Page:Poems on slavery (IA poemsonslavery00long).pdf/35

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.