Mary Anne Rawson's The Bow in the Cloud (1834): A Scholarly EditionMain MenuEditor's IntroductionEditor's IntroductionThe Published AnthologyContains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's noteSelected Unpublished PiecesTranscriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to RawsonText analysisResults of analysing the anthology and its manuscriptsNetwork AnalysisNetwork analysis prototypes, including a network graph of connections in the archiveMap of PlacenamesA map of all places associated with pieces in the anthologyPeople MentionedBow in the Cloud: PersonographyFurther ReadingsA Bibliography of sources relating to this projectThis project was supported by an NEH-Mellon Fellowship for Digital Publication in 2023/2024 (FEL-289788). Find project data on GitHub.
Benson, Maria
12024-09-13T15:33:55+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c3761611Person record for Bensonplain2024-09-13T15:33:55+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c37616
Note: Maria Benson was a British writer. She was the author of the novel The Wife (1810) and the pedagocial essay 'Thoughts on Education'. She was the daughter of Edward Benson, a wine merchant from York, and sister of Anna Dorothea Montagu (1773/4–1856) -- a friend of Robert Burns and the third wife of reformer and author Basil Montagu (1770–1851) (source: ODNB). See also https://womensprinthistoryproject.com/person/2769.
Rest! thou sweet image of the Poet's dream, The Patriarch's promise in a land of woe, The hope ordained of God, whose faintest beam, Can bid the eye with light and sunshine glow.
The Father's blessing for his erring child, Turning repentant to the long-lost dome, When with warm heart, and thoughts that once were wild, He listens to the words, sweet rest, and home; --
And says, "I will arise, and I will go To seek a Father's face; the bitter tear, Of vice and misery, no more will flow, I hear the sounds, 'My Son,' and 'Welcome here.'"
What is the Patriarch's hope -- the Poet's dream To thee, poor Slave of scorn and tyranny! Thou canst not say, "I will arise, and go, Break off these chains and be for ever free."
Where is thy home, poor Negro, where thy rest? Where the sweet sounds, "My Son," and, "Welcome here?" Where the soft covert of a Parent's breast? And where the hand to wipe away thy tear?
In hours of infancy thou hadst thy dream, Thy rosy bowers and soft palmetto grove, Where thy freed soul, returning to its home, Thou thought'st would still in youthful freshness rove.
This was the Paradise within thy breast; Thou knewest not the sound of Sabbath-bell; A heavenly home, -- the saint's eternal rest, Where, far from proud oppressors, thou mightst dwell,
Thou knewest not -- poor child of misery! Yet hast thou still a home, thou still art free; Far from the cruel lash -- the scorner's rod, Still shalt thou find the rest ordained of God!