Jerusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  Hence burned and breached are the most lofty walls,

  Hence armèd legions scattered are and slain.

  LXXXV

  ‘Hence courage takes its birth, and hope we greet,

  Not from our forces, fragile and fatigued;

  Not from Frank arms, not from the friendly fleet,

  Not from the Greeks, if altogether leagued.

  So long as God his ægis arm extends,

  Though all else fail us, we are not dismayed;

  Who knows both how it strikes and how defends,

  In danger’s hour requires no other aid.

  LXXXVI

  ‘But should our sins or secret judgment doom

  Us to the want of His almighty aid,

  Which of us would not die to have his tomb

  Where his Redeemer’s hallowed limbs were laid?

  Then die we will, nor envy those that live;

  Then die we will, nor unrevengèd die;

  Nor at our fate her smiles will Asia give,

  Nor will our death extract from us one sigh.

  LXXXVII

  ‘Yet think not we a state of peace refuse,

  As one avoids or fears a mortal fight,

  Or that we wish thy liege’s love to lose,

  Or that alliance with his arms we slight

  But about Judah why so careful? lies

  It subject to his rule? Let him then cease

  To thwart us further in our enterprise,

  And his own subjects rule in tranquil peace.’

  LXXXVIII

  Stung was Arganté to the very core

  At Godfrey’s answer; nor could longer hide

  His rampant fury, but advanced before

  The captain, and with tumid lips replied:

  ‘Who wills not peace shall have his glut of war;

  There lack not causes to unsheathe the sword.

  All thoughts of peace thou must indeed abhor,

  To slight the terms now offered by our lord.’

  LXXXIX

  Then took his mantle by the skirt, and made

  With it an urn, which he held forth and burst

  Into still greater fury, and inveighed

  In tones still more despiteful than at first:

  ‘Thou who success wouldst hazard on a die,

  Lo, War and Peace within this urn I bear.

  Thine the selection be — quick, quick reply!

  Take which thou wilt, and further parley spare.’

  XC

  His taunting attitude and words moved all

  To shout for ‘War’ with simultaneous cry.

  They paused not even for their general,

  The chivalrous Prince Godfrey, to reply.

  Unfolding then the urn, he shook his cloak:

  ‘To mortal war I challenge you,’ he cried,

  And with such fierce and impious gesture spoke,

  That Janus’ portals seemed to open wide.

  XCI

  It seemed he poured forth from the fatal urn

  Fierce Discord and mad Fury on the land,

  And seemed in his malignant eyes to bum

  Alecto’s and Megæra’s flaming brand.

  Such looked that mighty one, who to the skies

  Erected Error’s giant pile, and even

  So Babel saw his proud defiant eyes

  Menace with scornful look the unheeding Heaven.

  XCII

  Then Godfrey added: ‘To your king repair

  With this my answer, that he come; meanwhile

  Accepted is the war which ye declare,

  And should he fail, to expect us at the Nile.’

  He then dismissed them in most courteous guise,

  And honoured them with gifts of choice display:

  To Alethes gave a helmet — a rich prize,

  Seized at Nicea with the other prey.

  XCIII

  A sword upon Arganté he bestowed,

  Whose hilt with gold and jewels was embossed;

  And tho’ with lavish brilliancy it glowed,

  Its value in the workmanship was lost.

  But when he had examined narrowly

  How rich the sheath was, and the blade how fine,

  He said to Godfrey: ‘Thou wilt shortly see

  How I will use this precious gift of thine,’

  XCIV

  He then took leave, and to his comrade—’ Now

  Let us set off at once, our mission done,

  I towards Jerusalem, towards Egypt thou;

  I at eve’s close, and thou at rise of sun.

  No need there is of me or of my art,

  Where thou returnest to spread war’s alarms;

  Bear thou the answer then: I’ll not depart

  When honour, trumpet-tongued, invites to arms.’

  XCV

  Arrived ambassador, he leaves as foe.

  Was it a timely or untimely haste

  That had offended ancient use, or no?

  He recks not, nor a single thought doth waste,

  Nor heeds reply; but, chafing at delay,

  By friendly silence of the stars proceeds

  To the high ramparts; while no less their stay

  Ill borne impatience in the army breeds.

  XCVI

  Tis night! The winds are hushed, the waters still,

  And the mute world is wrapped in death-like sleep;

  The wearied animals — the fish that fill

  Clear lakes, or tenant the unfathomed deep;

  The beasts concealed in fold or crouched in lair,

  The painted songsters in oblivion gay,

  ‘Neath the deep horrors of the lightless air

  Appease their hearts, and dream their cares away.

  XCVII

  But not the pious chief nor faithful camp

  Gives way to sleep, or for a moment rests;

  To see the welcome dawn relume her lamp

  Creates such longing in their eager breasts

  That their approach it might illumined make

  To Salem’s walls, the goal of their Crusade:

  They watch each moment for one ray to break

  And pierce the gloom of night’s invidious shade.

  CANTO III.

  I

  ALREADY was awake the herald air

  To announce that fair Aurora ‘gan to rise,

  Who decked herself and wreathed her golden hair

  With fresh-blown roses culled in Paradise;

  When from the camp, ere yet reveillée rung,

  There rose a murmur from the deep-toned throats

  Of arming thousands. The shrill trumpet’s tongue

  Then pealed forth livelier and more tuneful notes.

  II

  The wise commander with paternal care,

  Directs their bent and regulates their force;

  Since much more easy near Charybdis ‘twere

  To turn the rolling billows from their course,

  Or Boreas check when down the Apennines

  It sweeps, engulfing vessels in the sea.

  He orders, starts, by trumpet rules the lines

  Rapidly — still by rule, though rapidly.

  III

  Winged are their eager hearts and winged their feet;

  Unconscious of their speed, on, on, they fly.

  But when the ascending sun with fervent heat

  Had struck the arid plains and risen on high,

  Lo! fair Jerusalem appears in sight,

  Lo! countless fingers point there, and exclaim

  Ten thousand voices that in one unite,

  ‘Hail! Hail! Jerusalem, Jerusalem!’

  IV

  Thus, when a crew of hardy mariners

  Lured by the hope of new discovery, finds

  Upon uncertain seas, ‘neath unknown stars,

  Fallacious waters and deceptive winds,

  If they at length behold the wished-for land

  Afar salute it with exultant cries;

  E
ach points it out to each with eager hand,

  Forgetting his past toils and miseries.

  V

  To the great pleasure which that first fond look

  Of Salem’s walls excited in each breast,

  Succeeded deep contrition that partook

  Of fear and reverence, by whose weight oppressed

  They scarcely dared lift up their longing gaze

  To where Christ chose to fix His earthly reign,

  There where He died, and where He buried was,

  And where triumphantly He rose again.

  VI

  The mute appeal, the supplicating voice,

  The broken sobs, the plaintive wailing sighs

  Of those still grieving ev’n as they rejoice,

  Cause such a murmur through the air to rise

  As in dense forests strikes the traveller’s ear,

  When through its leaves the blasts of autumn pour;

  Or as when dashed upon the rocks we hear

  With hollow boom the broken billows roar.

  VII

  Barefoot the soldiers tread the hallowed path,

  Each by his captain’s meek example led;

  His silken scarf and haughty crest each hath

  Straightway removed from his now humbled head,

  And with it cast aside his heart’s proud dress,

  While warm repentant tears his eyes suffuse.

  Yet as if such could not his grief express,

  Each thus repining doth himself accuse:

  VIII

  ‘What! where Thou didst, O Lord! bedew the earth,

  With countless bloody rivers, may not I

  At least two living rivulets pour forth

  Of bitter drops in such sad memory?

  Art made of ice, my heart, as not to leak

  Distilled in tears through these mine eyes? Art thou

  So made of stone as not dissolve and break?

  Thou ‘dst aye deserve to weep, if tearless now.’

  IX

  Meanwhile the watch that from a tower descries

  The mountains and the plain, beheld down there

  The circling dust in such dense volumes rise,

  That a cloud seemed imprinted in the air:

  It seemed to flash with lurid light and blaze,

  As pregnant with fierce flames and lightning’s force

  Now marked the sheen of steel’s refulgent rays,

  And now distinguished even man and horse.

  X

  Doubting no more, he raised the loud alarm:

  ‘What dust I see, and how it seems to shine!

  Up, up, O citizens! arm, quickly arm!

  And for defence the embattled ramparts line,

  The foe’s already here: ‘and then more loud,

  ‘Haste to your arms! arise, I say arise!

  Behold the enemy, he’s here; you cloud

  Of lurid dust behold that veils the skies.’

  XI

  Unarmed old age, and simple innocence,

  The crowd of women smitten with despair,

  Unfitted for attack or for defence,

  Mournful and suppliant to the mosques repair.

  The rest, who on stout hearts and hands depend,

  Snatch up their trusty arms; some man the wall,

  Others rush off the portals to defend;

  The king goes round, provides, and sees to all

  XII

  He gave his orders quickly and withdrew,

  Where ‘twixt two gates a turret soars on high, (2)

  So that in need he’s near, and whence the view

  Of each high land seems lower to the eye.

  Thither he bade Erminia to repair,

  Lovely Erminia whom his court received

  When the Frank troops had captured Antioch, where

  She was of her dear sire, the king, bereaved.

  XIII

  Clorinda then spurred forth to meet the Franks, (3)

  Many went with her, but she led them all,

  While at the sally-port Arganté ranks

  His troops for rescue, should she backward fall:

  Nor failed the fair her followers to incite

  By her bold words and bearing for the fray.

  ‘By good beginnings,’ she exclaimed, ‘’tis right

  That we found Asia’s future hopes to-day.’

  XIV

  Even as she spoke, not distant far was seen

  A troop of Franks removing rustic prey.

  They, as their wont, a foraging had been,

  And with their spoil now campwards bent their way.

  She against them, and in a fatal hour

  ‘Gainst her advanced their chief, who marked her course —

  Gardo by name, a soldier of great power,

  But yet not one that could resist her force.

  XV.

  By that fierce shock Gardo was hurled afar

  Upon the earth, ‘neath Franks’ and Pagans’ eyes;

  At which the latter shout, and of the war

  Infer propitious but false auguries;

  Then spurring on, she closed in with the rest.

  Equal to hundreds her sole arm appeared,

  While her bold followers through the passage pressed,

  Which her fierce charge had oped, and broad sword cleared.

  XVI.

  Soon from the spoiler is redeemed the spoil,

  And slow fell back the Franks until they found

  A hill on which they rallied for a while,

  Being there supported by the rising ground.

  Then as a whirlwind is unloosed, or falls

  A thunderbolt from the offended skies,

  The gallant Tancred, to whom Godfred calls,

  Couches his lance and to the rescue flies;

  XVII.

  And bears so firmly its great weight, and seems,

  Though young, so brave and graceful in the fight,

  That, watching from on high, the tyrant deems

  Amid the choicest he’s a chosen knight.

  Whence to the maiden at his side he cries

  (Whose breast already did strong tremors feel),

  ‘From such long habit thou must recognise

  Each Christian knight, although encased in steel;

  XVIII.

  ‘Who then is he who doth the rest eclipse

  In graceful port, and doth so fierce appear?’

  Mute was Erminia’s tongue, but to her lips

  Sprang a soft sigh, and to her lids a tear:

  Though checking somewhat both her tears and sighs,

  She still perceptible emotion shows,

  Since a red circle stained her pregnant eyes,

  And a deep sigh but half suppressed arose.

  XIX.

  Then answered, but equivocating was, —

  And other passion hid ‘neath hate’s disguise:

  ‘Ah me! I know him well, and have good cause

  Amid a thousand him to recognise,

  Since I have often seen him strew the ground

  And fill the trenches with my people’s gore.

  Ah me! how cruel are his blows; the wound

  He gives, no herb, no magic can restore.

  XX.

  ‘Tancredi is his name. Ah would he were

  My captive once! I do not wish him dead;

  I want him living, that my fierce desire

  By sweet revenge might be alleviated.’

  While speaking thus, the truth her language shaped,

  Was by the king in other meaning ta’en;

  And, mingling with her closing words, escaped

  A deep-drawn sigh which she repressed in vain.

  XXI.

  Clorinda, meanwhile, with her lance in rest,

  Dashed forth to meet Tancredi. As they closed,

  Each struck the other fiercely on the crest,

  And by the shock she was in part exposed,

  Since rent her helmet’s straps; from
off her head

  It with a bound (oh, wondrous stroke) did fall,

  And as the breeze her golden locks outspread,

  A youthful damsel she appeared to all.

  XXII.

  Then flashed her eyes, and shone her lightning glance;

  Sweet even in wrath, what were it an she smiled?

  What think’st of, Tancred? That fair countenance

  Forgettest thou, that so thy heart beguiled?

  This is the face that burned thee to the core,

  As it — since there its image lives — can tell;

  This same is she whom thou beheld’st of yore

  Her brow refreshing at the lonely well.

  XXIII.

  He who at first had not remarked her crest

  And blazoned shield, stood petrified, while she,

  Covering her head as best she could, still pressed

  The fierce assault; and back retreated he,

  And against others whirled his cruel brand,

  Yet not the less obtained her grace. She cried,

  Him following with loud menace, ‘Turn and stand,’

  And to a double death her foe defied.

  XXIV.

  Though struck the knight, he striketh not, nor seeks

  So much his personal safety from the foe

  As to behold her lovely eyes and cheeks,

  Whence Cupid bends his unavoidable bow;

  And to himself: ‘Void are at times the blows

  That her armed hand delivers, but each dart

  Launched from her fair and unarmed features goes

  Straight to its goal, and penetrates my heart.’

  XXV.

  Of pity hopeless, he resolved at length

  To tell his passion, nor in silence die,

  And let her know she threw away her strength

  On one already in captivity;

  Whence, ‘Cruel maid, that seem’st to have,’ he cried,

  ‘Me for thy foe alone of all these swarms,

  Retire we from this turmoil, and aside

  In mortal strife make trial of our arms:

  XXVI.

  ‘Then will be seen if my strength equals thine.’

  To his request Clorinda gave assent,

  Nor at the loss of helmet did repine,

  But boldly she, while he disheartened, went.

  Prepared for battle stood the martial maid,

  And had already struck the enamoured knight,

  When ‘Hold, and let us make,’ Tancredi said,

  ‘In the first place conditions for the fight.’

  XXVII.

  She stayed her arm; wild feelings of despair

  A reckless courage to the knight impart.

  ‘Since,’ he exclaimed, ‘all peace thou dost forswear,

  The terms shall be that thou pluck out my heart.

  My heart, no more mine own, if not thy will

  That it should live, a willing victim dies;

  ’Tis thine long since, nor is the moment ill