If by compassion for my sorrows moved Î
Receive me then, if merciful thou art,
Nor the sweet shelter of thy roof refuse;
It may be, ‘mid these tranquil shades, my heart
Some portion of its death-like weight may lose.
XVI.
‘If gold and jewels, which the world adores
As if its god, find favour in thy sight,
Thou canst, since of them I have ample stores,
Content and glut thee to thy heart’s delight.’
To her bright eyes at this her sorrow rose,
In drops of crystal that fell trickling down;
She half revealed her fortunes. At her woes
His tears the shepherd mingled with her own,
XVII.
And instigated by paternal zeal,
Her welcomed and consoled in her despair.
And to his wife, whom Heaven had taught to feel
For others’sorrows, led the royal fair;
Who clothed herself in peasant’s rude disguise,
And in coarse turban her gold tresses hound,
Tho’ every movement of her limbs and eyes
Her for a tenant of the woods disowned.
XVIII.
Her noble look no garment could disguise,
Nor her refined and stately manner spoil;
Her innate dignity all recognise,
Ev’n through the movements of her lowly toil.
At morn she leads to pasture in the shaws,
At eve to fold brings back the lowing herds,
From their coarse teats the milky treasure draws,
Which, whisking round, she presses into curds.
XIX.
Oft, when the flocks lay stretched beneath the shade,
To shun the heat of the sun’s noontide flame,
On beech or laurel the enamoured maid
In countless forms inscribed the one loved name.
Thus of a thousand trees the graven barks
Her ill-starred passion’s hapless issue told;
And as each time she saw the tell-tale marks,
Down her fair cheeks the pearly tear-drops rolled.
XX.
Ah, friendly trees,’ exclaimed the weeping maid,
‘Preserve this tale of one who loved too well,
That, should it hap beneath your grateful shade
Some fond and faithful swain should ever dwell,
He in his heart may feel compassion bum
At the sad record of my woes, and cry,
Alas! what cruel, what unjust return,
Gave Fate and Love to such fidelity!
XXI.
‘It ev’n may chance, if kindly heavens attend
To mortals’ earnest and affectionate prayers,
That to this forest he at times may wend,
He who perhaps for me but little cares;
And his eyes casting on the silent tomb
Where the frail relics of Erminia lie,
May tardy tribute to her martyrdom
Pay, in one pitying tear, one passing sigh.
XXII.
‘Whence if in life my heart has wretched been,
Death may my spirit with some bliss endow,
And my cold ashes that sweet solace glean,
Which to enjoy is not permitted now.’
From her eyes’ teeming founts sad tears she shed,
As the deaf trunks thus fondly she addressed.
Meanwhile away from her by Fortune led,
Still in pursuit of her, Tancredi pressed.
XXIII.
And following up the footprints freshly made,
His course directed to a neighbouring wood;
But there so dark, so dense fell down the shade
From the thick horrent foliage, that he could
No longer, ‘mid the increasing gloom, select
The recent footmarks, and in doubt proceeds,
Listening with ear attentive, to detect
The clank of armour or the tramp of steeds.
XXIV.
Ev’n did the breath of evening faintly shake
The aspen branches of the elm or beech,
Or did a bird or beast but stir the brake,
That little noise he strove at once to reach.
At last he issued from the wood, and erred
Thro’ paths unknown, led by the moon’s bright beam,
Towards a faint sound he in the distance heard,
Until he reached the spot from whence it came,
XXV.
Arriving where, in lavish overflow,
Clear waters burst forth from the living rock,
And to a river grown, leaped down below,
Thro’ banks of emerald green, with noisy shock.
Here he dejected halts, and pensive calls:
He calls; nor aught save Echo’s voice replies.
Meanwhile he sees from out her orient halls
The dawn in white and vermeil beauty rise.
XXVI.
Downcast, he groans, and rails in his despair
‘Gainst Heaven, which his great happiness denies,
And for his mistress doth loud vengeance swear,
Should she receive the slightest injuries.
He then decided to retrace his way
Campwards, tho’ knowing not what course to steer;
Since he remembered that approached the day
When he should meet the Egyptian cavalier.
XXVII.
He left; and while ‘mid cross roads wandering,
Heard the approach of horse, near and more near;
At length perceived from out the valley spring
One that did like a courier appear.
A whip he shook, and from his shoulders hung
A horn that reached his flank, as is our mode.
Tancredi asked him, in the Syrian tongue,
To the Crusaders’ camp the shortest road.
XXVIII.
He in Italian: ‘Thither am I bent,
Despatched post haste by Boëmond.’ Deceived,
Him Tancred followed, deeming he was sent
By his great uncle, and the cheat believed.
At length they reached a stagnant lake, amid
Whose poisonous waters a proud castle lay,
Just at the moment when, his glory hid
In the broad nest of night, down sank the day.
XXIX.
Arrived, the courier wound his bugle horn,
And straight was seen a drawbridge to descend.
‘Here thou canst tarry till to-morrow morn,
If,’ said he, ‘Latin, or the Christian’s friend.
From the fierce Pagan Count Cosenza took
This island fort, not three days since it fell.’
The place, as there Tancredi fixed his look,
Its site and art had made impregnable.
XXX.
A doubt he felt that some mysterious snare
Might lurk concealed within so strong a place;
But since accustomed risks of death to dare,
He expressed it not, nor showed it by his face:
Where’er by choice or fortune led, the knight
Alone for safety on his arm relies;
Still for another fray his promised plight
Him rendered loth to any new emprise.
XXXI.
He therefore paused before the citadel,
In a broad meadow on the other side,
Where the curved drawbridge, stretching over, fell,
And though invited, followed not his guide;
When, lo! on it a belted cavalier,
Of savage and exasperated look,
Who with his right hand grasped a naked spear,
In this despiteful, threatening language spoke:
XXXII.
‘O thou that com’st from fancy of thine own,
Or led by Fortune to Armida’s lands,
Renounce all thoughts of
flight, thy arms lay down,
And in her fetters place thy captive hands;
Enter within her closely-guarded wall,
Nor hope again to see the light of day
(This the condition she prescribes to all),
Though years roll by, though thy brown locks turn grey,
XXXIII.
‘Unless thou swear her forces to augment,
And march ‘gainst those that bear Christ’s hated name.’
His eyes on him who spoke Tancredi bent,
And speech and arms both recognised: the same
False Gascon renegade, Rambaldo, who
Fled with Armida, and for her became
Pagan and, sole of all the true, untrue,
The rites defended of that impious dame.
XXXIV.
The pious soldier blushed with holy scorn
As thus he answered him: ‘Vile traitor, know
I am that Tancred who for aye has borne
The sword for Christ, and am His foeman’s foe;
And through His grace His rebels have subdued,
As when we close in combat thou shalt see;
Since this right hand, with Heaven’s own wrath indued,
Selected is for vengeance upon thee.’
XXXV.
The apostate soldier at that glorious name
Confounded stood; the colour left his cheek;
Yet still concealing his alarm and shame,
He cried: ‘Why dost thou thy destruction seek?
Here, wretched, vainly will thy strength be spent,
Low in the dust will thy haught head be seen,
And as a present to Prince Godfred sent,
Unless I am changed from what I have ever been.’
XXXVI.
Thus spoke the Pagan, and since light of day
Was so obscured that one could scarcely see,
Such numerous lamps blazed forth around, that they
The air illumined with great brilliancy;
The castle shone as on the stage appears
Amid nocturnal pomp the glowing scene,
And from a lofty part Armida hears,
And sees, while she remains herself unseen.
XXXVII.
Meanwhile prepared the noble cavalier
His arms and courage for the angry fight,
And vaulted off his feeble distrier,
His foeman seeing on foot. In act to smite
Rambaldo came, unsheathed his falchion shone,
And clad he was in armature entire.
To meet him dashed irate Tancredi on,
With voice of thunder, and with eyes of fire.
XXXVIII.
That locked in armour, moved in circles wide,
And fenced and feigned and simulated blows;
This though his limbs were faint and weary, tried
To approach and with his treacherous foeman close,
And still continued, as he still drew back,
To follow on in hot and eager chase,
And thundering, forcing, pressing the attack,
His sword oft drove at the apostate’s face;
XXXIX.
But more than elsewhere struck impetuously
Where Nature has the parts most vital set;
Aye aggravating fear by injury,
And blows by many an imperious threat
Here, there, his lissome limbs upon the field
The nimble Gascon turned, to avoid each blow,
Seeking with sword or with uplifted shield
To ward the strokes of his infuriate foe.
XL.
But he was not so ready in defence,
As was the other active to assail;
Cleft is his shield, his helmet all in rents,
Transfixed and bloody his bright coat of mail,
Nor did a blow from his false arm descend,
That did not its inefficacy prove.
He shakes with fear, as in his heart contend
Despite, remorse, shame-consciousness and love.
XLI.
With desperate courage he resolved at last
His desperate fortunes on a die to set;
He flung his buckler from him, and griped fast
With both his hands his sword, unblooded yet,
Then darted in and grappled with his foe,
And struck; nor was there any armour could
Resist the power of that tremendous blow:
It maimed his thigh, whence spurted streams of blood.
XLII.
Then struck again; resounding like a bell,
Rang the fierce stroke upon his ample brow,
Nor cleft his casque, tho’ with such force it fell,
That he recoiled and staggered from the blow;
The prince’s cheeks became inflamed with ire,
With wrathful lightning his red eye-balls flashed;
Forth from his visor darted looks of fire,
And his clenched teeth with maddened fury gnashed.
XLIII.
The perjured Pagan could not long sustain
The terror his ferocious looks expressed;
He hears the whistling steel — thro’ every vein
It seemed to penetrate his inmost breast
The stroke he shims, which on a pillar falls,
That of the flying drawbridge formed a part,
Whence sparks and splinters fly to heaven, and crawls
An icy shudder thro’ the traitor’s heart.
XLIV.
Back to the bridge he flies, in flight alone
His only prospect of escape reposing.
Tancred pursues, and lays his hand upon
The craven’s back, as foot with foot is closing
When lo! (great succour for the fugitive)
The stars and torches disappear on high,
Nor in the night now lustreless survive
Ev’n the moon’s beams to light the barren sky.
XLV.
Lost amid witchcraft and the shades of night,
The victor persevered not in pursuit;
Around — before — there was no gleam of light,
And he groped on with doubtful, cautious foot;
Then stepped upon the threshold, undesigned,
Nor knew he had passed the entrance, until he
Heard the portcullis crashing down behind,
And found himself in dark captivity.
XLVI.
As fishes rush where in Comacchio’s creek
A marshy inlet the Adriatic forms,
To escape the ocean’s ruthless waves, and seek
In those still waters refuge from its storms, —
It haps that they are by themselves shut in,
Nor from their fenny prison-house can dart,
Since that unique enclosure, like a gin,
Admits all comers, but lets none depart.
XLVII.
Tancredi so, whate’er the springs that bound
The wondrous prison, of machine and art,
Entered with ease, but to his horror found
That, though he wished, he could not thence depart.
He shook the gate with all his might and main,
But were his labours scattered to the wind.
Meanwhile a voice exclaimed, ‘Thou striv’st in vain,
Armida’s captive can no exit find.
XLVIII.
‘Here thou wilt pass (of death there is no fear)
Within a living tomb thy future days.’
No answer deigned the haughty cavalier,
Nor the deep anguish of his heart betrays;
But inwardly accuses love and fate,
His own improvidence and others’ snare,
And mournfully began to meditate:
‘To lose the sun’s bright beams I little care;
XLIX.
‘But of a brighter sun the sweeter sight
I wretched lose, not knowing if I e’er
Shall
back return where her diviner light
May dissipate the clouds of my despair.’
Then of Arganté thought, and conscious burned:
‘I have failed too much in duty, and my name
Most justly by my foeman will be spumed.
Oh, my great fault! oh, my eternal shame!’
L.
While biting care of love and honour’s claim
Did thus Tancredi’s noble soul distress,
Impatient the Circassian knight became
The downy pillow of his couch to press.
Such hate of peace his cruel bosom steeled,
Such thirst for blood and such desire for praise,
That though his wounds were not entirely healed,
He burned to see the sixth mom’s welcome rays;
LI.
And on the night preceding the attack
Scarce dosed his eyes to get a moment’s rest,
But rose, while all around him was still black,
Long ere the dawn had gilt the mountain’s crest,
‘Bring me my arms,’ he thundered to his squire,
Who had them ready for a sudden shift;
Not his accustomed ones — this suit entire
Was the king’s present — a most costly gift.
LII.
Around him them most heedlessly he flung,
Nor in the least appeared their weight to feel,
And at his side his wonted sabre hung,
Antique, and tempered of the finest steel.
Then as a comet, with ensanguined hair,
Which realms upsets and fierce diseases brings,
Sparkles at times in the parched sweltering air.
Light of ill omen to empurpled kings,
LIII.
So flashed in arms the Turk; his scowling eyes
Grimly he rolled, all drunk with blood and ire;
Death and destruction his black looks premise,
His savage gestures dread of death inspire.
None could such strength or such reliance feel
As, without trembling, ev’n one glance sustain;
Shouting, he raised and shook the naked steel,
And struck the shades and yielding air in vain.
LIV.
‘Soon shall the Christian plunderer,’ he cried,
‘That has with me the boldness to compare,
Fall on you plain, in crimson torrents dyed,
And in the dust begrime his flowing hair,
And living, see, spite of his God, this hand
Him of his arms despoil; and dying, hear
My stem refusal to his last demand,
That from the dogs I would his carcass spare.’
LV.
Ev’n as a bull, whom jealous lust incites
With pungent stimulant, doth fiercely roar,
And by his roars his spirit more excites,
And wakes his rage and burning passion more;
Whetting on trees his horns, he seems to invite
The wind to war with ineffective strokes;
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