On Being Brought from Africa to America

Phillis Wheatley - 1753-1784
'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.

More by Phillis Wheatley

A Farewell to America

              I.

Adieu, New-England's smiling meads,
   Adieu, th' flow'ry plain:
I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring,
   And tempt the roaring main.

              II.

In vain for me the flow'rets rise,
   And boast their gaudy pride,
While here beneath the northern skies
   I mourn for health deny'd.

              III.

Celestial maid of rosy hue,
   Oh let me feel thy reign!
I languish till thy face I view,
   Thy vanish'd joys regain.

              IV.

Susannah mourns, nor can I bear
   To see the crystal shower
Or mark the tender falling tear
   At sad departure's hour;

              V.

Not regarding can I see
   Her soul with grief opprest
But let no sighs, no groans for me
   Steal from her pensive breast.

              VI.

In vain the feather'd warblers sing
   In vain the garden blooms
And on the bosom of the spring
   Breathes out her sweet perfumes.

              VII.

While for Britannia's distant shore
   We weep the liquid plain,
And with astonish'd eyes explore
   The wide-extended main.

              VIII.

Lo! Health appears! celestial dame!
   Complacent and serene,
With Hebe's mantle oe'r her frame,
   With soul-delighting mien.

              IX.

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

              X.

Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
   So slow thy rising ray?
Give us the famous town to view,
   Thou glorious King of day!

              XI.

For thee, Britannia, I resign
   New-England's smiling fields; 
To view again her charms divine,
   What joy the prospect yields!

              XII.

But thou! Temptation hence away,
   With all thy fatal train,
Nor once seduce my soul away,
   By thine enchanting strain.

              XIII.

Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield
   Secures their souls from harm,
And fell Temptation on the field
   Of all its pow'r disarms.

To the Right Honourable 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 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.