Page:Memoir and poems of Phillis Wheatley, a native African and a slave.djvu/154

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Far, far above this world I soar,

And almost nature lose,

Aerial regions to explore,

With this ambitious Muse.

My towering thoughts with pinions rise,

Upon the gales of song,

Which waft me through the mental skies,

With music on my tongue.

My Muse is all on mystic fire,

Which kindles in my breast;

To scenes remote she doth aspire,

As never yet exprest.

Wrapt in the dust she scorns to lie,

Call'd by new charms away;

Nor will she e'er refuse to try

Such wonders to survey.

Such is the quiet bliss of soul,

When in some calm retreat,

Where pensive thoughts like streamlets roll,

And render silence sweet;

And when the vain tumultuous crowd

Shakes comfort from my mind,

My muse ascends above the cloud

And leaves the noise behind.