The friends we've loved, the home we've left,
Will oftimes claim a tear;
And though of these we are bereft,
Will 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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem