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108 POEMS OF

"The queen, of all her family bereft,*
"Without or husband, son, or daughter left,
"Grew stupid at the sock. The passing air
"Made no impression on her stuff'ning hair.
"The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood
"Poured from her cheeks, quite fixed her eye-balls stood.
"Her tongue, her palate, both obdurate grew, 
"Her curdled veins no longer motion knew;
"The use of neck, and arms, and feet was gone,
"And even her bowels hardened into stone:
"A marble statue now the queen appears,
"But from the marble steal the silent tears."

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, wondrous youth! each noble path pursue;
On deathless glories fix thine ardent views:
Still may the painter's and the poet's fire,
To aid thy pencil and thy verse conspire!

*This verse to the end is the work of another hand. 

PHILLIS WHEATLEY. 109

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, crowned 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 blessed,
May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!
But when these shades of time are chased 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 heavenly murmurs flow,
And there my muse with heavenly 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 the etherial plain.
Cease, gentle Muse! The solemn gloom of night
Now seals the fair creation from my sight
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