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

Williams, Sarah Joanna

Birth: 1805

Death: 1841

Faith: Unitarian

Note: Sarah Joanna Williams (1805-1841) was the daughter of Mansfield-based Unitarian minister
Rev. John Williams (1768–1835), the biographer of Rev. Thomas Belsham. She contributed
various poems to the Liverpool Sacred Offering. In the vol. for 1834 is the poem,
"Quiet from God! it cometh not to still The vast and high aspirings of the soul,"
from which the hymn, “Quiet from God! how blessed 'tis to keep," Rest in God, is adapted
in Martineau’s Hymns of Praise and Prayer, also in J. P. Hopp’s Collection.

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Poem: 'The Slave's Last Hour', by Sarah J. Williams (English MS 415/126)
The Slave's Last Hour.

I saw a spot in India's burning clime.
Thereon the shadow of a tree did fall
With grateful shelter. It was evening time.
The hour of rest was coming fast, with all
The stillness and "the beauty of repose"
Which Nature grants unto the meanest thing
That seeketh slumber at the long day's close.
A weary slave his feeble form did fling

Down on that green, cool sod, to wait for death.
There was a calm upon his brow as tho'
His spirit then had done with all beneath,
Had suffered ~~his~~_^^its last pang of mortal woe.
As yet the deep-toned gong, or crackling scourge.
Had told not that the day of work was done,
And sunded[?] but the drooping slaves to urge.
To further toil, far from that dying one.

No hand was near to close his failing eye,
No human voice to speak one parting word;
Yet did the breeze of Heaven pass gently by
And tuneful sounds from the deep glen were ^heard
Yet was he not forsaken, nor alone
In that brief hour, life's sweetest and its last;
For his low whispers told his thoughts were gone
Back to the regions of the shadowy past.

If memory[?] aroused her powers to show
In one dark, dread review his all of life,
It was but that his parties soul might know
The loveliness of peace, from that long strife
If she returned once more the crowded mart,
And all his spirit in that scene had born
The hammer's fall that severed heart, from heart,
The jest, the laugh, the contumely, the seven

If she recalled again his mother's tears
Leaving her children for the long, long day,
And he who soothed awhile his early years,
Children who might not then his care repay.
'Twas that his spirit might ascend above
In warmer thankfulness that time was o'er,
And feel in all the strength of blighted love
How much Eternity might soon restore.

(So Where is the man who bears not in his heart
Some hope of future life beyond the tomb;
Of meetings where the loved shall never part
Of a long rest, and an eternal home?)
'Twas thus he spake. "Mother 'tis nightfall now,
Hush thy last child once more unto his rest.
"Young partner of my griefs: why weepest thou,
"Are not one children safe upon thy breast?

"Seest thou the tyrant? he who shed our blood
"In reckless vengeance. Aye we now may brook
"Unmoved his frown, who hath so often stood
"Unmoved upon our agonies to look.
"If it be true as some have dared to say,
"That Christ will render unto each his due,
"Vainly may he regret in that last day
"Deeds which Eternity can not undo.

Faintly upon the ear those last words came,
Meekly his dim eyes closed, and then he smiled
And grasped a few dead leaves. Then he became
Silent again, and quiet as a child,
A little child that sleeps the happy sleep
Of innocence upon its Mother's breast.
She damp earth was his pillow, but to deep
Was his soul's ~~rest~~ _^^peace for aught to break his rest.

The shades grew darker round that lonely spot,
The wind blew chilly from that woody glen,
It mattered naught. Nature had harmed him not
And he was then beyond the reach of men.

S J W

Mansfield May 11th 1833

Dear Madam
I have been practically engaged in
the service of the Slaves, by assisting some other ladies
to obtain signatures to a petition in their behalf and this
with an attack of influenza has prevented my attending
sooner to your friendly communication. As you
mentioned that your work would not be completed in
less than a fortnight, I ventured to delay my reply till
I can't prepare another poem. If you can conveniently
place it immediately after "The Planter's Last Hour"
I hope it _^^will show something of a contrast.
Considering the religious disadvantages under which the
slaves labour I did not think it would be proper to repress[?]
one of them as having a confirmed expectation of the first
appearance of our Lord to judge mankind.
With regard to the alteration you suggested in the
other poem I think the one line might be written
"His dark brow pillowed in deep silence then"
If you think that would be an improvement.
My rebellions Muse will not suggest any syllable
that could be inserted in the last line without consider
ably weakening it. I hope if trafficèd be printed with the long
accent over the e it will not be mistaken. Perhaps as
both cannot be altered you will think it better neither
should. I am not sure whether it would be correct to have
words so near to each other, one rendered two syllables and the
the other three, but this I will leave to your judgement.
I should have been glad if I could have altered both lines.
I am afraid you will observe many corrections, for I
am so ill as only to be able to copy a few versus of a line
from the rough manuscript which none but myself
can dicipher. I have only to add, that if at any time
I can lend a similar assistance to any of your benevolent
design I shall be happy to be called upon.
I remain Dear Madam
Yours respectfully
S. J. Williams

Perhaps it will be needful to put a note connected with the
word "scourge" I should have liked a word that would have
expressed the sound better than "crackling".
--------
* The Slaves on the Plantations are summoned to their work
by the sounding of the gong on the cracking of the whip whose
last[?] is said to resemble the firing of a pistol. These[?] are sometimes
meant[?] to announce the time of meals or of retiring
[written crosswise:] Monday[?]. I had hoped to have been able to day to write a
clearer copy, but finding myself worse rather than better
I can only hope you will be able to read this.

[addressed:]
Mrs. Rawson
Jos^h Read Esq^r
Wincobank Hall
near Sheffield

single

[postmark:]
Mansfield | MY13 | 18 3
Poem: 'The Planter's Last Hour', by Sarah J. Williams (English MS 415/125)
The Planter's Last Hour
I saw a chamber in th' abode of pride,
With all of rest that could be bought with gold;
Where was a bed of down, high canopied,
And curtained round with damask's crimson fold.
The windows were deep veil'd, and yet a ray --
A single ray of the sweet ~~sunshine~~ _^^sunlight shone
Thro' the dim room, and on that couch did play,
And on the face of him who laid thereon,

But he was dying -- O there was a look
On his white lips which moved convulsively,
And all his features quivered, and he shook
As if a vision met his glazing eye.
The hireling nurse was there, and serving men
Waited his bidding; yet he was alone,
Lone, for their hearts were not with him, & when
He spoke how deep and hollow was the tone

That would so soon be silent! yet tho' then
The gurgling sound of death was in his throat,
She lifted his faint voice yet once again;
It needed not a bended ear to note
His accents midst that silence most profound,
For each and every word the hush that broke
Was horribly distinct, as if it's sound
Would fain be heard for ever; thus he spoke,

"I stood within a crowded mart, I bought
"That which was there exposed for sale, which gold
"Of course made justly mine; it mattered nought
"What were the creatures that were bought and sold;
"They were but chattels. Did I treat them well,
"Or ill, or what of food and rest I gave? --
"Is that all ye would ask, or I should tell?
"Why was one tyrant and the other slave?"

"Had I the right to vest me with a power
"Unlimited, to deal out misery,
"To trust mine own frail nature with a dower
"Of such momentous import, or was I
"Free to impress my name upon his brow,
"To bend his will beneath my iron rod?
"That is the question, and that question now

"He was to me but as my dog, my steed,
"But as the tool with which I wrote his doom;
"But now he turns and asks me of that deed,
"He looks up to me from his early tomb,
"And with a face so human -- and a voice,
"A Brother's voice, even like his, who played
"With me in childhood, where free birds rejoice,
"And tinkling rills flow by near the chestnut shade.

"And hark! I hear his heart throb like my own,
"I see the life-blood rushing thro' his veins,
"Quickened by feelings I did long disown
"Or kept in ~~foul[?]~~_^^vile subjection by my chains.
"E'en as my soul is his, that truth I find
"Now that all hath lies naked to _^^my view,
"I bought him; could I tell the thing had mind?
"Immortal mind, and did I buy that too?["]

The pallidness of death came o'er his clay
He ceased -- and pressed his eye-lids close as tho'
That slave with his fixed gaze did still essay
To look upon his heart and its last throe,
His mouth grew rigid -- The expression flung
Around his unclosed lips showed he had tried
To answer to some quest, but that his tongue
Stiffened ere utterance came; -- and thus he died.

But still that clear bright gleam of sunshine ^caught
His dark brow pillowèd in silence then,
What did it there, but to betray the thought
Of him, the man who trafficèd in men.

S J Williams

Mansfield March 27th

Madam
I returned home a few days ago, after
a long absense and found a letter from Miss
H Horker[?] requesting I would contribute something
to a volume you intended publishing on "Slavery"
I have my heart so much in ^the cause that it would give
me great pleasure to ^afford any assistance in my power to
such a work, I only fear that so much time having
elapsed (as Miss H wrote on the 3d instant) it may be too
late to do so. I had no unpublished piece on the subject
by me, but have written the enclosed ~~on purpose~~ for
you and shall be glad if it answers your purpose.
If you should wish any thing further from my pen
have the goodness to direct to me at Rev J Williams
Mansfield

I am yours respectfully
S J Williams

[addressed:]
Mrs. Wm Rawson
At Jos^h Read's Esq^r
Wincobank
near Sheffield

[postmark:]
Mansfield | MA22 | 18 3
A Voice from the Land of Bondage, by Sarah J. Williams

* * * * * *

A sound arose, -- the voice of ancient wrong,
Like rushing mighty waters, or the wind
Sweeping through those old woods, that echoed long
Wailings, until they left a voice behind,
And thus it spake -- * * *
"Think ye that slavery, which can conform
Man to the image of a brute, doth bring
'Neath its dominion but the outward form?
In limb and sinews only hath he been
The bruised, broken reed which ye have seen?

"Think ye, your ancestors, when first they brought
To these fair isles the curse of slavery,
Merely some links of brass and iron wrought
Into a chain? Can your state policy,
As hammers on the anvil, at one stroke
Sever the fetters they imposed, and give
To those who once have passed beneath the yoke,
And learnt but as another's tool to live,
The hearts, the minds, the feelings of the free,
The elevating thoughts that wait on Liberty?

"Those they oppressed have spirits; -- can ye there
Trace where the iron entered? Can ye see
All that came with those chains, of which they were
Only the emblems, the mere imagery?
The mandates of your senates cannot reach
The bands impalpable that chain the soul, --
Fear, superstition, ignorance; nor teach
The mind to break at once from their control:
A higher power these evils must dispel,
'Tis yours the teachings of that power to tell.

"'Come unto me, all ye that labour, come
Ye heavy-laden, I will give you rest.'
It is the import of these words brought home
Unto the spirit, maketh it possess'd
Of all that sanctifieth liberty;
Soft as refreshing gales breathe forth that word,
As music o'er the waters let it be,
Here then in blessings will your names be heard:
How beautiful the feet of those who bring
Glad tidings to a heart long suffering!

"Deliverance to the slave! What heart now cold,
What spirits mingled with the holy dead,
Have throbbed, have toiled, and struggled to behold
The moment when that mandate should be read:
Ye who have entered to their labours, ye
Who reap what they have sown, to you appears
The dawn, and blessed are your eyes which see
The light, theirs sought with weariness and tears:
Now be their names your watch-word -- be ye still
Fervent, the work of glory to fulfil.

"'Tis something glorious to civilize
Beings, whose powers have to themselves been lost,
To teach the expanding faculties to prize
Science, and all her pleasure-yielding host;
'Tis more, to give an anchor to the soul,
Steadfast and sure; to guide its course aright
By love, that would be mighty to control,
Shewn by example in its holiest light:"
Oh! that a thrilling voice like this might come,
From those far isles, and reach us in our home.

There, though oppression long hath shed its blight,
And made all light unto the spirit dim,
Friends of the Negro! Lo! "The fields are white
Already to the harvest. Pray ye Him
Who is the Lord of harvests, to send forth
Labourers into the harvest." May His peace
Rest on that long-polluted spot of earth,
Making all cruelty and strife to cease.
Late, tyrants claimed its people as their own,
Now, may they be our God's, and His alone!

S. J. W.

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