Born in Senegal, Africa in the early 1750's, the child who would be known as
Phillis Wheatley was brought to Boston in 1761 to be sold as a slave. The child was purchased by the Wheatleys, a prominent Boston family. Early on, Phillis showed signs of remarkable intelligence. The Wheatley's noticed and
encouraged her by making Mary Wheatley her personal tutor. Phillis
began writing poems as a young woman and gradually began to see
poetry as her avenue of expression in literate white culture. Her first
published poem, "On Messrs. Hussey and Coffin." appeared in the
Newport Mercury in 1767. The poem demonstrates remarkable
literary maturity and a profound Christian spirituality. In the
following years, a number of poems appeared in various
publications in and around Boston. "On the Death of the Rev. Mr.
George Whitefield, 1770" was published in at least ten separate
editions in cities such as Boston, Newport, and Philadelphia. In
1770, the poem appeared in London and served to cement her
international reputation as a talented poet.

In 1773,  hoping to improve Phillis' health, the Wheatleys organized a trip to London where Phillis recuperated and promoted her first and
only published volume, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, published in 1773 by Arch Bell, Aldgate.

Bad fortune awaited Phillis' return. In the five following years, both
Mr. and Mrs Wheatley passed away. Phillis was freed but left to struggle to
support herself as a poet and seamstress. In the Spring of 1778, Phillis
married John Peters, an African American. The burdens of the racist
white world proved too much for Phillis, Peters, and their three
children. Peters put Phillis and the children into a negro boarding
house where foul conditions resulted in the children's deaths and a
drastic decline in Phillis' health.

Despite the tragedy and poverty, Phillis continued to write poetry. In
1779, she advertised in the "Boston Evening Post" and "General
Advertiser," in hopes of finding a publisher for a volume of thirty three
poems and thirteen letters. Sadly, due mostly to the struggling
post-revolutionary economy, this volume was never published. In
1784, several poems celebrating the end of the Revolution and "To
Mr. and Mrs.----, on the Death of Their Infant Son," a poem from the
proposed volume, were published under the name Phillis Peters.

On December 5, 1784, Phillis Wheatley Peters died in Boston. Tragically, her
manuscripts disappeared with John Peters and have never been recovered.

Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence all the choir inspir'd,
His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;
But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's sable race;
From age to age transmitting thus his name
With the first glory in the rolls of fame?
--To Maecenas

"On the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield"

Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We here 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 form our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course hes 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 recieve,
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:
"Wah'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 havd of t\death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath,
Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies,
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.