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 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!

GONE, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air--
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
>From Virginia's hills and waters--
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone,
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
>From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again--
There no brother's voice shall greet them,
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone,
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
>From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play;
>From the cool spring where they drank;
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank;
>From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there--
Gone, gone,
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!
Gone, gone,
Gone, gone--sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
By the holy love He beareth,
By the bruised reed He spareth,
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love!
Gone, gone,