Page:Memoir and poems of Phillis Wheatley, a native African and a slave.djvu/60

54 Great Countess, we Americans revere

Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;

New-England deeply feels, the orphans mourn,

Their more than father will no more return.

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 ev'ry heart to this bright vision rise;

While the tomb, safe, retains its sacred trust,

Till life divine reanimates his dust.

dark abodes to fair etherial light,

The enraptured innocent has winged her flight;

On the kind bosom of eternal love

She finds unknown beatitude above.

This know, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,

She feels the iron hand of pain no more;

The dispensations of unerring grace

Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;

Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,

No more distressed in our dark vale below.

Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,

Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;