THE CARIB SEA
Swift was the craft that bore
Francisca from her shore;
Red-handed were its crew
And grim their sport.
Unbraided fell her hair,
A tropic cloud;
Seven days, with sob and prayer,
She mourned the dead;
Like rain her tears fell;
But Du Plessis right well
By saint and relic vowed
As on they sped.
Ere past the Mer du Nord
She smiled apace;
Her dark eyes evermore
Sought his alone.
Hot wooed the Chevalier;
His outlaw-priest was near:
Forsworn were home and race,
She was his own.
Now cruel Lolonnois
And fierce Le Basque
Unlade with wolfish joy
The cargazon;
Land all their ribald braves,
Captives and naked slaves,
With many a bale and cask,
By rapine won;
Armor and altar-plate
Brought over sea:
Pesos, a countless weight,
The horde divide—
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