Skip to main content

Great Works of African American Literature: Phillis Wheatley

Great Works of African American Literature
Phillis Wheatley
    • Notifications
    • Privacy
  • Project HomeGreat Works of African American Literature
  • Projects
  • Learn more about Manifold

Notes

Show the following:

  • Annotations
  • Resources
Search within:

Adjust appearance:

  • font
    Font style
  • color scheme
  • Margins
table of contents
  1. Front Matter
  2. Captivity, Enslavement, Resistance
    1. Olaudah Equiano
    2. Mary Prince
    3. Phillis Wheatley
    4. Jupiter Hammon
    5. Jarena Lee
    6. George Moses Horton
    7. Nat Turner
    8. Frederick Douglass
    9. Sojourner Truth
    10. Solomon Northup
    11. Harriet Jacobs
    12. Harriet E. Wilson
    13. Elizabeth Keckley
    14. Ellen Craft, William Craft
    15. William Wells Brown
    16. Slave Voyages During the Transatlantic Slave Trade
  3. Reconstruction to the New Negro Renaissance
    1. Charlotte Forten Grimké
    2. Booker T. Washington
    3. W.E.B. Du Bois
    4. Ida Bell Wells-Barnett
    5. Charles Waddell Chesnutt
    6. Paul Laurence Dunbar
    7. Alice Dunbar Nelson
    8. James Weldon Johnson
    9. Angelina Weld Grimké
    10. The Reconstruction Era Through Documentary Film
  4. The Harlem Renaissance
    1. Marcus Garvey
    2. Alain Locke
    3. Wilfred Adolphus Domingo
    4. Claude McKay
    5. Countee Cullen
    6. Nella Larsen
    7. Wallace Thurman
    8. Jean Toomer
    9. George Schuyler
    10. Zora Neale Hurston
    11. Langston Hughes
    12. Key Topics Podcast
  5. Urban Realism
    1. Richard Wright
    2. Ann Petry
    3. Ralph Ellison
    4. Robert Hayden
    5. Margaret Walker
    6. Gwendolyn Brooks
    7. James Baldwin
    8. Lorraine Hansberry
    9. Key Topics Podcast
  6. The Black Arts Movement
    1. Martin Luther King Jr.
    2. Malcolm X
    3. Amiri Baraka
    4. Etheridge Knight
    5. Sonia Sanchez
    6. Audre Lorde
    7. June Jordan
    8. Ishmael Reed
    9. Ntozake Shange
    10. Nikki Giovanni
    11. Key Topics Podcast
  7. Late Twentieth Century to the Present
    1. August Wilson
    2. Maya Angelou
    3. Toni Morrison
    4. James Alan McPherson
    5. Colson Whitehead
    6. Ta-Nehisi Coates
    7. Roxane Gay
    8. Mateo Askaripour
    9. Zakiya Dalila Harris
    10. Ariel Felton
    11. Monica West
    12. Camille Acker
    13. Rita Dove
    14. Gregory Pardlo
    15. Tracy K. Smith
    16. Natasha Trethewey
    17. Amanda Gorman
    18. Octavia Butler
    19. Nalo Hopkinson
    20. Tananarive Due
    21. Analyzing Poetry Through Documentary Film

PHILLIS WHEATLEY

Date of Birth: c. 1753

Place of Birth: West Africa (Senegambia region)

Major Work: Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral

More details…

from Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral

Preface

THE following POEMS were written originally for the Amusement of the Author, as they were the Products of her leisure Moments. She had 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 generous Friends; to whom she considers herself, as under the greatest Obligations.

As her Attempts in Poetry are now sent into the World, it is hoped the Critic will not severely censure their Defects; and we presume they have too much Merit to be cast aside with Contempt, as worthless and trifling Effusions.

As 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 this Respect she had to encounter.

With all their Imperfections, the Poems are now humbly submitted to the Perusal of the Public.

The following is a Copy of a LETTER sent by the Author’s Master to the Publisher.

PHILLIS was brought from Africa to America, in the Year 1761, between seven 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 an utter Stranger before, to such a degree, as to read any, the most difficult Parts of the Sacred Writings, to the great Astonishment of all who heard her.

As to her WRITING, her own Curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt in so short a Time, that in the Year 1765, she wrote a Letter to the Rev. Mr. OCCOM, the Indian Minister, while in England.

She has a great Inclination to learn the Latin Tongue, and has made some Progress in it. This Relation is given by her Master who bought her, and with whom she now lives.

JOHN WHEATLEY.

Boston, Nov. 14, 1772.

To the Public

AS it has been repeatedly suggested to the Publisher, by Persons, who have seen the Manuscript, that Numbers would be ready to suspect they were not really the Writings of PHILLIS, he has procured the following Attestation, from the most respectable Characters in Boston, that none might have the least Ground for disputing their Original.

WE whose Names are under-written, do assure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page,* were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this Town. She has been examined by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.

His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON, Governor.

The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieutenant-Governor.

The Hon. Thomas Hubbard, | The Rev. Charles Chauncey, D. D.

The Hon. John Erving, | The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D.

The Hon. James Pitts, | The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D. D.

The Hon. Harrison Gray, | The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D.

The Hon. James Bowdoin, | The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D.

John Hancock, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather,

Joseph Green, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead,

Richard Carey, Esq; | Mr. John Wheat ey, her Master.

N. B. The original Attestation, signed by the above Gentlemen,

may be seen by applying to Archibald Bell, Bookseller,

No. 8, Aldgate-Street.

On Virtue

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive

To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare

Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.

I cease to wonder, and no more attempt

Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.

But, O my soul, sink not into despair,

Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand

Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.

Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse,

Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread,

And lead celestial Chastity along;

Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,

Arrayed in glory from the orbs above.

Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!

O leave me not to the false joys of time!

But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.

Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,

To give an higher appellation still,

Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,

O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!

On Being Brought from Africa to America

'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand

That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

"Their colour is a diabolic die."

Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

On Imagination

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,

    How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!

Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,

And all attest how potent is thine hand.

    From Helicon's 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 lov'd object strikes her wand'ring 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,

Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring 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 th' unbounded soul.

    Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes

The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;

The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,

And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.

Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,

And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;

Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,

And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:

Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,

And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

    Such is thy pow'r, 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 o'er the realms of thought.

Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,

Of subject-passions sov'reign 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 th' expanse on high:

From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,

Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,

While a pure stream of light o'erflows 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 Fancy's flowing sea,

Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

A Hymn to the Evening

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main

The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;

Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's 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 heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread!

But the west glories in the deepest red:

So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow,

The living temples of our God below!

Fill'd 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 heav'nly, more refin'd;

So shall the labours of the day begin

More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.

Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,

Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

To the Right Honorable William, Earl of Dartmouth

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 Freedom's charms unfold.

Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies

She shines supreme, while hated faction dies:

Soon as appear'd the Goddess long desir'd,

Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd;

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 unredress'd complain,

No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,

Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand

Had made, and with it meant t' 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, by seeming cruel fate

Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat:

What pangs excruciating must molest,

What sorrows labour in my parent's breast?

Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd

That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd:

Such, such my case. And can I then but pray

Others may never feel tyrannic sway?

For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,

And thee we ask thy favours to renew,

Since in thy pow'r, as in thy will before,

To sooth the griefs, which thou did'st once deplore.

May heav'nly grace the sacred sanction give

To all thy works, and thou for ever live

Not only on the wings of fleeting Fame,

Though praise immortal crowns the patriot's name,

But to conduct to heav'ns refulgent fane,

May fiery coursers sweep th' ethereal plain,

And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,

Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.

To a Gentleman and Lady on The Death of The Lady's Brother and Sister, And a Child of The Name Avis, Aged One Year

On Death's domain intent I fix my eyes,

Where human nature in vast ruin lies,

With pensive mind I search the drear abode,

Where the great conqu'ror has his spoils bestow'd;

There there the offspring of six thousand years

In endless numbers to my view appears:

Whole kingdoms in his gloomy den are thrust,

And nations mix with their primeval dust:

Insatiate still he gluts the ample tomb;

His is the present, his the age to come

See here a brother, here a sister spread,

And a sweet daughter mingled with the dead.

But, Madam, let your grief be laid aside,

And let the fountain of your tears be dry'd,

In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain,

Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain,

Your pains they witness, but they can no more,

While Death reigns tyrant o'er this mortal shore.

The glowing stars and silver queen of light

At last must perish in the gloom of night:

Resign thy friends to that Almighty hand,

Which gave them life, and bow to his command;

Thine Avis give without a murm'ring heart,

Though half thy soul be fated to depart.

To shining guards consign thine infant care

To waft triumphant through the seas of air:

Her soul enlarg'd to heav'nly pleasure springs,

She feeds on truth and uncreated things.

Methinks I hear her in the realms above,

And leaning forward with a filial love,

Invite you there to share immortal bliss

Unknown, untasted in a state like this.

With tow'ring hopes, and growing grace arise,

And seek beatitude beyond the skies.

To S. M. A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works

        TO show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent,

And thought in living characters to paint,

When first thy pencil did those beauties give,

And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,

How did those prospects give my soul delight,

A new creation rushing on my sight?

Still, wond’rous youth! each noble path pursue,

On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:

Still may the painter’s and the poet’s fire

To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!

And may the charms of each seraphic theme

Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!

High to the blissful wonders of the skies

Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.

Thrice happy, when exalted to survey

That splendid city, crown’d with endless day,

Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:

Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.

Calm and serene thy moments glide along,

And may the muse inspire each future song!

Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless’d,

May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!

But when these shades of time are chas’d away,

And darkness ends in everlasting day,

On what seraphic pinions shall we move,

And view the landscapes in the realms above?

There shall thy tongue in heav’nly murmurs flow,

And there my muse with heav’nly transport glow:

No more to tell of Damon’s tender sighs,

Or rising radiance of Aurora’s eyes,

For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,

And purer language on th’ ethereal plain.

Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night

Now seals the fair creation from my sight.

To the University of Cambridge, In New-England

WHILE an intrinsic ardor prompts to write,

The muses promise to assist my pen;

’Twas not long since I left my native shore

The land of errors, and Egyptian gloom:

Father of mercy, ’twas thy gracious hand

Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.

Students, to you ’tis giv’n to scan the heights

Above, to traverse the ethereal space,

And mark the systems of revolving worlds.

Still more, ye sons of science ye receive

The blissful news by messengers from heav’n,

How Jesus’ blood for your redemption flows.

See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross;

Immense compassion in his bosom glows;

He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn:

What matchless mercy in the Son of God!

When the whole human race by sin had fall’n,

He deign’d to die that they might rise again,

And share with him in the sublimest skies,

Life without death, and glory without end.

Improve your privileges while they stay,

Ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears

Or good or bad report of you to heav’n.

Let sin, that baneful evil to the soul,

By you be shun’d, nor once remit your guard;

Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.

Ye blooming plants of human race divine,

An Ethiop tells you ’tis your greatest foe;

Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain,

And in immense perdition sinks the soul.

On the Death of The Rev. Dr. Sewell, 1769

ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,

See Sewell number’d with the happy dead.

Hail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore,

Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.

Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes

The saint ascending to his native skies;

From hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way

To the blest mansions in eternal day.

Then begging for the Spirit of our God,

And panting eager for the same abode,

Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,

And take a prospect of the blissful skies;

While on our minds Christ’s image is imprest,

And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.

Thrice happy saint! to find thy heav’n at last,

What compensation for the evils past!

Great God, incomprehensible, unknown

By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.

O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,

Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,

And give us of that mercy to partake,

Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!

“Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.

“Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d,

O what a blessing in his flight deny’d!

How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!

How oft to us the Word of Life convey’d!

By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close,

I for his tomb this epitaph compose.

“Lo, here a man, redeem’d by Jesus’s blood,

“A sinner once, but now a saint with God;

“Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,

“Not let his monument your heart surprise;

“Twill tell you what this holy man has done,

“Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.

“Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.

“I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,

“He sought the paths of piety and truth,

“By these made happy from his early youth;

“In blooming years that grace divine he felt,

“Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.

“Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,

“And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;

“Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above,

“And ask an int’rest in his saving love.

“Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told

“God’s gracious wonders from the times of old.

“I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,

“For he my monitor will not return.

“O when shall we to his blest state arrive?

“When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”

On the Death of The Rev. Mr. George Whitefield. 1770

HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,

Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;

We hear no more the music of thy tongue,

Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.

Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,

And ev’ry bosom with devotion glow’d;

Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d

Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.

Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,

So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.

Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!

He leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height,

And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.

There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,

And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.

Thy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries

Have pierc’d the bosom of thy native skies.

Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,

How he has wrestled with his God by night.

He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,

He long’d to see America excell;

He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine

Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;

That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,

The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,

He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,

That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.

“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,

“Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;

“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,

“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;

“Take him my dear Americans, he said,

“Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:

“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,

“Impartial Saviour is his title due:

“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,

“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”

Great Countess,* we Americans revere

Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;

New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,

Their more than father will no more return.

But, though arrested by the hand of death,

Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,

Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,

Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;

While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,

Till life divine re-animates his dust.

*The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield

was Chaplain.

Annotate

Next Chapter
Jupiter Hammon
PreviousNext
Powered by Manifold Scholarship. Learn more at
Opens in new tab or windowmanifoldapp.org