On the Death of George Whitefield by Phillis Wheatley
"On the Death of George Whitefield" is a poem by Phillis Wheatley. The poem is about the death of George Whitefield, a prominent English Angelican preacher. The poem begins by calling Whitefield a "happy saint" and speaking about how people will not be able to hear the "music of thy tongue". Wheatley goes on to discuss how great his preaching was and how great of a man he was as well. She goes on to state that Whitefield wanted the best for America and Africa. She ends the poem by stating she hopes she sees him again in heaven.
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"On the Death of George Whitefield" is written as a single stanza. It is written in heroic couplets (rhyming couplets written in iambic-pentameter). She uses some interesting techniques throughout this writing, such as using the same beginning words of several lines, "Take him", for example. This allows Wheatley to keep the rhythm while also being able to get her message across.
On the Death of George Whitefield Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne, Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown; We hear no more the music of thy tongue, Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. Thy sermons in unequall'd accents flow'd, And ev'ry bosom with devotion glow'd; Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin'd 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 tow'ring flight! He leaves the earth for heav'n's unmeasur'd 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 pray'rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries Have pierc'd 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 pray'd that grace in ev'ry heart might dwell, He long'd to see America excell; He charg'd its youth that ev'ry grace divine Should with full lustre in their conduct shine; That Saviour, which his soul did first receive, The greatest gift that ev'n a God can give, He freely offer'd to the num'rous throng, That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung. "Take 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 Saviour is his title due: "Wash'd in the fountain of redeeming blood, "You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God." Great Countess, we Americans revere Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere; New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn, Their more than father will no more return. But, though arrested by the hand of death, Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath, Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies, Let ev'ry heart to this bright vision rise; While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust, Till life divine re-animates his dust.
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