On the Death of George Whitefield

By PHILLIS, a servant Girl of 17 Years of Age, belonging to Mr. J. WHEATLEY, of BOSTON:—And has been but 9 Years in this Country from Africa.

HAIL happy saint on thy immortal throne!
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.

Inflame the soul, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we, the setting sun deplore!
Which once was splendid, but it shines no more.

There WHITEFIELD wings, with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion, through vast seas of day.

The fruit thereof was charity and love
Towards America—couldst thou do more
Than leave thy native home, the British shore,

Thy prayers, great saint, and thy incessant cries,
Thou moon hast seen, and ye bright stars of light
Have witness been of his requests by night!


A greater gift not GOD himself can give:

Take HIM ye starving souls to be your food.
Ye thirsty, come to this life giving stream:
Ye Preachers, take him for your joyful theme:
Be your complaints in his kind bosom laid:

You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to GOD.

Great COUNTESS! we Americans revere
Thy name, and thus condole thy grief sincere:

Reveals the true sensations of his heart:
Since this fair sun, withdraws his golden rays,
No more to brighten these distressful days!
His lonely Tabernacle, sees no more
A WHITEFIELD landing on the British shore:
Then let us view him in yon azure skies:

What can his dear AMERICA return?
But drop a tear upon his happy urn,
Thou tomb, shalt safe retain thy sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animate his dust.