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IntroductionThe Published AnthologyContains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's noteSelected Unpublished PiecesTranscriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to RawsonText analysisResults of analysing the anthology and its manuscriptsNetwork AnalysisNetwork analysis prototypes, including a network graph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.
Revision narrative: 'tainted breeze'
12023-10-24T07:01:41+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c3761615plain2023-10-24T14:51:19+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c37616Here Rawson had either revised or mis-transcribed the phrase 'tainted breeze' in Walker's original manuscript into 'tainted breath' in her first fair copy (English MS 415/131). In pencil, Rawson's reverted back to 'tainted breeze'.
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12023-10-24T06:58:14+00:00The Triumph of Freedom, by Elizabeth Walker13Poem by Elizabeth Walkerplain2024-09-14T16:28:29+00:00 Slavery's fell reign is past -- her power is o'er, Triumph, ye Free! -- her triumph is no more. The long-anticipated time draws nigh, Freedom advances in the western sky, Sheds her bright glory toward the Indian seas, And waves her banner o'er the Caribbees; The tortured captive hears her thrilling voice, Looks up -- and checks his groanings to rejoice.
Nursed in the land, where rolls the giant tide Of sluggish Senegal through deserts wide, -- Where every tainted breeze comes tinged with death, And Nature sickens in the poisoned breath, -- The wandering negro, 'midst these regions lone, Thinks himself happy, though untaught, unknown; Happy -- because the desert's faithless sand He claims his own, his long-loved native land; Because, no more the white man, lured by gain, Can bind his limbs with Slavery's galling chain --
Rob him of Heaven's best gift, and cast him then Forth from his equal rank with fellow-men, -- Transform him to a brute, yea, worse, a slave -- Who loathes to bear the life that Nature gave.
No more his mourning brow will pain our sight, For Nature triumphs and asserts her right, Expands his heart and bids his tongue explain The pride, the bliss that swells through every vein, Flushes unseen his dusky cheek, and dwells Enshrined within his bosom's deepest cells.
But, a still warmer feeling rises there, Which gushes like the desert-waters clear: That fount is gratitude; -- it flows for you, To whom the tribute of his thanks is due, Who loosed his bonds and taught his mind to soar, Far from Oppression's chain, to Freedom's shore. Ne'er can his heart forget that glorious deed -- Through you the sable African was freed From every bond, save one which memory threw Around his heart, to bind it fast to you.