George Moses Horton (Джордж Мозес Хортон)
The Southern Refugee
What sudden ill the world await,
From my dear residence I roam;
I must deplore the bitter fate,
To straggle from my native home.
The verdant willow droops her head,
And seems to bid a fare thee well;
The flowers with tears their fragrance shed,
Alas! their parting tale to tell.
’Tis like the loss of Paradise,
Or Eden’s garden left in gloom,
Where grief affords us no device;
Such is thy lot, my native home.
I never, never shall forget
My sad departure far away,
Until the sun of life is set,
And leaves behind no beam of day.
How can I from my seat remove
And leave my ever devoted home,
And the dear garden which I love,
The beauty of my native home?
Alas! sequestered, set aside,
It is a mournful tale to tell;
’Tis like a lone deserted bride
That bade her bridegroom fare thee well.
I trust I soon shall dry the tear
And leave forever hence to roam,
Far from a residence so dear,
The place of beauty—my native home.
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