THE WORKS OF PROVIDENCE.
BY PHILLIS WHEATLEY.
[Written at sixteen years of age.]
Arise, my soul! on wings enraptured rise,
To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and beneficence appear,
As round its centre moves the rolling year;
Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,
Or the sun slumbers in the ocean's arms.
Of light divine be a rich portion lent,
To guide my soul and favor my intent.
Celestial Muse, my arduous flight sustain,
And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!
Adored forever be the God unseen,
Who round the sun revolves this vast machine;
Though to his eye its mass a point appears:
Adored the God that whirls surrounding spheres,
Who first ordained that mighty Sol[5] should reign,
The peerless monarch of th' ethereal train.
Of miles twice forty millions is his height,
And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight,
So far beneath,—from him th' extended earth
Vigor derives, and every flowery birth.
Vast through her orb she moves, with easy grace, Around her Phœbus[6] in unbounded space;
True to her course, the impetuous storm derides,
Triumphant o'er the winds and surging tides.
Almighty! in these wondrous works of thine,
What power, what wisdom, and what goodness shine!
And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explored,
And yet creating glory unadored?
Creation smiles in various beauty gay,
While day to night, and night succeeds to day.
That wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways,
Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays.
Without them, destitute of heat and light,
This world would be the reign of endless night.
In their excess, how would our race complain,
Abhorring life! how hate its lengthened chain!
From air, or dust, what numerous ills would rise!
What dire contagion taint the burning skies!
What pestilential vapor, fraught with death,
Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath!
Hail, smiling Morn, that, from the orient main
Ascending, dost adorn the heavenly plain!
So rich, so various are thy beauteous dyes,
That spread through all the circuit of the skies,
That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,
And thy great God, the cause of all, adores!
O'er beings infinite his love extends,
His wisdom rules them, and his power defends.
When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,
The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame, Then, too, that ever-active bounty shines,
Which not infinity of space confines.
The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,
Conceals effects, but shows th' Almighty Cause.
Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,
And all is peaceful, but the brow of care.
Again gay Phoebus, as the day before,
Wakes every eye but what shall wake no more;
Again the face of Nature is renewed,
Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.
May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,
Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
THE DYING CHRISTIAN.
BY FRANCES E. W. HARPER.