Phillis Wheatley

1554-1586 / English

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Ode To NeptuneI. / While raging tempests shake the shore, / While Ælus’ thunders round us roar,

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Niobe In Distress For Her Children Slain By Apollo, From Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book VI. And From A View Of The Painting Of Mr. Richard WilsonApollo’s wrath to man the dreadful spring / Of ills innum’rous, tuneful goddess, sing! / Thou who did’st first th’ ideal pencil give,

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To The Right Honourable William, Earl Of Dartmouth, His Majesty’s Principal Secretary Of State For North-America, &c.Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, / Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn: / The northern clime beneath her genial ray,

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Goliath Of GathYe martial pow’rs, and all ye tuneful nine, / Inspire my song, and aid my high design. / The dreadful scenes and toils of war I write,

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Thoughts On The Works Of ProvidenceArise, my soul, on wings enraptur’d, rise / To praise the monarch of the earth and skies, / Whose goodness and benificence appear

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On The Death Of A Young GentlemanWho taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night, / To vanquish satan in the fields of light? / Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,

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A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E., An Infant Of Twelve MonthsThrough airy roads he wings his instant flight / To purer regions of celestial light; / Enlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,

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On VirtueO Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive / To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare / Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.

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To S. M., A Young African Painter, On Seeing His WorksO show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent, / And thought in living characters to paint, / When first thy pencil did those beauties give,

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On RecollectionMneme begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine, / Your vent’rous Afric in her great design. / Mneme, immortal pow’r, I trace thy spring:

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