Great Poems by American Women Read Free Page B

with leaves be crowned:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
    Â 
    Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject passions sov’reign ruler Thou,
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
    Â 
    Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high;
From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
    On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield-1770
    Hail, happy saint! on thine immortal throne,
Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown:
We hear no more the music of thy tongue;
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed,
And every bosom with devotion glowed;
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined,
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
    Behold the prophet in his towering flight!
He leaves the earth for heaven’s unmeasured 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.
Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries,
Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies.
Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He prayed that grace in every heart might dwell;
He longed to see America excel;
He charged its youth that every grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine.
That Savior, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that even a God can give,
He freely offered to the numerous throng
That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.
    â€œTake him, ye wretched, for your only good,
Take him, ye starving sinners, for your food;
Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
Take him, my dear Americans,” he said,
“Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:
Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you;
Impartial Savior, is his title due:
Washed in the fountain of redeeming blood,
You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
    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 every heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine reanimates his dust.
    An Hymn to the Evening
    Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main,
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain:
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams; the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below.
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes;
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON (1759-1846)
    Born in Boston in