Tasso, the pride, the victim of the Great, Who learned the value of their smile too late. Had shone in courts resplendent, and beneath A prison’s wall had drawn his painful breath, Sought his beloved Sorrento; for he fed A wild delirious hope that bade him tread, In search of peace, her groves, her spicy hills, And woo the balsam her soft air distils. Impetuous passion in his mind had wrought, And trenched it deep with many a bitter thought; Perchance the breeze that fans her rocky shore, The mournful measure of the plashing oar, Her blooming gardens that expanded lie, Breathing their citron fragrance to the sky, Her clustered almond trees, her sighing pines, Her founts of crystal, and her palmy wines, May lull its throb, its languid tone restore, And charm it back to all it was before. The poetess then describes the anguish he endured. This is all that we can extract for the reader’s recreation from the first Part or Canto of this meritorious poem, with the exception of a very touching ballad. The verses are supposed to be repeated by an Indian mother, over the grave of her departed child. Let us call them THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LAMENT. Twice falling snows have clad the earth; Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest; Since first I smiled upon thy birth, And felt thee breathing on my breast. Now snowy wreaths will melt away, And buds of red will shine around; But, heedless of the sunny ray, Thy form shall wither in the ground. Oft hath thy father dared the foe, And, while their arrows drank his blood, And round him lay his brothers low, Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood. But when he saw thee droop thy head, Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold, And from thy lip the scarlet fled, Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled. The land of souls lies distant far, And dark and lonely is the road; No ghost of night, no shining star, Shall guide me to thy new abode. Will some good Spirit to thee bring The milky fruits of cocoa-tree? To shield thee stretch his pitying wing? Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee? Oh! in the blue-bird’s shape descend, When broad magnolias shut their leaves! With evening airs thy lisping blend, And watch the tomb thy mother weaves! I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest, When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shine On Mississippi’s furrowed breast, By many a watery wreath entwined. But soon they rippled down the stream, To lave the stranger’s distant shore; One moment sparkled in the beam— Then saw their native banks no more.