ment, and never presumed upon the kindness of her friends and admirers. She studied Latin, and, at the early age of fourteen, made her first attempts at poetry in translations from Ovid's Fables. So creditable were these to her scholarship, taste, and poetic talent, that she was encouraged to write more, and before she had completed her nineteenth year, she wrote most of her poems that were given to the world, which were published in London in 1773, in a small octavo volume of about one hundred and twenty pages. Though very soon after her poetic talents were visible, her freedom was given to her by Mr. Wheatley, she remained in the family, beloved, and respecting and imparting happiness to others. In 1773, her health had so far declined, in consequence of her unremitting attention to study, that her physicians recommended a sea voyage, and she sailed for England. Her fame had gone before her, and she was received with marked respect by many distinguished individuals. But in the midst of the attentions of the court she heard that her former mistress was sick, and her heart prompted her to return home at once. She did so in time to minister to Mrs. Wheatley, whose sickness terminated in death the next year, and the year after, Mr. Wheatley followed her to the grave. Thus deprived of her best friends, poor and desolate, she accepted an offer of marriage from a colored man by the name of Peters, sometimes called "Dr. Peters," who, as her biographer says, "kept a grocery in Court Street, and was a man of handsome person and manners, wearing a wig, carrying a cane, and quite acting the gentleman;" but "that he proved utterly unworthy of the distinguished woman who honored him with her alliance." After living with him a few years, and becoming the mother of three children, her health rapidly declined, and she died on the 5th of December, 1794. Of all American poets prior to the year 1800, Phillis Wheatley is, in my estimation, the first, whether we consider the ease and correctness of her versification, her elevated moral and religious sentiments, her power of expression and reach of thought, or her pure fancy. Indeed, when we take into view the times in which she lived, the state of education in our colonies, and especially the little attention paid to female education, her poems are truly wonderful. Compare her, for instance, with any male poet on this side of the Atlantic prior to the present century, or with any contemporary female poet on the other side, unless, perhaps, we should except Lady Mary Wortley Montague and Hester Chapone, and how does Phillis Wheatley rise by such comparison. And to the two writers I have named she is in no respect inferior. The following pieces present a fair specimen of her powers.' LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SEWALL. Lo, here a man, redeemed by Jesus' blood, O when shall we to his blest state arrive? ON THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD. Arise, my soul, on wings enraptured rise, 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: Read "Memoir and Poems of Phillis Wheatley," Boston, 1834; "Christian Examiner," xvi. 169. "A Tribute for the Negro," p. 332. The wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways * Hail! smiling morn, that from the orient main His wisdom rules them, and his power defends: Wakes every eye, save what shall wake no more; Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. Through airy fields he wings his instant flight Enlarged he sees unnumbered systems roll, Planets on planets run their destined round, With glowing splendors strike his wondering eyes: The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God, Thrice welcome thou." The raptured babe replies: Ere yet on sin's base actions I was bent, Full glories rush on my expanding soul." Clapped their glad wings, the heavenly vaults resound. Say, parents, why this unavailing moan? Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan? A brighter world, a nobler strain belongs. Say, would you tear him from the realms above Or could you welcome to this world again In vain the feathered warblers sing, While for Britannia's distant shore Lo! Health appears, celestial dame, With Hebe's mantle o'er her frame, To mark the vale where London lies, Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow? Give us the famous town to view, For thee, Britannia, I resign New England's smiling fields; But thou, Temptation, hence away, Nor once seduce my soul away By thine enchanting strain. Thrice happy they whose heavenly shield Secures their soul from harms, And fell Temptation on the field JAMES WILSON, 1742—1798. JAMES WILSON was born in the lowlands of Scotland about the year 1742. After leaving the grammar school, he studied at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and, without determining upon any profession, he resolved to emigrate to this country. In the beginning of 1766, he reached Philadelphia. Soon after, he entered, as a student |