What is the historical context of the poem "To S. M., a Young African Painter, on Seeing His Works," by Phyllis Wheatley?

"To S.M., A Young African Painter, on Seeing His Works," is a poem by Phyllis Wheatley. Wheatley, an eighteenth-century poet, was the first female African American poet published. She became a slave at the age of seven and was emancipated upon the death of her master John Wheatley. Although she was a slave, the Wheatley family took a great interest in her education, and her first volume of poems was published while she was still a slave. This particular poem addresses Scipio Moorhead, who was a poet, an artist, and a slave. He drew the portrait of Wheatley which appeared on her volume of poems, so there was a personal connection.

Wheatley begs Moorhead to hold tight to any fame he has, but to fix his eye on his legacy. Their shared bond as artist and slave was a unique one and the position they found themselves in as African American artists in a time in the South when African Americans were considered possessions meant it was even more important for them to create a legacy that stood the test of time. They wanted to show others that they were thinking, feeling humans, capable of great art. They needed to show their contemporaries, but Wheatley also had her eye on the future. By creating 'deathless glories,' Moorhead can give himself immortal fame.

On deathless glories fix thine ardent view: Still may the painter’s and the poet’s fire, To aid thy pencil and thy verse conspire!

Immortal fame, however, is not the highest honor they can achieve. In the last few lines, Wheatley addresses the afterlife, where their art will become more pure and noble. It references Damon and Aurora, bastions of Western culture, and says they will be able to transcend such works in heaven. At the end of her life, Wheatley will no longer be able to see Moorhead's great works, but she can expect he will create better art in heaven, where he will not be bound by the conventions and prejudices he faces on earth.  

For nobler themes demand a nobler strain, And purer language on th’ ethereal plain.
Cease, gentle Muse! the solemn gloom of night
Now seals the fair creation from my sight.