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The Poems of Phillis Wheatley

Except the queen, who stood unmov'd alone,
By her distresses more presumptous grown.
Near the pale corses stood their sisters fair
In sable vestures and dishevell'd hair
One, while she draws the fatal shaft away.
Faints, falls and sickens at the light of day.
To soothe her mother, lo! another flies,
And blames the fury of inclement skies,
And, while her words a filial pity show,
Struck dumb - indignant seeks the shades below.
Now from the fatal place another flies,
Falls in her flight, and languishes, and dies.
Another on her sister drops in death;
A fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath;
While the sixth seeks some gloomy cave in vain, 
Struck with the rest and mingled with the slain.
One only daughter lives, and she the least:
The queen close clasp'd the daughter to her breast:
"Ye heav'nly pow'rs, ah spare me one." she cry'd,
"Ah! spare me onw." the vocal hills reply'd:
In vain she begs, the fates her suit deny,
In her embrace she sees her daughter die.
"The queen of all her family bereft,
"Without or husband, son, or daughter left,

This verse to the End is the Work of another Hand.

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The Poems of Phillis Wheatley


"Grew stupid at the shock. The passing air
"Made no impression on her stiff'ning hair.
"The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood
"Pour'd from her cheeks, quite fix's 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 gone,
"And ev'n her bowels hard'ned into stone:
"A marble statue now the queen appears,
"But from the marble steal the silent tears."


To S.M., a Young African Paiter, on Seeing His Works

To show the lab'ring som's deep intent,
And though in living character 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 pursure,
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!

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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 14:39:53