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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,
And all her
listless crew
Watched the grey alligator slide
Into the still bayou.
Odours of oranfe-flowers, and
spice,
Reached them from time to time,
Like airs
thet 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,
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."
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,
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,
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,
And then
upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains;
For he knew whose passions
gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.
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,
He led her by the hand,
To be his
slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!
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