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, He said, "My ship at anchor rides 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, No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And on her lips there played a smile 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, To be his slave and paramour THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,—when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! |