Phillis Wheatley, to Leonard Nimoy

You may have heard Leonard Nimoy has passed away. If you haven't, I'm sorry to drop that bombshell like that (but, seriously, where have you been?!?). He was admired by many for not just role as Spock, but also for his support of full-bodied women and minorities. I didn't know much about him, but he seems like a really decent man. (By the way, the Bustle article above ["admired by many"] suggests that he was also a strong feminist and that the show he produced, Three Men and a Baby is absolutely in keeping with feminist ideals of equality. I agree.). While he wasn't a Christian minister, he was a fairly devout Jew.

Phillis Wheatley, who you may remember for her poems "On Being Brought From Africa to America" and "To the  Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth," was brought to America against her will when she was eight years old, and was bought to be a personal servant to Mrs. Susanna Wheatley. She learned English, as well as some Greek and Latin, and traveled to London with Mr. Wheatley, where she was well-received by critics. Because of the Revolutionary War and the terrible economy, although she had gained her freedom, she was hard-pressed to provide for herself. She eventually married and had three children, but none lived very long. She had planned a second volume of poetry (the first having been published in 1773), but could not get funds together. She died alone in a boarding house at 31 years old. Many of the poems for her second book have been lost.

One of her poems was an elegy in honor of a minister, "On the Death of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield." It might be seen as a little flippant, my suggestion that Phillis Wheatley's poem to a revered minister could apply to a Jewish actor, even one who is a really decent man, but that's not my intent. I think many of the qualities Phillis Wheatley praises in her elegy are present in Leonard Nimoy, and deserving of praise wherever they may be found.

On the Death of Rev. Mr. 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.

*The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield was
Chaplain.

Here's another of her perhaps lesser-known poems, "On Virtue," being read in a recitation competition.