An Elegiac Poem, On the Death of that Celebrated Divine, and Eminent Servant of Jesus Christ, the Late Reverend, and Pious George Whitefield
by Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784)
Boston: Russell and Boyles, 1770.
Chaplain to the Right Honourable the Countess of Huntingdon, &c. &c.
Who made his Exit from this transitory
State, to dwell in the celestial Realms of Bliss, on LORD's Day 30th of September, 1770, when he was seiz'd with a Fit of the Asthma, at NEWBURYPORT, near BOSTON, in NEW ENGLAND. In which is a Condolatory Address to His truly noble Benefactress the worthy and pious Lady HUNTINGDON, – and the Orphan-Children in GEORGIA; who, with many Thousands, are left, by the Death of this great Man, to Lament the Loss of a Father, Friend and Benefactor.
By PHILLIS, a Servant Girl of 17 Years of Age, Belonging to Mr. J. WHEATLEY, of Boston: – And has been but 9 Years in this Country from Africa.
| Hail, happy Saint, on thy immortal throne! |
| To thee complaints of grievance are unknown; |
| We hear no more the music of thy tongue, |
| Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. |
| Thy lessons in unequal'd accents flow'd! |
| While emulation in each bosom glow'd; |
| Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refin'd, |
| Inflame the soul, and captivate the mind. |
| Unhappy we, the setting Sun deplore! |
| Which once was splendid, but it shines no more; |
| He leaves this earth for Heav'n's unmeasur'd 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. |
| When his AMERICANS were burden'd sore, |
| When streets were crimson'd with their guiltless gore! |
| Unrival'd friendship in his breast now strove: |
| The fruit thereof was charity and love. |
| Towards America – couldst thou do more |
| Than leave thy native home, the British shore, |
| To cross the great Atlantic's wat'ry road, |
| To see America's distress'd abode? |
| Thy prayers, great Saint, and thy incessant cries, |
| Have pierc'd the bosom of thy native skies! |
| Thou moon hast seen, and ye bright stars of light |
| Have witness been of his requests by night! |
| He pray'd that grace in every heart might dwell: |
| He long'd to see America excell; |
| He charg'd its youth to let the grace divine |
| Arise, and in their future actions shine; |
| He offer'd THAT he did himself receive, |
| A greater gift not GOD himself can give: |
| He urg'd the need of HIM to every one; |
| It was no less than GOD's co-equal SON! |
| Take HIM ye wretched for your only good; |
| Take HIM ye starving souls to be your food. |
| Ye thirsty, come to his life giving stream: |
| Ye Preachers, take him for your joyful theme: |
| Take HIM, "my dear AMERICANS," he said, |
| Be your complaints in his kind bosom laid: |
| Take HIM ye Africans, he longs for you; |
| Impartial SAVIOUR, is his title due; |
| If you will chuse to walk in grace's road, |
| You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to GOD. |
| Great COUNTESS! we Americans revere |
| Thy name, and thus condole thy grief sincere: |
| We mourn with thee, that TOMB obscurely plac'd, |
| In which thy Chaplain undisturb'd doth rest. |
| New-England sure, doth feel the ORPHAN's smart; |
| Reveals the true sensations of his heart: |
| Since this fair Sun, withdraws his golden rays, |
| No more to brighten these distressful days! |
| His lonely Tabernacle, sees no more |
| A WHITEFIELD landing on the British shore: |
| Then let us view him in yon azure skies: |
| Let every mind with this lov'd object rise. |
| No more can he exert his lab'ring breath, |
| Seiz'd by the cruel messenger of death. |
| What can his dear AMERICA return? |
| But drop a tear upon his happy urn, |
| Thou tomb, shalt safe retain thy sacred trust, |
| Till life divine re-animate his dust. |
Sold by EZEKIAL RUSSELL, in Queen-Street, and JOHN BOYLES, in Marlborough-Street.
