Page:Memoir and poems of Phillis Wheatley, a native African and a slave.djvu/62

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taught thee conflict with the powers of night,

To vanquish Satan in the fields of fight?

Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown?

How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!

War with each princedom, throne, and power is o'er,

The scene is ended to return no more.

Oh, could my Muse thy seat on high behold,

How decked with laurel, how enriched with gold!

Oh, could she hear what praise thine harp employs,

How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!

What heavenly grandeur should exalt her strain!

What holy raptures in her numbers reign!

To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,

To still the tumult of life's tossing seas,

To ease the anguish of the parent's heart,

What shall my sympathizing verse impart?

Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?

Where shall a sovereign remedy be found?

Look, gracious Spirit! from thy heavenly bower,

And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;

The raging tempest of their grief control,

And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,

To eye the path the saint departed trod,

And trace him to the bosom of his God.