| |
| THE SLAVER in the broad lagoon | |
| Lay moored with idle sail; | |
| He waited for the rising moon, | |
| And for the evening gale. | |
| |
| Under the shore his boat was tied, | 5 |
| And all her listless crew | |
| Watched the gray alligator slide | |
| Into the still bayou. | |
| |
| Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, | |
| Reached them from time to time, | 10 |
| Like airs that breathe from Paradise | |
| Upon a world of crime. | |
| |
| The Planter, under his roof of thatch, | |
| Smoked thoughtfully and slow; | |
| The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch, | 15 |
| He seemed in haste to go. | |
| |
| He said, “My ship at anchor rides | |
| In yonder broad lagoon; | |
| I only wait the evening tides, | |
| And the rising of the moon.” | 20 |
| |
| Before them, with her face upraised, | |
| In timid attitude, | |
| Like one half curious, half amazed, | |
| A Quadroon maiden stood. | |
| |
| Her eyes were large, and full of light, | 25 |
| Her arms and neck were bare; | |
| No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, | |
| And her own long, raven hair. | |
| |
| And on her lips there played a smile | |
| As holy, meek, and faint, | 30 |
| As lights in some cathedral aisle | |
| The features of a saint. | |
| |
| “The soil is barren,—the farm is old,” | |
| The thoughtful planter said; | |
| Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold, | 35 |
| And then upon the maid. | |
| |
| His heart within him was at strife | |
| With such accursèd gains: | |
| For he knew whose passions gave her life, | |
| Whose blood ran in her veins. | 40 |
| |
| But the voice of nature was too weak; | |
| He took the glittering gold! | |
| Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek, | |
| Her hands as icy cold. | |
| |
| The Slaver led her from the door, | 45 |
| He led her by the hand, | |
| To be his slave and paramour | |
| In a strange and distant land! | |
| |
