Past Joys

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.