A Funeral Poem on the Death of C.E. — Summary

Through airy roads he wings his instant flight To purer regions of celestial light; Enlarg'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll, Beneath him sees the universal whole, Planets on planets run their destin'd round, And circling wonders fill the vast profound. Th' ethereal now, and now th' empyreal skies With growing splendors strike his wond'ring eyes: The angels view him with delight unknown, Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne; Then smilling thus: "To this divine abode, "The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God, "Thrice welcome thou." The raptur'd babe replies, "Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies, "E'er vice triumphant had possess'd my heart, "E'er yet the tempter had beguil'd my heart, "E'er yet on sin's base actions I was bent, "E'er yet I knew temptation's dire intent; "E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt, "E'er vanity had led my way to guilt, "But, soon arriv'd at my celestial goal, "Full glories rush on my expanding soul." Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round Clapt their glad wings, the heav'nly vaults resound. Say, parents, why this unavailing moan? Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan? To Charles, the happy subject of my song, A brighter world, and nobler strains belong. Say would you tear him from the realms above

By thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love? Doth his felicity increase your pain? Or could you welcome to this world again The heir of bliss? with a superior air Methinks he answers with a smile severe, "Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there."

But still you cry, "Can we the sigh forbear, "And still and still must we not pour the tear? "Our only hope, more dear than vital breath, "Twelve moons revolv'd, becomes the prey of death;

"Delightful infant, nightly visions give "Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive, "We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast, "The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest."

To yon bright regions let your faith ascend, Prepare to join your dearest infant friend In pleasures without measure, without end.

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Phillis Wheatley’s elegy opens with a dazzling vision of the dead child Charles flying upward “through airy roads” into celestial light. The little soul sees whole systems of planets rolling beneath him, splendors striking his eyes, and angels eagerly seating him on a throne. In a rush of gratitude, Charles speaks, thanking God for snatching him away before temptation or sin could ever touch his heart. The mood is triumphant and serene, full of expansive wonder.

Then the poem turns, gently challenging the grieving parents. Why this “unavailing moan”? The speaker asks whether their love would foolishly pull him back from such joy, and imagines the smiling child saying that even thrones and dominions could not tempt him away. The parents’ pain is given honest voice: they confess they still long to clasp him in dreams, only to lose the phantom again. Wheatley doesn’t dismiss that ache. Instead she redirects it, urging faith to rise toward those bright regions where parent and child can meet in endless pleasure. The final lines settle into a quiet, consoling hope, softening the sharp edge of loss.

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