Words by Longfellow. Theme from the Indian Maid.

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The Slaver in the broad lagoon,
Lay moored with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.
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.
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 far and distant land.