Jerusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  And doth the same mad violence display.

  XLVIII.

  Judgment and skill by rage are overborne,

  As frenzy fires and doth their force sustain.

  Ne’er falls the sword but cloven through or torn

  Is mail or corslet, steel ne’er strikes in vain;

  Strown is the ground with arms, the arms with gore,

  The gore with sweat: in that infuriate war

  Lightning in flash, loud thunder in the roar,

  Bolts in descent, their gleaming broad swords are.

  XLIX.

  In deep suspense the rival armies hung

  On that most novel and appalling sight.

  Now buoyed by hope, now by misgiving wrung,

  They watched the changes of that desperate fight;

  No sign was made, nor did the tongue express

  The deep anxiety on either part,

  But silent all remained and motionless:

  The only motion was the beating heart.

  L.

  Both were exhausted now, and perhaps the foes

  Had to untimely end, still battling, come,

  But that so black the shades of night uprose

  That things ev’n near were hidden in their gloom.

  At this from either side a herald sought

  To part them, which at length they did: the one

  Arldos, the other Pindoro, who brought

  The challenge, deemed a wise and prudent man.

  LI.

  They dared their peaceful sceptres interpose

  Between the combatants’ infuriate swords

  With that security, which ev’n ‘mid foes

  The law of nations to their class affords.

  ‘Brave soldiers, ye,”twas thus the latter spake,

  ‘Have gained like fame and are of equal might;

  Cease then the combat, nor unnatural, break

  The calm repose and purpose of the night.

  LII.

  ‘The time for travail is while shines the sun,

  But all creation hath repose at night,

  Nor do the noble value actions done

  In the dark, dumb obscurity of night.’

  Arganté answered him: ‘To quit the fray

  Ill-pleased I am, even for these shades obscure;

  I should prefer the evidence of day,

  But will this Christian his return insure?’

  LIII.

  ‘Wilt thou, too, promise,’ Prince Tancredi cried,

  ‘Here to return and bring thy prisoner back?

  As otherwise I can’t consent to bide

  Another season to conclude the attack.’

  Both swore; the heralds, who selected were

  To appoint the time the contest to renew

  (To give them time their forces to repair),

  Fixed the sixth morning, and at once withdrew.

  LIV.

  The frightful combat left profoundly impressed

  A sense of consternation and surprise

  In every Christian, every Pagan breast;

  It seemed to haunt their horror-stricken eyes:

  Of nought was spoken, save the nerve and might

  That in it either combatant displayed;

  But to whom give the honours of the fight,

  Was a moot subject of opinion made;

  LV.

  Uncertain what succession would entail

  The bloody horrors of that hard-fought field,

  If fury would o’er chivalry prevail,

  Or recklessness to real courage yield.

  But more than all who apprehensive are,

  Painful suspense the fair Erminia rends,

  Since on the issue of uncertain war

  A life far dearer than her own depends.

  LVI.

  She was the daughter of Cassano, who

  Dominion held o’er Antioch of yore,

  And when it fell before the Frank, she too,

  With other spoil, fell into Tancred’s power;

  But he behaved with such fine courtesy,

  That at his hands no wrong she suffered: e’en

  Amid the ruin of her country, she

  Was honoured as though still she were its queen.

  LVII.

  That chivalrous and noble cavalier

  Gave her her freedom, honoured her, obeyed,

  Leaving, with all that she esteemed most dear,

  Her wealth and jewels to the royal maid;

  Who, in his youthful person having found

  A princely soul combined with beauty rare,

  Fell deep in love; who firmer knot ne’er bound

  Than that with which he now encircled her.

  LVIII.

  Thus still in slavery her soul remained,

  Though to her body freedom was restored,

  And deeply was the enamoured princess pained

  To leave her prison and her darling lord;

  But sovran modesty, which never should

  Neglected be by proud magnanimous dame,

  Forced her departure from the neighbourhood,

  Whence with her mother she to Salem came,

  LIX.

  A friendly country, and was there received

  By the fell tyrant of the Hebrew state,

  But soon of her dear mother was bereaved,

  And mourned in orphan weeds her hapless fate.

  Still grief, though rankling ‘neath Death’s keenest dart,

  Could not, nor ev’n could banishment, remove

  The amorous longings of her stricken heart,

  Or quench the flame of her deep-rooted love.

  LX.

  She loved, she burned in secret, and became

  So sad and hopeless — wretched girl — that she

  Within her bosom fed the hidden flame,

  Far less of hope, alas! than memory.

  Since the more stifled, all the greater strength

  Her burning thoughts and smouldering fire possessed.

  To Salem’s walls Tancredi came at length,

  And woke fresh hopes in her despondent breast.

  LXI.

  The others, panic-struck beheld with awe

  Those fierce, unconquered legions burst in sight;

  But she cleared up her clouded brow and saw

  The haughty troops with ill-repressed delight,

  And many fond inquiring glances threw

  To try the dear one ‘mid that host to see;

  Oft sought in vain, oft recognised him too,

  Exclaiming eagerly, ‘That — that is he!’

  LXII.

  In the imperial palace, near the wall,

  An ancient tower o’erlooks the wide champaign,

  From whose high top one can distinguish all

  The Christian camp, the mountain and the plain.

  There from the dawn’s first blushes, until damp

  And gloomy night obscured the world, her eyes

  Moveless she fixed upon the Christian camp,

  Her thoughts communed with and outpoured her sighs;

  LXIII.

  Thence saw the fight, and was so deeply moved

  As she its changes watched with bated breath,

  That her heart seemed to whisper: ‘Thy beloved

  Is he that stands there in the risk of death,’

  Thus full of doubt and dread for her adored,

  She did each turn of the encounter feel;

  Each time the Pagan raised his cruel sword,

  Within her soul she felt the griding steel.

  LXIV.

  But when she heard the truth, and also heard

  That to the sword they must again appeal,

  By such strange terror was her bosom stirred,

  That into ice she felt her blood congeal.

  Now tears in secret the sad maiden shed,

  Now sobs ill-stifled told her heart-felt care:

  Pale, woebegone, from fright and grief half dead,

 
; She looked the incarnation of despair.

  LXV.

  With dreadful images her fancy teems,

  Which her repose disquiet and affright;

  Sleep is far worse than death, since in her dreams

  Such monstrous visions it presents: her knight,

  Her darling knight, she pictures in her mind,

  Mangled and bloody; his faint voice she hears

  Her aid imploring; when she wakes to find

  Her eyes and bosom bathed in real tears.

  LXVI.

  Nor was it alone of future ills the dread

  That with such painful movement stirred her breast;

  But grief for wounds that he already had,

  Prevents her soul obtaining any rest

  And the false rumours that around are rife

  The distant unknown facts so magnify,

  That on the very verge of failing life

  She sees the sick and languid warrior lie.

  LXVII.

  And since her mother had to her revealed

  The secret virtue that each herb contains,

  And by what potent charms all hurts are healed

  In wounded members, and assuaged their pains

  (An art which from old custom in that land,

  It seems king’s daughters jealously preserve);

  She wished to cure his wounds with her own hand,

  And to restore the dear one’s strength and nerve.

  LXVIII.

  To cure her dear Tancredi she desired,

  And yet was fated to relieve his foe;

  And for a moment her dark thoughts conspired

  With noxious herbs to poison him; but no!

  Her virgin hands recoiled from all foul arts,

  And she abstained such treacherous means to use,

  But wished at least within her heart of hearts,

  For him her simples might their virtue lose.

  LXIX.

  Nor dreaded she to pass through hostile hordes,

  Since as a pilgrim she had often seen

  The fire of battle and the flash of swords;

  And her past life so sorely tried had been,

  That now from habit her soft gentle mind

  Against its nature had intrepid grown,

  Nor was so easily to fear inclined,

  Or start at dangers where existed none.

  LXX.

  But fearless Love had, more than any cause,

  All terror banished from her tender breast:

  She deemed not poisonous snakes, nor sharpest claws

  Of Libyan lions, could her steps arrest;

  But still, if all regardless of her life,

  To guard her fame it did her sex behove,

  Since two great foes maintained a doubtful strife

  Within her heart: here Honour, and there Love.

  LXXI.

  ‘O gentle virgin,’ thus the former said,

  ‘Who hast till now my rigid laws observed,

  Reflect how I, when thou wert captive made,

  Thy mind and limbs in chastity preserved;

  And wilt thou, free, with maiden honour part,

  So closely guarded in captivity?

  Ah, who has roused such feelings in thy heart?

  What thoughts mislead, what hopes inveigle thee?

  LXXII.

  ‘Dost deem the worth of chastity so low,

  And maiden modesty so little prize,

  As nightly paramour mid strangers go

  And read thy shame in their contemptuous eyes?

  Whence the disdainful conqueror may say,

  Thy royal mind left with thy royalty,

  Let others take such vulgar common prey,

  I yield thee up, thou art not worthy me.’

  LXXIII.

  The sophist Love upon the other part

  By these allurements led her fancy on:

  ‘Not born, fair girl, of savage bear thou art,

  Nor sprung from rugged and unfeeling stone,

  That Cupid’s torch and quiver thou shouldst spurn,

  Or fly the soft inthralment of his flame;

  Thy heart’s not made of adamant, to turn

  His darts aside, or deem his calling shame.

  LXXIV.

  ‘Go then where’er Desire allureth thee.

  Unkind perhaps thy conqueror appears?

  Thou little know’st his sympathies, how he

  Grieves with thy grief and weepeth with thy tears.

  Tis thou art unkind, that with such sluggish will

  Movest to tend thy love, who scarce survives;

  Tancredi sinks, and yet thou sittest still

  To watch, ungrateful, over others’ lives,

  LXXV.

  ‘Yes! heal Arganté that his murderous blade

  The readier death of thy deliverer be;

  Thus were thy heavy obligations paid,

  Thus were returned his courtesies to thee!

  But can it be thou dost not feel the vice

  And degradation of that office so,

  That its mere horror should alone suffice

  To wing thy flight from thy friend’s mortal foe?

  LXXVI.

  ‘But on the other side, the task how grand!

  How great would be thy joy and thy delight

  To lay thy soothing sympathetic hand

  Upon the bosom of the valorous knight!

  And to behold his cheeks, now pale and wan,

  Regain their roses ‘neath thy care, and view

  That noble beauty, now so nearly gone,

  Its former bloom, as if thy gift, renew!

  LXXVII.

  ‘Then thou wouldst be a partner of his fame,

  His glory share, so lofty and renowned;

  Wouldst bear in marriage his illustrious name,

  And loyal love thy happiness had crowned,

  Then, pointed out and honoured, wouldst repair

  To lovely Italy’s enchanting plains

  (Midst Latin wives and Latin mothers), where

  True valour lives and true religion reigns.’

  LXXVIII.

  Flattered by such fond hopes, (deluded maid!)

  She pictured to herself joy most intense.

  But in a thousand doubts involved, oft weighed

  How she securely could depart from thence,

  Since sentries on the alert patrolled around

  The palace, and upon the walls kept guard;

  Nor, in such risk of war, was ever found

  Without grave cause a single gate unbarred.

  LXXIX.

  Erminia with the lovely Amazon

  Was oft accustomed to prolong her stay;

  Together saw them the declining sun,

  Together saw them the ascending day,

  And when he had his daily circuit run,

  Their rest sometimes a single bed supplied,

  Nor any thought, except of love alone,

  Did either maiden from the other hide,

  LXXX.

  This fair Erminia did to none impart,

  And if at times Clorinda heard her mourn,

  To other cause she ascribed her heavy heart:

  It seemed as though she wept her fate forlorn.

  Each to the other without let could come,

  So close their friendship was; and never closed

  Against Erminia was Clorinda’s room,

  Whether she had gone forth or there reposed.

  LXXXI.

  One day she went, when in another part

  Clorinda was, and paused in deep suspense,

  Revolving in herself the means and art

  By which to escape in secrecy from thence;

  And while her thoughts in restless wild alarms

  By various plans distracted were, she spied,

  Suspended from aloft, her glittering arms

  And snowy cloak: she saw them and she sighed.

  LXXXII.

  And sighing said, in admira
tion lost,

  ‘How happy is that brave intrepid fair!

  Oh, how I envy her! but not the boast

  And woman’s pride of loveliness so rare;

  No envious cell confines her valour, no!

  Nor cumbrous robes retard the heroic dame:

  She dons her arms, and if she wish to go,

  She goes; no fear restrains her and no shame.

  LXXXIII.

  ‘Ah, why did Heaven and partial Nature fail

  Me to endow with such stout limbs and breast,

  That I might too my woman’s robe and veil

  Exchange for corselet and for nodding crest?

  Then neither storm, nor rain, nor heat, nor cold

  Had stopped me from going armèd to the camp,

  Attended, or alone and uncontrolled,

  Or by Apollo’s rays or Dian’s lamp.

  LXXXIV.

  ‘Then thou hadst not been, Saracen abhorred,

  The first to battle with you cavalier,

  Since I had sprung to meet my darling lord,

  Who now perhaps my captive prisoner were.

  Then slavery’s chain — but oh! how sweet and light —

  Around him I, his loving foe, had thrown,

  And by the bonds that kept him prisoner, might

  Have felt relieved the burden of my own.

  LXXXV.

  ‘Or were my side pierced by his gentle hand,

  Or by him bared again my stricken heart,

  At least his cruel, though unconscious brand,

  Had cured the wound inflicted by Love’s dart;

  Then had my mind and wearied body gained

  Eternal rest, and pitying my doom,

  The victor perhaps had to my ashes deigned

  The tribute of his tears and of a tomb.

  LXXXVI.

  ‘But ah! I wish impossibilities,

  And lose myself amid mad thoughts in vain.

  Shall I then here in this sad frightened guise,

  As one unworthy of my rank, remain?

  No, no, not I! Confide, my heart, and dare;

  Why should I not for once take arms, and try

  For a short time their heavy load to bear,

  Though tender and effeminate am I?

  LXXXVII.

  ‘Yes, yes I will. Love casteth out all fear,

  And on the weakest sovran strength bestows.

  Inspired by it, ev’n the unwarlike deer

  Is armed with ardour, and to battle goes.

  But not to war I go: these arms so prized

  For an ingenious fraud I would procure;

  I want to feign Clorinda, since disguised

  Under her likeness, my departure is sure.

  LXXXVIII.

  ‘Nor will the sentries of the portals be

  So bold as her commands to disobey.

  I think and think, nor other mode can see;

  This seems the only practicable way.

  Now Fortune, aid my innocent deceit,

  And Love that didst inspire me with the ways;

  Well suited is the hour for my retreat,