And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me,
These O protect from step-dame’s injury.
And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,
With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse;
And kiss this paper for thy love’s dear sake,
Who with salt tears this last farewell did take.
MERCY OTIS WARREN ( 1728-1814)
Historian and poet Mercy Otis Warren, born in Barnstable, Massachusetts, had no formal schooling. Her brother, James Otis, who opposed the Stamp Act of 1765, and her husband, political leader James Warren, kept her in the forefront of politics. She wrote several plays, including the satires The Adulateur (1773) and The Group (1775). One of the earliest American feminists, Warren corresponded with Abigail Adams, arguing that women were not given the same educational opportunities as men. Warren published Poems, Dramatic and Miscellaneous (1790) and the three-volume A History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution (1805). She also corresponded with important political figures of the time such as John Adams, Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Elbridge Gerry.
To an Amiable Friend Mourning the Death of an Excellent Father
Let deep dejection hide her pallid face,
And from thy breast each painful image rase;
Forbid thy lip to utter one complaint,
But view the glories of the rising saint,
Ripe for a crown, and waiting the reward
Of watching long the vineyard of the Lord.
The generous purpose of his zealous heart,
Truth to enforce, and knowledge to impart,
Insures his welcome on the unknown shore,
Where choirs of saints, and angel forms adore.
A seraph met him on the trackless way,
And strung his harp to join the heavenly lay.
Complain no more of Death’s extensive power,
Whose sceptre wafts us to some blissful shore;
Where the rough billows that roll o’er the head,
That shake the frame, and fill the mind with dread,
Are hush’d in silence, and the soul serene
Looks back delighted on the closing scene.
Happy, thrice happy, that exalted mind,
Who, leaving earth and all its cares behind,
Has not a wish to ruffle or control
The equal temper of his tranquil soul,
Who, on a retrospect, is safe within;
No private passion, nor a darling sin,
Can check his hope, when death’s insatiate pow’r,
Stands hovering on the last decisive hour.
Then weep no more, my friend, but all resigned,
Submit thy will to the Eternal Mind,
Who watches o’er the movements of the just,
And will again reanimate the dust!
Thy sire commands, suppress the rising sigh,
He wipes the tear from thy too filial eye,
And bids thee contemplate a soul set free,
Just safe escaped from life’s tempestuous sea.
ANN ELIZA BLEECKER (1752-1783)
Ann Eliza Bleecker of New York City was born into one of the wealthiest aristocratic families in the colony. Her poems, including some about the Revolutionary War, were collected and published posthumously in 1793. Bleecker also wrote a novel in letter form, The History of Maria Kittle, which was the story of an American woman captured by Indians during the French and Indian War. Bleecker married at seventeen and settled in Tomhanick, New York, a village where her husband owned property. When Bleecker moved to Albany in 1777, she lost her youngest child to illness, and her husband was taken prisoner for several days in 1781. In 1783, and with failing health, Bleecker and her husband returned to Tomhanick, where she died at the age of thirty-one.
Return to Tomhanick
Hail, happy shades! though clad with heavy snows,
At sight of you with joy my bosom glows;
Ye arching pines, that bow with every breeze,
Ye poplars, elms, all hail! my well-known trees!
And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye,
And now the tinkling rivulet I spy;
My little garden, Flora, hast thou kept,
And watch’d my pinks and lilies, while I wept?
Or has the grubbing swine, by furies led,
The enclosure broke, and on my flowrets fed?
Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately grac’d,
With storms and driving snows, is now defaced;
Sharp icicles from every bush depend,
And frosts all dazzling o’er the beds extend:
Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene,
And yellow cowslips gild the level green;
My little orchard sprouting at each bough,
Fragrant with clustering blossoms deep shall glow:
Ah! then ’t is sweet the tufted grass to tread,
But sweeter slumbering is the balmy shade;
The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast,
Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest,
Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives
The labouring bee to her domestic hives:
Then shines the lupine bright with morning gems,
And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems,
The humble violet, and the dulcet rose,
The stately lily then, and tulip blows.
Farewell, my Plutarch! farewell, pen and muse!
Nature exults—shall I her call refuse?
Apollo fervid glitters in my face,
And threatens with his beam each feeble grace:
Yet still around the lovely plants I toil,
And draw obnoxious herbage from the soil;
Or with the lime-twigs little birds surprise;
Or angle for the trout of many dyes.
But when the vernal breezes pass away,
And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray,
The spiky corn then rattles all around,
And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound;
Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note,
The cricket chirps familiar in each cot.
The village children, rambling o’er yon hill,
With berries all their painted baskets fill.
They rob the squirrel’s little walnut store,
And climb the half-exhausted tree for more;
Or else to fields of maze nocturnal hie,
Where hid, the elusive water-melons lie;
Sportive, they make incisions in the rind,
The riper from the immature to find;
Then load their tender shoulders with the prey,
And laughing, bear the bulky fruit away.
An Evening Prospect
Come, my Susan, quit your chamber,
Greet the opening bloom of May,
Let us up yon hillock clamber,
And around the scene survey.
See the sun is now descending,
And projects his shadows far,
And the bee her course is bending
Homeward through the humid air.
Mark the lizard just before us,
Singing her unvaried strain,
While the frog abrupt in chorus
Deepens through the marshy plain.
From yon grove the woodcock rises,
Mark her progress by her notes,
High in air her wing she poises,
Then like lightning down she shoots.
Now the whip-poor-will beginning,
Clamorous on a pointed rail,
Drowns the more melodious singing
Of the catbird, thrush, and quail.
Pensive Echo from the mountain
Still repeats the sylvan sounds;
And the crocus-bordered fountain
With the splendid fly abounds.
There the honey-suckle blooming,
Reddens the capricious wave;
Richer sweets, the air perfuming,
Spicy Ceylon never gave.
Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
Painted by a hand divine,
And observe the ample shadow
Of that solemn ridge of pine.
Here a trickling rill depending,
Glitters through the artless bower
And the silver dew descending,
Doubly radiates every flower.
While I speak, the sun is vanish’d,
All the gilded clouds are fled;
Music from the groves is banish’d,
Noxious vapours round us spread.
Rural toil is now suspended,
Sleep invades the peasant’s eyes;
Each diurnal task is ended,
While soft Luna climbs the skies
Queen of rest and meditation!
Through thy medium, I adore
Him—the Author of creation,
Infinite and boundless power!
He now fills thy urn with glory,
Transcript of immortal light;
Lord! my spirit bows before thee,
Lost in wonder and delight.
PHILLIS WHEATLEY (1753?-1784)
Born in Africa, Phillis Wheatley was brought to America on a slave ship in 1761. Servant for a wealthy Boston tailor and his wife, Wheatley was the first black American woman poet. Educated with the Wheatley’s other children, she learned English quickly and mastered Greek and Latin as well. She began writing poetry when she was thirteen, and published her first book, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, in 1773. After the death of her mistress, Wheatley was freed, and married a free black, John Peters, in 1778. Abolitionists often used Wheatley’s poems to promote education for people of all races. Memoir and Poems of Phillis Wheatley (1834) and Letters of Phillis Wheatley, the Negro Slave-Poet of Boston (1864) were published posthumously.
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 Savior too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their color is a diabolic dye.”
Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.
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 winds 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.
On Imagination
Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms! how decked with pomp by thee!
The wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies
Till some loved object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th’empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptured eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid the waters murmur o‘er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crowned:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject passions sov’reign ruler Thou,
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high;
From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield-1770
Hail, happy saint! on thine immortal throne,
Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown:
We hear no more the music of thy tongue;
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed,
And every bosom with devotion glowed;
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined,
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 towering flight!
He leaves the earth for heaven’s unmeasured 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 prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries,
Have pierced 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 prayed that grace in every heart might dwell;
He longed to see America excel;
He charged its youth that every grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine.
That Savior, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that even a God can give,
He freely offered to the numerous 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 Savior, is his title due:
Washed in the fountain of redeeming blood,
You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
But though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
Yet let us view him in the eternal skies,
Let every heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine reanimates his dust.
Great Poems by American Women Page 2
