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IntroductionThe Published AnthologyContains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's noteSelected Unpublished PiecesTranscriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to RawsonText analysisResults of analysing the anthology and its manuscriptsNetwork AnalysisNetwork analysis prototypes, including a network graph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.
------- It was the habit of this christian scholar, to the last, to sing the Psalms of David, in Hebrew, to his harp, every night before he retired to rest, at his pleasant retreat at Fulham. -------
-- The flag was streaming, and the vessel bore Peals of warm blessing from the ringing shore, And tears of higher feeling brought to view, When Freedom's charter o'er the billows flew.
Saw you the hands with eager transport wave, That first unloosed the shackles from the slave? Heard you the praises, ardent and sublime, Poured from that soul that braves the chills of time? And would you follow where, apart from sight, That rapture moderates to calm delight? Let each intruding thought be awed to rest; Let sacred stillness consecrate your breast; Kneel, till bright convoy bands their waiting cease, And "mark the Righteous -- for his end is peace."
To grottoes where the moon's calm hallowed ray Falls with pure glory on his locks of grey, Turns the Philanthropist. Upon that head The spoils of eighty winters have been shed. His peace, like infant slumber, wears a smile: -- 'Tis answered prayer, from Caribbean isle, Conveyed o'er ocean-floods; where broken chains The emancipated negro still retains; Inscribes upon them his deliverer's fame, And calls his free-born offspring by his name.
From hurried scenes the failing saint retires; Spends his last fervours on his silver wires, In psalms of praise; -- for David's harp he owns, And David's language swells his vocal tones: -- He bends, and strikes the bold, decided note; His words are clear, but tremble as they float; "To see thy glory have I longed, O Lord!" His fingers languish on the yielding chord: His notes fall weaker, as they seek the skies; He bows upon the moaning harp, and dies.