By chance I tuned into Testament to Rose on Radio 4 today.
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| Liverpool Road close to Byrom Street, 1860 |
I know that after living in Liverpool he moved to Manchester where he wrote some fine poetry.
So far all I have is his burial plot number in Manchester General Cemetery and an entry for a Robert Rose "author" living off Byrom Street in Castlefield in 1841.
So I shall keep looking for him and in the meantime listen again to Testament to Rose, which the sleeve notes introduce Mr. Rose,
"When beatboxer and poet Testament discovers a mixed-race poet once lived and prospered 200 years ago in his hometown of Manchester, he’s captivated.
He sets off to talk to historians, a librarian and even a descendant of one of Robert Rose’s friends to find out what he can about The Bard of Colour – Rose’s self-given title. In Britain’s oldest public library, Chetham’s Library, Testament handles one of Rose’s notebooks, marvelling at his beautiful handwriting.
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| Tonman Street, near Byrom Street, 1850 |
Educated at public school, who were his patrons? Who were his parents?
Why is he obscured from history? And is his poetry any good? A resounding "Yes!" from poet, novelist and fellow Guyanese David Dabydean who, like Testament, is excited to discover the work of Robert Rose.
A radical unafraid to speak up against slavery, a man with a vivid social life and many good friends, Rose was nevertheless far from home.
Paterson Joseph brings Rose’s lyrical verse to life, some of it full of longing: "A wanderer here, O! Who for me would mourn/If the vast sea of life should o'er me close?"
Presented by Testament
Contributors: David Dabydeen, Lucy Evans, David Altson, Fergus Wilde, Michael Kelly, Jeanne Carmont, Voice of Robert Rose: Paterson Joseph, Research by Glynis Greenman, Additional recording: Ed Heaton, Produced by Nija Dalal-Small, Executive Producer: Mel Harris, Sound Design by Eloise Whitmore, A Sparklab production for BBC Radio 4"
Pictures; The former station on Liverpool Road, S. Langton, 1860, m62891, St Matthews’s Church, 1850, m71038, courtesy of Manchester Libraries, Information and Archives, Manchester City Council, http://images.manchester.gov.uk/index.php?session=pass
*Testament to Rose, BBC, Radio 4, https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m001w0v2
I'm trying to find the rest of that poem. Please email me on clarondene@gmail.com if you / anyone can find it!
ReplyDelete
DeleteHOME OF MY CHILDHOOD.
BY ROBERT ROSE, THE BARD OF COLOUR
Home of my childhood, thou art ever dear !
0'er ocean's waves sweet visions of thee come ;
Through the dark changes of each rolling
I fondly turn to thee, my far-off home!
At eve I oft direct my gaze above,
To the pure beauty of each vesper star ;
Thus dost thou shine my early home of love,
Thou art my light, soft glimmering afar!
My country! although wrapt in mental night,
For knowledge o'er thee scarce its ray hath spread,
Can I forget where first I hailed the light ?
Land of my birth ! thy shores I long to tread !
In thought, my mother’s voice chides dull delay,
And lures me to my home, that long-lost scene;
But if again my footsteps there may stray
Say, shall I find it as it once hath been?
How dare I ask ? when well I know the scythe
Of restless Time is ever busy here ;
Perchance, and ‘neath the thought the heart must writhe,
That mother hath departed from this sphere!
Ulysses erst before his kindred stood
A stranger at his mansion quite forgot ;
How oft I muse in melancholy mood,
And fear, like his, may be my mournful lot.
I sadly stand alone too oft to sigh
‘When pondering on that land so far away ;
Alas! no kin are near me should I die,
There's none to sooth me in life's waning day.
A wanderer here, oh ! who for me would mourn,
If the vast sea of life should o'er me close ?
Home of my childhood ! may I safe retum
To thee, then smiling sink to my repose !
So daily grows my craving wish to see
My home, that I would almost dare the wave
On a frail plank, and risk my life as he
Whom e'en earth's conqueror admired as brave.*
If offered here no other prospect fair—
As a tired bird would seek its ark of rest,
To fold its weary wings—I’d hie me there,
To nestle in its bowers supremely blest !
I, who left home in childhood, with changed form
Will go to seek the spot of life’s glad morn ;
My mind will never bow unto the storm,
Long as home remains ‘tis not forlorn.
In the still night, amid the orange trees,
Or the tall palmy groves, I revel wild,
And hear the voice of love upon the breeze, —
Once more, in dreams, a free and happy child !
I wake —the city's din comes o'er my soul,
In place of India’s cataracts and streams ;
Fleet as a rack the charm doth from me roll,
Which lives for me but in my midnight dreams,
Just when my mother’s voice I seem to hear,
And greet her honied accents kind and bland,
Too oft my smile is wedded to a tear,
To find I yet am in the stranger's land!
The Odd Fellow’s Quarterly Magazine January 1842 - October 1843