Great Poems by American Women Read Free

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.
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    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.
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    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,
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    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
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    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.
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    Now the whip-poor-will beginning,
Clamorous on a pointed rail,
Drowns the more melodious singing
Of the catbird, thrush, and quail.
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    Pensive Echo from the mountain
Still repeats the sylvan sounds;
And the crocus-bordered fountain
With the splendid fly abounds.
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    There the honey-suckle blooming,
Reddens the capricious wave;
Richer sweets, the air perfuming,
Spicy Ceylon never gave.
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    Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
Painted by a hand divine,
And observe the ample shadow
Of that solemn ridge of pine.
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    Here a trickling rill depending,
Glitters through the artless bower
And the silver dew descending,
Doubly radiates every flower.
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    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.
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    Rural toil is now suspended,
Sleep invades the peasant’s eyes;
Each diurnal task is ended,
While soft Luna climbs the skies
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    Queen of rest and meditation!
Through thy medium, I adore
Him—the Author of creation,
Infinite and boundless power!
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    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