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56   POEMS OF PHILLIS WHEATLEY.   57

Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sovereign remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit! from thy heavenly bower,
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, deprived 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, nor the ties of love,
Nor aught 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 loved Leonard laid,
And o'er him spread the deep, impervious shade.
Closed 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 heaven, in dire confusion hurled;
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 every 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 forever on the hills of light.
To thine embrace his joyful spirit moves,
To thee, the partner of his earthly loves;
He welcomes thee to pleasures more refined,
And better suited to the immortal mind.

GOLIATH OF GATH.
1 Sam. Chap. 7th

Ye martial powers, 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.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-21 08:42:09 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-21 10:32:47