- Year Published: 1773
- Language: English
- Country of Origin: United States of America
- Source: Wheatley, P. (1773). Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral.London, England: A. Bell.
- Flesch–Kincaid Level: 2.5
- Word Count: 243
Wheatley, P. (1773). "To a Lady and Her Children, on the Death of Her Son and their Brother.". Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (Lit2Go Edition). Retrieved February 13, 2016, from
Wheatley, Phillis. ""To a Lady and Her Children, on the Death of Her Son and their Brother."." Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. Lit2Go Edition. 1773. Web. <>. February 13, 2016.
Phillis Wheatley, ""To a Lady and Her Children, on the Death of Her Son and their Brother."," Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, Lit2Go Edition, (1773), accessed February 13, 2016,.
O'ERWHELMING sorrow now demands my song:
From death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.
What flowing tears? What hearts with grief opprest?
What sighs on sighs heave the fond parent's breast?
The brother weeps, the hapless sisters join
Th' increasing woe, and swell the crystal brine;
The poor, who once his gen'rous bounty fed,
Droop, and bewail their benefactor dead.
In death the friend, the kind companion lies,
And in one death what various comfort dies!
Th' unhappy mother sees the sanguine rill
Forget to flow, and nature's wheels stand still,
But see from earth his spirit far remov'd,
And know no grief recals your best–belov'd:
He, upon pinions swifter than the wind,
Has left mortality's sad scenes behind
For joys to this terrestial state unknown,
And glories richer than the monarch's crown.
Of virtue's steady course the prize behold!
What blissful wonders to his mind unfold!
But of celestial joys I sing in vain:
Attempt not, muse, the too advent'rous strain.
No more in briny show'rs, ye friends around,
Or bathe his clay, or waste them on the ground:
Still do you weep, still wish for his return?
How cruel thus to wish, and thus to mourn?
No more for him the streams of sorrow pour,
But haste to join him on the heav'nly shore,
On harps of gold to tune immortal lays,
And to your God immortal anthems raise.