Poems on Various Subjects [1]
to the Publisher, by Persons, who have seen the Manuscript, that Num- bers would be ready to suspect they were not really the Writings of PHILLIS, he has procured the following Attestation, from the most respectable Characters in Boston, that none might have the least Ground for disputing their Original.
WE whose Names are under-written, do assure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page,* were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this Town. She has been examin- ed by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.
His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON, Governor.
The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieutenant-Governor.
The Hon. Thomas Hubbard, | The Rev. Charles Chauncey, D. D.
The Hon. John Erving, | The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D.
The Hon. James Pitts, | The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D. D.
The Hon. Harrison Gray, | The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D.
The Hon. James Bowdoin, | The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D.
John Hancock, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather,
Joseph Green, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead,
Richard Carey, Esq; | Mr. John Wheat ey, her Master.
N. B. The original Attestation, signed by the above Gen-
tlemen, may be seen by applying to Archibald Bell, Book-
seller, No. 8, Aldgate-Street.
_________________________________________________________
*The Words "following Page," allude to the Con-
tents of the Manuscript Copy, with are wrote at the
Back of the above Attestation.
P O E M S
O N
V A R I O U S S U B J E C T S.
___________
To M AE C E N A S.
MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.
While Homer paints, lo! circumfus'd in air,
Celestial Gods in mortal forms appear;
Swift as they move hear each recess rebound,
Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.
Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,
The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,
And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains,
A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.
When gentler strains demand thy graceful song,
The length'ning line moves languishing along.
When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid,
The grateful tribute of my tears is paid;
Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love,
And stern Pelides tend'rest passions move.
Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows,
The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.
O could I rival thine and Virgil's page,
Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;
Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn,
And the same ardors in my soul should burn:
Then should my song in bolder notes arise,
And all my numbers pleasingly surprise;
But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,
That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence* all the choir inspir'd,
His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;
But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's sable race;
From age to age transmitting thus his name
With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?
Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung
In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:
While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,
I'll snatch a laurel from thine honour'd head,
While you indulgent smile upon the deed.
*He was an African by birth.
As long as Thames in streams majestic flows,
Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose
While Phoebus reigns above the starry
WE whose Names are under-written, do assure the World, that the POEMS specified in the following Page,* were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young Negro Girl, who was but a few Years since, brought an uncultivated Barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the Disadvantage of serving as a Slave in a Family in this Town. She has been examin- ed by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.
His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON, Governor.
The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieutenant-Governor.
The Hon. Thomas Hubbard, | The Rev. Charles Chauncey, D. D.
The Hon. John Erving, | The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D.
The Hon. James Pitts, | The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D. D.
The Hon. Harrison Gray, | The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D.
The Hon. James Bowdoin, | The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D.
John Hancock, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather,
Joseph Green, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead,
Richard Carey, Esq; | Mr. John Wheat ey, her Master.
N. B. The original Attestation, signed by the above Gen-
tlemen, may be seen by applying to Archibald Bell, Book-
seller, No. 8, Aldgate-Street.
_________________________________________________________
*The Words "following Page," allude to the Con-
tents of the Manuscript Copy, with are wrote at the
Back of the above Attestation.
P O E M S
O N
V A R I O U S S U B J E C T S.
___________
To M AE C E N A S.
MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.
While Homer paints, lo! circumfus'd in air,
Celestial Gods in mortal forms appear;
Swift as they move hear each recess rebound,
Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.
Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,
The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,
And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains,
A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.
When gentler strains demand thy graceful song,
The length'ning line moves languishing along.
When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid,
The grateful tribute of my tears is paid;
Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love,
And stern Pelides tend'rest passions move.
Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows,
The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.
O could I rival thine and Virgil's page,
Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;
Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn,
And the same ardors in my soul should burn:
Then should my song in bolder notes arise,
And all my numbers pleasingly surprise;
But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,
That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence* all the choir inspir'd,
His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;
But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's sable race;
From age to age transmitting thus his name
With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?
Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung
In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:
While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,
I'll snatch a laurel from thine honour'd head,
While you indulgent smile upon the deed.
*He was an African by birth.
As long as Thames in streams majestic flows,
Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose
While Phoebus reigns above the starry