By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Odors of orange-flowers and spice
Reach them from time to time.
Like airs that breathe from Paradise
Upon a world of crime.
The planter under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The slavers 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 apraised
In timid attitude,
Like one half curious, half amazed,
A quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were like a falcons grey;
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garmet she wore save a kirtle gay,
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 know whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her viens.
But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maidens cheek,
Her hands were 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.