Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral

by Phillis Wheatley

POEMS

ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS,

RELIGIOUS AND MORAL.

BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY,

NEGRO SERVANT TO MR. JOHN WHEATLEY,

OF BOSTON, IN NEW-ENGLAND.

CONTENTS.

TO Maecenas

On Virtue

To the University of Cambridge, in New England

To the King's Most Excellent Majesty

On being brought from Africa

On the Rev. Dr. Sewell

On the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield

On the Death of a young Lady of five Years of Age

On the Death of a young Gentleman

To a Lady on the Death of her Husband

Goliath of Gath

Thoughts on the Works of Providence

To a Lady on the Death of three Relations

To a Clergyman on the Death of his Lady

An Hymn to the Morning

An Hymn to the Evening

On Isaiah lxiii. 1------8

On Recollection

On Imagination

A Funeral Poem on the Death of an Infant aged twelve Months

To Captain H. D. of the 65th Regiment

To the Right Hon. William, Earl of Dartmouth

Ode to Neptune

To a Lady on her coming to North America with her Son, for the Recovery of her Health

To a Lady on her remarkable Preservation in a Hurricane in North Carolina

To a Lady and her Children on the Death of the Lady's Brother and Sister, and a Child of the Name of Avis, aged one Year

On the Death of Dr. Samuel Marshall,

To a Gentleman on his Voyage to Great-Britain, for the Recovery of his Health

To the Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory on reading his Sermons on Daily Devotion, in which that Duty is recommended and assisted

On the Death of J. C. an Infant

An Hymn to Humanity

To the Hon. T. H. Esq; on the Death of his Daughter

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 Wilson

To S. M. a young African Painter, on seeing his Works

To his Honour the Lieutenant-Governor, on the Death of his Lady

A Farewel to America

A Rebus by I. B.

An Answer to ditto, by Phillis Wheatley

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON,

THE FOLLOWING

P O E M S

ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

BY HER MUCH OBLIGED,

VERY HUMBLE

AND DEVOTED SERVANT.

PHILLIS WHEATLEY.

BOSTON, JUNE 12, 1773.

P R E F A C E.

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.

_________________________________________________________

P O E M S

O N

V A R I O U S S U B J E C T S.

___________

To M AE C E N A S.

MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade,

Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.

What felt those poets but you feel the same?

Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?

Their noble strains your equal genius shares

In softer language, and diviner airs.

While Homer paints, lo! circumfus'd in air,

Celestial Gods in mortal forms appear;

Swift as they move hear each recess rebound,

Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.

Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,

The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,

And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains,

A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.

When gentler strains demand thy graceful song,

The length'ning line moves languishing along.

When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid,

The grateful tribute of my tears is paid;

Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love,

And stern Pelides tend'rest passions move.

Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows,

The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.

O could I rival thine and Virgil's page,

Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;

Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn,

And the same ardors in my soul should burn:

Then should my song in bolder notes arise,

And all my numbers pleasingly surprise;

But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,

That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.

Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,

Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;

When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,

They fan in you the bright immortal fire,

But I less happy, cannot raise the song,

The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.

The happier Terence* all the choir inspir'd,

His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;

But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,

To one alone of Afric's sable race;

From age to age transmitting thus his name

With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?

Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung

In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:

While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,

I'll snatch a laurel from thine honour'd head,

While you indulgent smile upon the deed.

*He was an African by birth.

As long as Thames in streams majestic flows,

Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose

While Phoebus reigns above the starry train

While bright Aurora purples o'er the main,

So long, great Sir, the muse thy praise shall sing,

So long thy praise shal' make Parnassus ring:

Then grant, Maecenas, thy paternal rays,

Hear me propitious, and defend my lays.

O N V I R T U E.

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 heav'n-born soul with her converse,

Then seek, then court her for her promis'd bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heav'nly pinions spread,

And lead celestial Chastity along;

Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,

Array'd 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 me an higher appellation still,

Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,

O thou, enthron'd with Cherubs in the realms of day.

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 Egyptain 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.

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. 1768.

YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire--

The crown upon your brows may flourish long,

And that your arm may in your God be strong!

O may your sceptre num'rous nations sway,

And all with love and readiness obey!

But how shall we the British king reward!

Rule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!

Midst the remembrance of thy favours past,

The meanest peasants most admire the last*

May George, beloved by all the nations round,

Live with heav'ns choicest constant blessings crown'd!

Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,

And from his head let ev'ry evil fly!

And may each clime with equal gladness see

A monarch's smile can set his subjects free!

* The Repeal of the Stamp Act.

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 fought now knew,

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

"Their colour is a diabolic die."

Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,

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

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 faint! 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 fought 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.

On the Death of a young Lady of Five Years of Age.

FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light

Th' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;

On the kind bosom of eternal love

She finds unknown beatitude above.

This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,

She feels the iron hand of pain no more;

The dispensations of unerring grace,

Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;

Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,

No more distress'd in our dark vale below,

Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,

Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;

But hear in heav'n's blest bow'rs your Nancy fair,

And learn to imitate her language there.

"Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown'd,

"By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound

"Wilt thou be prais'd? Seraphic pow'rs are faint

"Infinite love and majesty to paint.

"To thee let all their graceful voices raise,

"And saints and angels join their songs of praise."

Perfect in bliss she from her heav'nly home

Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come;

Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?

Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.

Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,

Why would you wish your daughter back again?

No--bow resign'd. Let hope your grief control,

And check the rising tumult of the soul.

Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,

Adore the God who gives and takes away;

Eye him in all, his holy name revere,

Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,

Till having sail'd through life's tempestuous sea,

And from its rocks, and boist'rous billows free,

Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,

Shall join your happy babe to part no more.

On the Death of a young Gentleman.

WHO 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,

How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!

War with each princedom, throne, and pow'r is o'er,

The scene is ended to return no more.

O could my muse thy seat on high behold,

How deckt with laurel, how enrich'd with gold!

O could she hear what praise thine harp employs,

How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!

What heav'nly grandeur should exalt her strain!

What holy raptures in her numbers reign!

To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,

To still the tumult of life's tossing seas,

To ease the anguish of the parents heart,

What shall my sympathizing verse impart?

Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?

Where shall a sov'reign remedy be found?

Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav'nly bow'r,

And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;

The raging tempest of their grief control,

And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,

To eye the path the saint departed trod,

And trace him to the bosom of his God.

To a Lady on the Death of her Husband.

GRIM monarch! see, depriv'd of vital breath,

A young physician in the dust of death:

Dost thou go on incessant to destroy,

Our griefs to double, and lay waste our joy?

Enough thou never yet wast known to say,

Though millions die, the vassals of thy sway:

Nor youth, nor science, not the ties of love,

Nor ought on earth thy flinty heart can move.

The friend, the spouse from his dire dart to save,

In vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.

Fair mourner, there see thy lov'd Leonard laid,

And o'er him spread the deep impervious shade.

Clos'd are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep

His senses bound in never-waking sleep,

Till time shall cease, till many a starry world

Shall fall from heav'n, in dire confusion hurl'd

Till nature in her final wreck shall lie,

And her last groan shall rend the azure sky:

Not, not till then his active soul shall claim

His body, a divine immortal frame.

But see the softly-stealing tears apace

Pursue each other down the mourner's face;

But cease thy tears, bid ev'ry sigh depart,

And cast the load of anguish from thine heart:

From the cold shell of his great soul arise,

And look beyond, thou native of the skies;

There fix thy view, where fleeter than the wind

Thy Leonard mounts, and leaves the earth behind.

Thyself prepare to pass the vale of night

To join for ever on the hills of light:

To thine embrace this joyful spirit moves

To thee, the partner of his earthly loves;

He welcomes thee to pleasures more refin'd,

And better suited to th' immortal mind.

G O L I A T H O F G A T H.

1 SAMUEL, Chap. xvii.

YE 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,

The ardent warriors, and the fields of fight:

You best remember, and you best can sing

The acts of heroes to the vocal string:

Resume the lays with which your sacred lyre,

Did then the poet and the sage inspire.

Now front to front the armies were display'd,

Here Israel rang'd, and there the foes array'd;

The hosts on two opposing mountains stood,

Thick as the foliage of the waving wood;

Between them an extensive valley lay,

O'er which the gleaming armour pour'd the day,

When from the camp of the Philistine foes,

Dreadful to view, a mighty warrior rose;

In the dire deeds of bleeding battle skill'd,

The monster stalks the terror of the field.

From Gath he sprung, Goliath was his name,

Of fierce deportment, and gigantic frame:

A brazen helmet on his head was plac'd,

A coat of mail his form terrific grac'd,

The greaves his legs, the targe his shoulders prest:

Dreadful in arms high-tow'ring o'er the rest

A spear he proudly wav'd, whose iron head,

Strange to relate, six hundred shekels weigh'd;

He strode along, and shook the ample field,

While Phoebus blaz'd refulgent on his shield:

Through Jacob's race a chilling horror ran,

When thus the huge, enormous chief began:

"Say, what the cause that in this proud array

"You set your battle in the face of day?

"One hero find in all your vaunting train,

"Then see who loses, and who wins the plain;

"For he who wins, in triumph may demand

"Perpetual service from the vanquish'd land:

"Your armies I defy, your force despise,

"By far inferior in Philistia's eyes:

"Produce a man, and let us try the fight,

"Decide the contest, and the victor's right."

Thus challeng'd he: all Israel stood amaz'd,

And ev'ry chief in consternation gaz'd;

But Jesse's son in youthful bloom appears,

And warlike courage far beyond his years:

He left the folds, he left the flow'ry meads,

And soft recesses of the sylvan shades.

Now Israel's monarch, and his troops arise,

With peals of shouts ascending to the skies;

In Elah's vale the scene of combat lies.

When the fair morning blush'd with orient red,

What David's fire enjoin'd the son obey'd,

And swift of foot towards the trench he came,

Where glow'd each bosom with the martial flame.

He leaves his carriage to another's care,

And runs to greet his brethren of the war.

While yet they spake the giant-chief arose,

Repeats the challenge, and insults his foes:

Struck with the sound, and trembling at the view,

Affrighted Israel from its post withdrew.

"Observe ye this tremendous foe, they cry'd,

"Who in proud vaunts our armies hath defy'd:

"Whoever lays him prostrate on the plain,

"Freedom in Israel for his house shall gain;

"And on him wealth unknown the king will pour,

"And give his royal daughter for his dow'r."

Then Jesse's youngest hope: "My brethren say,

"What shall be done for him who takes away

"Reproach from Jacob, who destroys the chief.

"And puts a period to his country's grief.

"He vaunts the honours of his arms abroad,

"And scorns the armies of the living God."

Thus spoke the youth, th' attentive people ey'd

The wond'rous hero, and again reply'd:

"Such the rewards our monarch will bestow,

"On him who conquers, and destroys his foe."

Eliab heard, and kindled into ire

To hear his shepherd brother thus inquire,

And thus begun: "What errand brought thee? say

"Who keeps thy flock? or does it go astray?

"I know the base ambition of thine heart,

"But back in safety from the field depart."

Eliab thus to Jesse's youngest heir,

Express'd his wrath in accents most severe.

When to his brother mildly he reply'd.

"What have I done? or what the cause to chide?

The words were told before the king, who sent

For the young hero to his royal tent:

Before the monarch dauntless he began,

"For this Philistine fail no heart of man:

"I'll take the vale, and with the giant fight:

"I dread not all his boasts, nor all his might."

When thus the king: "Dar'st thou a stripling go,

"And venture combat with so great a foe?

"Who all his days has been inur'd to fight,

"And made its deeds his study and delight:

"Battles and bloodshed brought the monster forth,

"And clouds and whirlwinds usher'd in his birth."

When David thus: "I kept the fleecy care,

"And out there rush'd a lion and a bear;

"A tender lamb the hungry lion took,

"And with no other weapon than my crook

"Bold I pursu'd, and chas d him o'er the field,

"The prey deliver'd, and the felon kill'd:

"As thus the lion and the bear I slew,

"So shall Goliath fall, and all his crew:

"The God, who sav'd me from these beasts of prey,

"By me this monster in the dust shall lay."

So David spoke. The wond'ring king reply'd;

"Go thou with heav'n and victory on thy side:

"This coat of mail, this sword gird on," he said,

And plac'd a mighty helmet on his head:

The coat, the sword, the helm he laid aside,

Nor chose to venture with those arms untry'd,

Then took his staff, and to the neighb'ring brook

Instant he ran, and thence five pebbles took.

Mean time descended to Philistia's son

A radiant cherub, and he thus begun:

"Goliath, well thou know'st thou hast defy'd

"Yon Hebrew armies, and their God deny'd:

"Rebellious wretch! audacious worm! forbear,

"Nor tempt the vengeance of their God too far:

"Them, who with his Omnipotence contend,

"No eye shall pity, and no arm defend:

"Proud as thou art, in short liv'd glory great,

"I come to tell thee thine approaching fate.

"Regard my words. The Judge of all the gods,

"Beneath whose steps the tow'ring mountain nods,

"Will give thine armies to the savage brood,

"That cut the liquid air, or range the wood.

"Thee too a well-aim'd pebble shall destroy,

"And thou shalt perish by a beardless boy:

"Such is the mandate from the realms above,

"And should I try the vengeance to remove,

"Myself a rebel to my king would prove.

"Goliath say, shall grace to him be shown,

"Who dares heav'ns Monarch, and insults his throne?"

"Your words are lost on me," the giant cries,

While fear and wrath contended in his eyes,

When thus the messenger from heav'n replies:

"Provoke no more Jehovah's awful hand

"To hurl its vengeance on thy guilty land:

"He grasps the thunder, and, he wings the storm,

"Servants their sov'reign's orders to perform."

The angel spoke, and turn'd his eyes away,

Adding new radiance to the rising day.

Now David comes: the fatal stones demand

His left, the staff engag'd his better hand:

The giant mov'd, and from his tow'ring height

Survey'd the stripling, and disdain'd the fight,

And thus began: "Am I a dog with thee?

"Bring'st thou no armour, but a staff to me?

"The gods on thee their vollied curses pour,

"And beasts and birds of prey thy flesh devour."

David undaunted thus, "Thy spear and shield

"Shall no protection to thy body yield:

"Jehovah's name------no other arms I bear,

"I ask no other in this glorious war.

"To-day the Lord of Hosts to me will give

"Vict'ry, to-day thy doom thou shalt receive;

"The fate you threaten shall your own become,

"And beasts shall be your animated tomb,

"That all the earth's inhabitants may know

"That there's a God, who governs all below:

"This great assembly too shall witness stand,

"That needs nor sword, nor spear, th' Almighty's

hand:

"The battle his, the conquest he bestows,

"And to our pow'r consigns our hated foes."

Thus David spoke; Goliath heard and came

To meet the hero in the field of fame.

Ah! fatal meeting to thy troops and thee,

But thou wast deaf to the divine decree;

Young David meets thee, meets thee not in vain;

'Tis thine to perish on th' ensanguin'd plain.

And now the youth the forceful pebble slung

Philistia trembled as it whizz'd along:

In his dread forehead, where the helmet ends,

Just o'er the brows the well-aim'd stone descends,

It pierc'd the skull, and shatter'd all the brain,

Prone on his face he tumbled to the plain:

Goliath's fall no smaller terror yields

Than riving thunders in aerial fields:

The soul still ling'red in its lov'd abode,

Till conq'ring David o'er the giant strode:

Goliath's sword then laid its master dead,

And from the body hew'd the ghastly head;

The blood in gushing torrents drench'd the plains,

The soul found passage through the spouting veins.

And now aloud th' illustrious victor said,

"Where are your boastings now your champion's

"dead?"

Scarce had he spoke, when the Philistines fled:

But fled in vain; the conqu'ror swift pursu'd:

What scenes of slaughter! and what seas of blood!

There Saul thy thousands grasp'd th' impurpled sand

In pangs of death the conquest of thine hand;

And David there were thy ten thousands laid:

Thus Israel's damsels musically play'd.

Near Gath and Edron many an hero lay,

Breath'd out their souls, and curs'd the light of day:

Their fury, quench'd by death, no longer burns,

And David with Goliath's head returns,

To Salem brought, but in his tent he plac'd

The load of armour which the giant grac'd.

His monarch saw him coming from the war,

And thus demanded of the son of Ner.

"Say, who is this amazing youth?" he cry'd,

When thus the leader of the host reply'd;

"As lives thy soul I know not whence he sprung,

"So great in prowess though in years so young:"

"Inquire whose son is he," the sov'reign said,

"Before whose conq'ring arm Philistia fled."

Before the king behold the stripling stand,

Goliath's head depending from his hand:

To him the king: "Say of what martial line

"Art thou, young hero, and what sire was thine?"

He humbly thus; "The son of Jesse I:

"I came the glories of the field to try.

"Small is my tribe, but valiant in the fight;

"Small is my city, but thy royal right."

"Then take the promis'd gifts," the monarch cry'd,

Conferring riches and the royal bride:

"Knit to my soul for ever thou remain

"With me, nor quit my regal roof again."

Thoughts on the WORKS OF PROVIDENCE.

A R I S E, my soul, on wings enraptur'd, rise

To praise the monarch of the earth and skies,

Whose goodness and benificence 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 favour my intend.

Celestial muse, my arduous flight sustain

And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!

Ador'd for ever be the God unseen,

Which round the sun revolves this vast machine,

Though to his eye its mass a point appears:

Ador'd the God that whirls surrounding spheres,

Which first ordain'd that mighty Sol should reign

The peerless monarch of th' ethereal train:

Of miles twice forty millions is his height,

And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight

So far beneath--from him th' extended earth

Vigour derives, and ev'ry flow'ry birth:

Vast through her orb she moves with easy grace

Around her Phoebus in unbounded space;

True to her course th' impetuous storm derides,

Triumphant o'er the winds, and surging tides.

Almighty, in these wond'rous works of thine,

What Pow'r, what Wisdom, and what Goodness shine!

And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explor'd,

And yet creating glory unador'd!

Creation smiles in various beauty gay,

While day to night, and night succeeds to day:

That 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: