Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

              The Quadroon Girl

                   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 gray alligator slide
                     Into the still bayou.

                   Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,
                     Reached 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 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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