The friends we’ve loved, the home we’ve left,
Will ofttimes claim a tear;
And though of these we are bereft,
Still memory makes them dear.
And deep we feel each trifling ill,
Each sorrow of the soul:
But care we for the painful thrill,
That o’er some breasts doth roll?
Poor Afric’s son—ah! he must feel
How hard it is to part
From all he lov’d—from all that life
Had twined around his heart.
His is a sorrow deeper far,
Than all that we can show;
His is a lasting grief, o’er which
No healing balm can flow.
The mother, wife, or child he loved,
He ne’er shall see again;
To him they’re lost—ay, dead indeed:
What for him doth remain?
A feeling of deep wretchedness
Comes o’er his troubled soul;
The thoughts of home—of other days,
In painful visions roll.
His home—ah! that lov’d name recalls
All that was dear to him;
But these were scenes he’ll know no more—
He only feels they’ve been.