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ment, and never presumed upon the kindness of her friends and admirers. She studied Latin, and, at the early age of fourteen, made her first attempts at poetry in translations from Ovid's Fables. So creditable were these to her scholarship, taste, and poetic talent, that she was encouraged to write more, and before she had completed her nineteenth year, she wrote most of her poems that were given to the world, which were published in London in 1773, in a small octavo volume of about one hundred and twenty pages.

Though very soon after her poetic talents were visible, her freedom was given to her by Mr. Wheatley, she remained in the family, beloved, and respecting and imparting happiness to others. In 1773, her health had so far declined, in consequence of her unremitting attention to study, that her physicians recommended a sea voyage, and she sailed for England. Her fame had gone before her, and she was received with marked respect by many distinguished individuals. But in the midst of the attentions of the court she heard that her former mistress was sick, and her heart prompted her to return home at once. She did so in time to minister to Mrs. Wheatley, whose sickness terminated in death the next year, and the year after, Mr. Wheatley followed her to the grave. Thus deprived of her best friends, poor and desolate, she accepted an offer of marriage from a colored man by the name of Peters, sometimes called "Dr. Peters," who, as her biographer says, "kept a grocery in Court Street, and was a man of handsome person and manners, wearing a wig, carrying a cane, and quite acting the gentleman;" but "that he proved utterly unworthy of the distinguished woman who honored him with her alliance." After living with him a few years, and becoming the mother of three children, her health rapidly declined, and she died on the 5th of December, 1794.

Of all American poets prior to the year 1800, Phillis Wheatley is, in my estimation, the first, whether we consider the ease and correctness of her versification, her elevated moral and religious sentiments, her power of expression and reach of thought, or her pure fancy. Indeed, when we take into view the times in which she lived, the state of education in our colonies, and especially the little attention paid to female education, her poems are truly wonderful. Compare her, for instance, with any male poet on this side of the Atlantic prior to the present century, or with any contemporary female poet on the other side, unless, perhaps, we should except Lady Mary Wortley Montague and Hester Chapone, and how does Phillis Wheatley rise by such comparison. And to the two writers I have named she is in

no respect inferior. The following pieces present a fair specimen of her powers.'

LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SEWALL.

Lo, here a man, redeemed by Jesus' blood,
A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
Nor let his monument your heart surprise.
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-
E'en Christ, the bread descending from above,
And ask an interest 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 PROVIDENCE OF GOD.

Arise, my soul, on wings enraptured rise,
To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and beneficence appear
As round its centre moves the rolling year;
Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,
Or the sun slumbers in the ocean's arms:
Of light divine be a rich portion lent
To guide my soul, and favor my intent.
Celestial muse, my arduous flight sustain,
And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!

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Almighty, in these wondrous works of thine,

What Power, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine!

And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explored,

And yet creating glory unadored?

Creation smiles in various beauty gay,

While day to night, and night succeeds to day:

Read "Memoir and Poems of Phillis Wheatley," Boston, 1834; "Christian Examiner," xvi. 169. "A Tribute for the Negro," p.

332.

The wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways
Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays;
Without them, destitute of heat and light,
This world would be the reign of endless night.

*

Hail! smiling morn, that from the orient main
Ascending dost adorn the heavenly plain.
So rich, so various are thy beauteous dyes,
That spread through all the circuit of the skies,
That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
And thy great God, the cause of all, adores.
O'er beings infinite his love extends,

His wisdom rules them, and his power defends:
When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,
The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,
Then, too, that ever active bounty shines
Which not infinity of space confines.
The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
Conceals effects, but shows the Almighty Cause.
Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
And all is peaceful but the brow of care.
Again gay Phoebus, as the day before,

Wakes every eye, save what shall wake no more;
Again the face of nature is renewed,

Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
May grateful strains salute the smiling morn
Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
Shall day to day and night to night conspire
To show the goodness of the Almighty Sire?
This mental voice shall man regardless hear,
And never, never raise the filial prayer?

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Through airy fields he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;

Enlarged he sees unnumbered systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,

Planets on planets run their destined round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th' ethereal now, now the empyreal skies

With glowing splendors strike his wondering eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smiling thus: "To this divine abode,

The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,

Thrice welcome thou." The raptured babe replies:
"Thanks to my God, who snatched me to the skies
Ere vice triumphant had possessed my heart,
Ere yet the tempter had beguiled my heart,

Ere yet on sin's base actions I was bent,
Ere yet I knew temptation's dire intent;
Ere yet the lash for wicked actions felt,
Ere vanity had led my way to guilt;
Early arrived at my celestial goal,

Full glories rush on my expanding soul."
Joyful he spoke; exulting cherubs round

Clapped their glad wings, the heavenly 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, a nobler strain belongs.

Say, would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes and mistaken 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;
"Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there."

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In vain the feathered warblers sing,
In vain the garden blooms,
And on the bosom of the spring
Breathes out her sweet perfumes,

While for Britannia's distant shore
We sweep the liquid plain,
And with astonished eyes explore
The wide extended main.

Lo! Health appears, celestial dame,
Complacent and serene,

With Hebe's mantle o'er her frame,
With soul-delighting mien,

To mark the vale where London lies,
With misty vapors crowned,
Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes,
And veil her charms around.

Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
So slow thy rising ray?

Give us the famous town to view,
Thou glorious king of day!

For thee, Britannia, I resign

New England's smiling fields;
To view again her charms divine,
What joy the prospect yields !

But thou, Temptation, hence away,
With all thy fatal train,

Nor once seduce my soul away

By thine enchanting strain.

Thrice happy they whose heavenly shield

Secures their soul from harms,

And fell Temptation on the field
Of all its power disarms.

JAMES WILSON, 1742—1798.

JAMES WILSON was born in the lowlands of Scotland about the year 1742. After leaving the grammar school, he studied at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and, without determining upon any profession, he resolved to emigrate to this country. In the beginning of 1766, he reached Philadelphia. Soon after, he entered, as a student

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