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IntroductionThe Published AnthologyContains all of the pieces published in the anthology, with an editor's noteSelected Unpublished PiecesTranscriptions of some unpublished pieces sent to RawsonText analysisResults of analysing the anthology and its manuscriptsNetwork AnalysisNetwork analysis prototypes, including a network graph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.
Walker, Elizabeth
12024-09-14T16:26:02+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c3761613Person record for Elizabeth Walkerplain2024-09-14T16:26:51+00:00Christopher Ohge67a4fbaba4797c94aa865988788fca89b5c37616
He hath sent me to heal the broken hearted to preach deliverance to the Captives -- & recovering of light to the blind to set at liberty them that bruised to preach the acceptable year of the Lord -- Luke 4th chapter 18 & 19th verses
Lest! to that deep despairing groan, that frantic cry of woe! Gaze on those looks of agony, those scalding tears that flow flash! 'tis the clank of Slav'ry's chain, they forge each ? fast One parting, hopeless look of love -- Ah! Captive, 'tis thy last!! Now swiftly o'er the briny deep the fatal vessel flies, No light of day, no breath of Heav'n, to mingle with their sighs Unheeded flow those bitter tears, e'en Pity[?] weeps in vain Alas! the depth of human woe -- they ne er will smile again! Thro' years of piercing agony, we hear the sad low moan or cutting last, or cruel scourge ??? the deeper groan Then mem'ry pictures home, & wife. Ah! can he e'er forget? His children too, can they be slaves? More bitter anguish yet? Towards Heav'n the clasped hands are raised the woe[?] worn ? eye God pity Thee!! poor suff'ring one! from Man no aid is nigh Yet cheer, oh cheer thee hapless Slave -- thy Tyrants ? is o'er Thou'st hast'ning to that happy Land, where He can set[?] no more Th' indignant heart has burst in twain -- its last warm streaming- blood Appeals from mans base treachery -- to a heart searching[?] God! Thou Lord! hast heard the Captives prayers, hast set his Spirit free Captive, but in the bonds of love, he dwells in bliss with thee!! How rouse[?] thee Albions! ah how long has been thy dreamy sleep -- Shall Africs children still be Slaves "still drag those chains & weep." Britons!! oh Liberty is yours oh Liberty you prize -- Then claim it, for you fetterd Slave, who now in anguish lies -- A Light, the star of Hope & Joy, has o'er th' Atlantic shone Shall it be quench'd in deeper night -- shall Hope's bright gleam be gone? Ah! no! let ev'ry heart respond -- be firm, press on & prove What British hands & hearts can do, when sway'd by Christian love!!
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Elizabeth _______
she hath done what she could! --
April 3rd 1933 --
12023-10-24T06:58:14+00:00The Triumph of Freedom, by Elizabeth Walker15Poem by Elizabeth Walkerplain2025-01-08T12:30:45+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.
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From the Emerald Isle.
12023-11-14T19:11:56+00:00Invocation to Liberty, by Elizabeth Walker10Poem by by Elizabeth Walkerplain2025-01-08T13:00:06+00:00 All hail, sweet Liberty! thy cheering ray Gives promise of a bright -- a glorious day -- Soon may it burst in dazzling splendour bright, Chasing the long, deep gloom of Slavery's night! Unloose the fetters! -- set the Captive free! -- Bind up his wounds! -- and soothe his agony! Shed thy blest influence o'er the hapless Slave, And shew him thou hast found a heart to save! Of what avail fair climes, or brightest sky? Unblest by Thee, he must despairing lie: Let him at length the hallowed vision see Of Peace, -- of Hope, -- of Joy, -- of Liberty! Wave thy bright banner! mount it up on high! Unfurl thy standard to the gorgeous sky! Enroll thy name there, -- Briton, brave, and free! 'Tis a fit emblem of thy Land, and Thee!
Say! shall that Land to Fame and Freedom dear Refuse the weeping suppliant's ardent prayer? Behold his bitter grief, his galling chain, Yet mock his woes, or aggravate his pain? Ah! let not Man so base a Recreant prove -- Dead to the voice of Justice, Mercy, Love -- Melt his hard heart, ye attributes divine! So shall his worth in tenfold radiance shine!
England's fair Daughters, too, shall aid supply, Heal breaking hearts, and dry the streaming eye, To injured Africa speak words of peace, Feel for her wrongs, and bid her sorrows cease; Her sable sons shall bless the tender care Which soothes their grief and in their hope hath share.
Then hail, sweet Liberty! Thy banner float From North to South, o'er regions most remote; From East to West, till every land and clime, Exulting shouts, "This glorious boon is mine!"
Poor slave! -- then thy hope is but vain, We cannot be moved with thy grief -- Implore not our pity again -- From Britain expect no relief: The joy of removing thy bitter distress Is far, far too blessed for us to possess.
Return to thy home in despair -- Compassion from man never crave; Return -- and then offer thy prayer To Him who is mighty to save: Turn from earth, and present thine appeal to the skies, Jehovah will never thy sorrows despise!