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IntroductionThe Published AnthologyContains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's noteSelected Unpublished PiecesTranscriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to RawsonText analysisResults of analysing the anthology and its manuscriptsNetwork AnalysisNetwork analysis prototypes, including a network graph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: 'which dawns on Pity's sleep'
12023-10-11T18:50:43+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c3761614plain2024-09-11T10:52:16+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c37616Rawson's second fair copy has two alternative versions of this phrase, one in pencil and pen, in two different hands: 'Tho' or Yet Pity seems to sleep' (pen); 'where Pity seems to sleep' (pencil). See 'Copy of He being dead yet Speaketh (English MS 414/110a)', below:
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12023-10-11T18:51:20+00:00"He Being Dead Yet Speaketh", by Edward Henry Abney10Poem by Edward Henry Abney.plain2024-09-13T15:28:12+00:00 Vast are the plains, and rich the teeming soil Where labour reaps no solace from her toil; Fair is the clime, which dawns on Pity's sleep, And mocks their anguish while the sufferers weep; Where 'neath the scourge they wail their abject lot, And sigh unblest, unpitied, and forgot.
But shall I say, forgot, when one pure breast Heaved for their sorrows, mournfully opprest? Whose fearless words and dauntless ardour woke A slumbering sympathy for Afric's yoke, That shall not cease on Briton's sea-girt shore, Till Slavery's chain shall gall the slave no more. Aye! then the first free orisons of praise, The ransomed negro to his God shall raise; And bless His love who to his champion gave The heart to pity, and the hand to save. What, though amid the mansions of the blest, His spirit shares a bright and glorious rest? Yet still he speaks; his vast exertions crave Our aid unwearied for the outcast slave.
Awake, my countrymen, awake to bless The long-enthralled with long-sought happiness; Can ye not learn, while o'er the pathless main, Your barks are sped for commerce, wealth and gain, That all Heaven's noblest gifts are unconfined, Their Maker's bounty meant for all mankind? While one above the rest, wide as the sea, Secures the whole, -- unfettered Liberty? Vouchsafed by Him to all -- to none denied, Save by the avarice of British pride. Base is the selfishness which bids you bind Whom God created free, -- the chainless wind That wafts your treasures wrung from hardest toil O'er ocean's bosom, scaths your base-earned spoil; And whispers, while it breathes, a saddening tale Of manhood's sorrow, or of woman's wail.
Oh! blush ye not, that through the scented air Rise the deep curses of the sufferer's prayer? Untaught the attributes of God above, -- Unblest by knowledge of redeeming love. Fail not your hearts with terror, when you know That such a depth of misery and woe Broods o'er our isle, and scatters blight around, For mercy not dispensed when mercy's found?
O God of Mercy! hear the suppliant cry, Which bursts from hearts full-fraught with agony! Regard their prayer, who oft before Thy throne, Implore compassion for the lost and lone; Open Thine hand, and on yon injured race Shower down the richest blessings of Thy grace; No more may man his fellow-man oppress, Give Liberty -- give Light -- give Holiness!