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Mary Anne Rawson's The Bow in the Cloud (1834): A Scholarly Edition Main Menu Editor's Introduction Editor's Introduction The Published Anthology Contains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's note Selected Unpublished Pieces Transcriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to Rawson Text analysis Results of analysing the anthology and its manuscripts Network Analysis Network analysis prototypes, including a network graph of connections in the archive Map of Placenames A map of all places associated with pieces in the anthology People Mentioned Bow in the Cloud: Personography Further Readings A Bibliography of sources relating to this project This project was supported by an NEH-Mellon Fellowship for Digital Publication in 2023/2024 (FEL-289788). Find project data on GitHub.

Howitt, William

Name ID: http://viaf.org/viaf/22908301

Born: 1792

Died: 1879

Faith: Quaker

Note: William Howitt was a Quaker writer and activist. In 1821 he married Mary Botham.

This page is referenced by:

The English Peasant, by William Howitt

The land for me! the land for me!
Where every living soul is free!
Where winter may come, where storms may rave,
But the tyrant dare not bring his slave.

I should hate to dwell in a summer-land
Where flowers spring up on every hand;
Where the breeze is glad, the heavens are fair,
Yet you live midst the deadness of despair.

I saw a peasant sit at his door
When his weekly toil in the field was o'er:
He sate on the bench his grandsire made;
He sate in his father's walnut shade.

'Twas the golden hour of an April morn:
Lightly the lark sprang from the corn;
The blossoming trees shone purely white;
Quivered the young leaves in the light.

The Sabbath-bells, with their holy glee,
Were ringing o'er woodland, heath, and lea:
'Twas a season whose living influence ran
Through air, through earth, and the heart of man.

No feeble joy was that peasant's lot,
As his children gambolled before his cot;
Archly mimicking toils and cares,
Which coming life will make truly theirs.

But their mother with breakfast-call anon
Came forth, and the merry masque was gone:
'Twas a beautiful sight as, meekly still,
They sate in their joy on the cottage sill.

He looked on them, -- he looked to the skies, --
I saw how his heart spoke in his eyes:
Lightly he rose, and lightly he trod,
To pour out his soul in the house of God.

And is that the man, thou vaunting knave,
Thou hast dared to compare with the weeping slave?
Away! -- find one slave in the world to cope
With him in his spirit, his home, and hope!

He is not on thy lands of sin and pain,
Seared, scarred with the lash, cramped with the chain:
In thy burning isles where the heart is cold,
And man, like the beast, is bought and sold.

He is not in the East, in his gorgeous hall,
Where the servile crowds before him fall;
Till the bowstring comes, in an hour of wrath,
And he vanishes from a tyrant's path.

But oh! thou slanderer, false and vile!
Dare but to cross that garden stile;
Dare but to touch that lowly thatch;
Dare but to force that peasant's latch;

And thy craven-soul shall wildly quake
At the thunder-peal the deed shall wake:
For myriad tongues of fire shall sound,
As if every stone cried from the ground.

The indignant thrill, like flame, shall spread,
Till the isle itself rock 'neath thy tread;
And a voice from people, peer, and throne,
Ring in thine ears, -- "Atone! atone!"

For Freedom here is common guest
In princely hall and peasant's nest;
The palace is filled with her living light,
And she watches the hamlet day and night.

Then the land for me! the land for me!
Where every living soul is free!
Where winter may come, where storms may rave,
But the tyrant dare not bring his slave.

William Howitt.

Nottingham,
1826.
West-Indian Slavery, by William Howitt

"Slaves cannot breathe in England." That is true,
But they who forge the chains of Slavery do.
The British senator, at midnight raves
Of liberty-and holds bis hundred slaves.
The British merchant, whose adventurous soul
Dares for his gain the terrors of each pole;
The British gentleman, in freedom's isle;
The British father, basking in the smile
Of love and laughing childhood,––nay, even he
Who boasts, "the blood of Christ hath made him free;"
All, sorely tainted with the gainful lust,
Deem Slavery wise; nay, every thing but––just.

True,––the foul scene that brands us and defiles,
Is held at distance in our Indian isles.
True,––no blood trickles from our bondsman's sores;
No fetters clank, no lash sounds on our shores.
Oh! that they were but near us! Then the soul
Of an indignant people would controul
Slavery's fell spirit, with that mighty word
Which tyrants ever trembled as they heard,
Vain would the subtlest sophistry be then,
Or the feigned terrors of insatiate men.

Ah! they who deem themselves so proudly laid
In freedom's lap that none can make afraid,
Would never, never see the pleading face
Of woman bowed in pitiless disgrace;
In sins and sorrows which perforce transmute
Immortal man into a reasoning brute.
Ah! they to whom the sweet and hallowed scope
Of life's strong sympathies, and death's strong hope,
Than life itself are dearer, holier far,
Would never see them trampled as they are!
The husband, leaning on the breast which nursed
His happy children, never would see cursed
The groaning negro; doomed to hear the wail
Of child and mother severed at the sale,
To meet no more,––but sent, like him, to share
All the vile crimes and miseries of despair.

But these-are distant;––we behold them not;
And we live sweetly in our pleasant lot,
To talk of England's virtues––England's fame
And charities that will embalm her name.
O happy generous country of the free,
With not a slave––but what's beyond the sea!
'Twixt thee and infamy an ocean rolls;
But, will it wash the stains of cruel souls?
When the sun looks upon those glowing isles
Where every thing, but thy sad victims, smiles,
Thou dost not see them––but are they not seen
In the heart's sun-light far more bright and keen?

Sleep on, thou glorious island, midst thy waves;
Sweet be thy slumbers,––in thee are no slaves!
Sleep on, thou queen of ocean!––not a groan
Of the spent negro shall approach thy throne.
The whip, the chain, fierce torture, hopeless toil,
Far be they banished to some savage soil.
In thee are tender hearts, and minds that make
Thee loved and honoured for thy mercies' sake.
Lo! how thy swarming children duly flock
To His high temple, whom they dare not mock.
Hark! to the contrite sinner's pleading tone,
"Oh, Father, take from me this heart of stone!"
Thy children worship, almost from their birth,
The God who made of one blood all the earth;––
The God of love, who sent His Son to give
The law of mutual love to all who live.

Sleep on, fair island, midst such plenteous streams
Of righteousness––what should disturb thy dreams?
Horrors and crimes, so distant, can't defile
Thy emerald breast––thou art a saintly isle!
Aye, sleep! but know that Freedom not the more
Will fold her pinions till thy trance is o'er.
Her wings have swept the western world,––her shrill
Trumpet alarms, what earthly power may still?
Those mighty realms, from Erie's northern lake,
Even to the far Magellan are awake.
The night is past,––there mind has reached its birth;
Men cast with scorn their fetters to the earth.
From Hayti's neighbouring state, what kindred cries
Call to thy captives,––"Ho! Arise! Arise!"
They will arise! At thine, or at their call,
Mercy will melt, or vengeance burst their thrall.
And then must fly thy spirit-frozen dream
At a world's plaudits, or at scorn's extreme.
The saviour-isle!––the loved!––almost adored!
For crimes atoned,––and human rights restored.
Or agonized spectatress of the chain
Shivered by hands long stretched to thee in vain;
The victory won––firm planted Freedom's tree!
And the world blest,––but, shame bequeathed to thee.

William Howitt

Nottingham, 1826.

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