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Mary Anne Rawson's The Bow in the Cloud (1834): A Scholarly Edition

Taylor, Thomas Rawson

Name ID: http://viaf.org/viaf/26896473

Born: 1807

Died: 1835

Faith: Congregationalist

Note: Thomas Rawson Taylor was a Congregationalist minister and hymn writer. He was the son of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, some time Congregational Minister at Bradford, Yorkshire. He was born at Ossett, near Wakefield, May 9, 1807, and educated at the Free School, Bradford, and the Leaf Square Academy, Manchester. He died March 7, 1835. A volume of his Memoirs and Select Remains, by W. S. Matthews, in which were several poems and a few hymns, was published in 1836. His best known hymn is 'I'm but a stranger here'.

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The Martyred Missionary's Grave, by Thomas Rawson Taylor

"While some shall delight to gaze upon the splendid sepulchre of Xavier, and others choose rather to ponder over the granite stone which covers all that is mortal of Swartz there will not be wanting those who will think of the humble and unfrequented grave of"
--John Smith Sargent's Memoirs of Henry Martyn.

Whose is that quiet grave?
No shrine is there the heedless dust entombing,
But tallgreengrass,and wild flowers ever-blooming,
In silence wave.

Greatness! it cannot be
Thy haughty dust should choose so mean a dwelling;
Without one line of adulation, telling
Its lies of thee,

Honour! thou couldst not here
Rest thy high spirit from its dreams of glory;
No wondering crowds, to tell thy wondrous story,
And none to hear.

Riches! 'tis far too small
For thee to rest in with thy treasures by thee,
A wider tomb the world will ne'er deny thee,
When thou shalt fall.

Meek Charity! thy shrine
Should record of the bleeding heart, and broken,
Which thou hast bound;--but here is no such token:--
Can this be thine ?

Religion! shouldst not thou
Have one brief line to tell, where thou art sleeping,
That "he who wept with anguish once, is weeping
With rapture now."

Whose is this quiet tomb?
Religion-Charity-Wealth-Greatness-Glory
To tell, of all in one, the last sad story,
These wild flowers bloom.

Was it not great, to brave
Furious contempt, and scorn most spirit-breaking,
For thee! his country and his home forsaking,
Poor negro slave?

Hath he no honour? Fame
Speaks not; but, when the judgment trump hath shaken
The earth to dust again, its tones shall waken
This martyr's name.

And he was rich--an heir
Of all the bright-inheritance of Heaven:
And to the world, he panted to have given
A portion there.

And Charity?--Oh! see
That fettered captive in yon dungeon lying;
What brought him there-pale, weeping, pining,
dying? 'Twas Charity.

Religion! thou wast near!
Witness that smile upon his brow of anguish;
That glowing joy, when earthly joys did languish,
And hope was sere.

Let age on age roll by:
Yet still his memory shall the negro cherish;
And when his wrongs and woes in death must perish,
Come here to die.

And sire to son shall tell,
The tale of him beneath this sod who lieth;
And his shall be a name that never dieth.
Martyr! Farewell.

T. R. T.
Bradford, Yorks.
1826.

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Congregationalist