Phillis Wheatley wrote this elegy to comfort a mother and her children after the death of a beloved man—clearly a father, a generous friend, and a pillar of his community. The opening lines plunge straight into raw grief: tears, sighs, and the weeping of siblings and the poor he once helped. The speaker doesn’t hold back the intensity of that loss. But then the mood pivots. She insists that such sorrow is almost cruel, because the man has not vanished; he has been liberated from mortal suffering and now knows unimaginable joy on a “heav’nly shore.” The poem moves from shared anguish to firm, loving admonishment. Wheatley urges the family to dry their tears, stop longing for his earthly return, and instead look forward to joining him in eternal praise. It’s a movement from the weight of death to the lightness of faith.
To a Lady and Her Children — Summary
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 recalls your best-belov'd: He, upon pinions swifter than the wind, Has left mortality's sad scenes behind For joys to this terrestrial 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.