To Maecenas
Maecenas, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o’er what poets sung,
By Phillis Wheatley.
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To the Right Honourable the
Countess of Huntingdon,
The following
Poems
Are most respectfully
Inscribed,
By her much obliged,
Very humble,
And devoted Servant,
The following poems were written originally for the amusement of the author, as they were the products of her leisure moments. She had no intention ever to have published them; nor would they now have made their appearance, but at the importunity of many of her best, and most generous friends; to whom she considers herself, as under the greatest obligations.
As her attempts in poetry are now sent into the world, it is hoped the critic will not severely censure their defects; and we presume they have too much merit to be cast aside with contempt, as worthless and trifling effusions.
As to the disadvantages she has laboured under, with regard to learning, nothing needs to be offered, as her master’s letter in the following page will sufficiently show the difficulties in this respect she had to encounter.
With all their imperfections, the poems are now humbly submitted to the perusal of the public.
The following is a copy of a letter sent by the author’s master to the publisher.
Phillis was brought from Africa to America, in the year 1761, between seven and eight years of age. Without any assistance from school education, and by only what she was taught in the family, she, in sixteen months time from her arrival, attained the English language, to which she was an utter stranger before, to such a degree, as to read any, the most difficult parts of the Sacred Writings, to the great astonishment of all who heard her.
As to her writing, her own curiosity led her to it; and this she learnt in so short a time, that in the year 1765, she wrote a letter to the Rev. Mr. Occom, the Indian Minister, while in England.
She has a great inclination to learn the Latin tongue, and has made some progress in it. This relation is given by her master who bought her, and with whom she now lives.
Maecenas, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o’er what poets sung,