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 accursèd 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!