșâ d see with pleasure and surprise,
Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies:
Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,
And add new glories to thine honourâd name,
Still to the field, and still to virtue true:
Britannia glories in no son like you.
Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,
Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,
While in thine hand with pleasure we behold
The silken reins, and Freedomâs charms unfold.
Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies
She shines supreme, while hated faction dies:
Soon as appearâd the Goddess long desirâd,
Sick at the view, she languishâd and expirâd;
Thus from the splendors of the morning light
The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain
Of wrongs, and grievance unredressâd complain,
No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,
Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand
Had made, and with it meant tâ enslave the land.
Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
Whence flow these wishes for the common good,
By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life,
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