Katherine D. Tillman, "Clotelle--A Tale of Florida" (1902)
Clotelle! Orange-blossoms, "A lover and a grave."
"Sweets to the sweet," and laurels for the brave!
Can I tell the story as it was told to me
Down in Florida by the deep murmuring sea?
Gentle muse, I now invoke thee,
Lend thy power while I shall tell
Men the story of a slave-maid
Of the bright-eyed slave Clotelle!
Light and tripping were her footsteps,
Beauteous both her face and form,
Yet no power could protect her
From the trader's golden charm.
Lived Clotelle on a plantation
Near the Gulf Stream's turbid wave
Lived through childhood's years unheeding;
She was but a helpless slave.
Sixteen years had lightly o'er her,
Tenderly o'er the maid had sped,
When the time came to Clotelle
That love's dreams her fancies led.
Cupid threw at her an arrow
Aimed at fair Clotelle his dart,
And love entered the recesses
Of her innocent young heart.
Dark her lover was and stately
As a prince of olden days,
And among slaves both old and young
Naught was heard of Pierre but praise.
Fate smiled on the poor slave lovers,
Oft they met in woodland bowers,
Oft exchanged love-vows in rapture
In those happy stolen hours.
Planned the two a little cabin,
Orange blossoms overhead,
Mocking-birds to lend their music;
Ah, those days too quickly sped!
But one day to the maiden
Sorrow, agony and shame,
For with words of subtile meaning
To her side her master, came.
Said the planter to the maiden,
"Thou art by far too fair to toil;
Hands like thine, so small and shapely,
Were not meant to till the soil."
"Come and be my loved companion,
Robed in silks and jewels rare;
'Tis no miser who entreats thee,
Come and all my riches share."
Shrank poor Clotelle from her master
With a countenance of shame,
While in low and tender accents
She sobbed forth her lover's name.
"I love Pierre, O worthy master,
And death with him beneath the sea
Would suit better far thy maiden
Than a life of shame with thee!"
Then the planter's brow grew clouded
And his voice both harsh and stern.
"If you thus my will defy, girl,
That I am your master you shall learn.
"You love Pierre, you say—my servant;
You prefer my slave to me,
Your love will but prove his ruin;
Never thou his bride wilt be."
Sank Clotelle's young heart with boding,
All her joy was turned to pain,
All the fond hopes she had cherished,
Vanished, ne'er to come again.
From that hour Pierre was doomed
By the planter's wish to die;
For he swore to see him hanging
Lifeless 'neath the southern sky.
At last accused of awful crime
Too hideous to breathe aloud,
Poor Pierre was hanged one fatal day,
Surrounded by a pitying crowd.
Clotelle gazed on him in anguish.
"Farewell, Pierre, my love," she cried.
"Farewell, sweet," to her he whispered,
Ere the fatal noose was tied.
When 'twas o'er, Clotelle stood silent,
Till her eyes the planter's met,
Then she ran like one demented,
Shrieking, "Pierre, thine am I yet."
Rushing to the water's edge,
Plunged she in its maddening foam,
And returned the planter, baffled,
To his princely, slave-bought home.
Rest in peace, Clotelle, sweet maiden;
Near the Gulf Stream's turbid wave,
Thou who for the love of virtue,
All untimely filled thy grave!
Published in Tillman, Recitations, 1902