WHO taught thee conflict with the pow'rs of night, <br />To vanquish satan in the fields of light? <br />Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown, <br />How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown! <br />War with each princedom, throne, and pow'r is o'er, <br />The scene is ended to return no more. <br />O could my muse thy seat on high behold, <br />How deckt with laurel, how enrich'd with gold! <br />O could she hear what praise thine harp employs, <br />How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys! <br />What heav'nly grandeur should exalt her strain! <br />What holy raptures in her numbers reign! <br />To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace, <br />To still the tumult of life's tossing seas, <br />To ease the anguish of the parents heart, <br />What shall my sympathizing verse impart? <br />Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound? <br />Where shall a sov'reign remedy be found? <br />Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav'nly bow'r, <br />And thy full joys into their bosoms pour; <br />The raging tempest of their grief control, <br />And spread the dawn of glory through the soul, <br />To eye the path the saint departed trod, <br />And trace him to the bosom of his God.<br /><br />Phillis Wheatley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-a-youn-gentleman/
