Jerusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

Among them Godfred charged, and through his shield,

  Pierced fell Corcuté’s face and Rosten’s flank;

  Then from the shoulders severed Selim’s head,

  And shore Rossano’s right and left arm thro’;

  Nor these alone beneath his sabre bled,

  Elseways he many maimed and many slew.

  XCI.

  But while he thus attacked the infidel,

  And bore the fury of their slashing swords,

  And in no single point desponding fell

  The hopes and fortunes of the barbarous hordes,

  Lo! a fresh cloud of ominous dust draws nigh,

  Big with the rattling thunderbolts of war;

  From gleaming arms, lo! sudden flashes fly,

  That panic strike the Saracen. They are

  XCII.

  Fifty Crusaders, that, in silver clad,

  Display the purple and triumphant Cross;

  Not if a hundred mouths and tongues I had,

  And lungs of iron and an iron voice,

  Could I recount the numbers that were slain

  By the first charge of that impetuous troop:

  The unwarlike Arab falls, the Turk in vain

  Resists, and sinks beneath their lightning swoop.

  XCIII.

  Horror, affright, despair, and cruelty

  Stalk round the battle-field; in varied guise,

  Triumphant Death in every part you see,

  And lakes of blood, in crimson billows, rise.

  As tho’ presaging failure, with his train

  The king already had passed thro’ the gate,

  And from a height beheld the subject plain,

  Where battle trembled in the scales of Fate.

  XCIV.

  But when he saw the main force wavering, he

  Sounds the recall, and from the direful wrack

  Commands, with iterated urgency,

  Arganté and Clorinda to fall back.

  At first the savage couple disobeyed,

  Blinded with rage, and drunk and mad with ire;

  At last they yielded, but too late essayed

  To make the troops more orderly retire.

  XCV.

  For who can rule a crowd, or govern fright,

  Or give faint-hearted cowards confidence?

  They fling away their arms and take to flight;

  The sword is now a burden, not defence.

  From west to south extends a rugged vale

  Between the town and camp; to this they fly,

  While, towards the walls, borne onwards by the gale,

  Black clouds of dust obscure the azure sky.

  XCVI.

  As down the steep they rushed, upon their rear

  The Christians hanging, frightful carnage made,

  But afterwards, when mounting, they were near,

  And had received the barbarous tyrant’s aid,

  Guelph, at such disadvantage, would not run

  The risk of forcing the precipitous height,

  And checked his troops; the king withdrew his own,

  No small remains of that disastrous fight

  XCVII.

  Meanwhile, the soldan had done all Heaven grants

  To strength of mortal man; he can no more.

  His flanks upheave, as out of breath he pants,

  And down his face run streams of sweat and gore;

  ‘Neath the shield’s weight declines his languid arm;

  The sluggish steel can no effect produce;

  It breaks, but cuts not — blunt, it does no harm;

  The sabre now has lost a sabre’s use.

  XCVIII.

  And feeling this, he ponders in the act

  Of one that ‘twixt two projects doubtful stands;

  Whether to die, and of that glorious fact

  Rob others by his suicidal hands;

  Or, if surviving this disaster, wait,

  And place his person in security.

  At length he cried, ‘To thee I yield me, Fate!

  Let this my flight sign of thy triumph be.

  CANTO X.

  I

  WHILE speaking thus, he spied upon the plain

  A steed direct towards him its errant course:

  At once he laid his hand upon the rein,

  And vaulted up, tho’ weak, upon the horse.

  Drooped is that crest which erst so fiercely rose

  Leaving the helm undignified and base;

  Torn is his surcoat, and no longer shows

  Of its once regal pomp the slightest trace.

  II

  As skulks away and hides himself a wolf

  (Driven from a sheep-fold), in the sheltering wood,

  Who, tho’ he have his stomach’s greedy gulf

  Filled to repletion, still athirst for blood

  The ravening glutton lolls his red tongue out,

  And from his slavering lips licks off the gore;

  So slunk the soldan from that bloody rout,

  Tho’ gorged with blood, still covetous for more.

  III

  Escaping, as by Providence ordained,

  The clouds of arrows that around him flew,

  From swords, and spears, and instruments that rained

  Destruction round, in safety he withdrew.

  Then, wandering on, unheeded and unknown,

  The tracks most wild and unfrequented sought,

  Revolving what was wisest to be done,

  In a fierce tempest of distracting thought.

  IV

  At length he fixed to go where Egypt’s king

  His mighty host assembles, and imite

  With him his arms, and their leagued forces bring

  To try the fortune of another fight

  Resolved on this, he makes no vain delay,

  But thither by the shortest road proceeds;

  Nor needeth guide, since he well knows the way

  That to the coast of antique Gaza leads.

  V

  Nor, tho’ his wounds torment him, and the blows

  Dealt so severely in the late affray,

  Will he his armour doff, or seek repose,

  But in sore travail spends the livelong day.

  At length, when night earth’s various colours took,

  And all converted into one black suit,

  Dismounting, he bound up his wounds, and shook

  From a high palm, as best he could, the fruit

  VI

  Refreshed therefrom, upon the naked field

  His jaded limbs to accommodate he sought,

  And his head pillowed on his iron shield,

  To calm the throbbings of o’erwearied thought.

  But, as each moment passed, still more and more

  He felt his wounds’ uneasiness and pain;

  Gnawed is his bosom, rent his heart’s proud core,

  By the inward vultures, sorrow and disdain.

  VII

  At length, when buried in Cimmerian gloom

  Of deepest night, all things were calm around,

  And he too, by exhaustion overcome,

  In Lethe had his carking troubles drowned,

  And, in a brief and fitful sleep, composed

  His heavy limbs and eyes, — in tones severe

  A voice, even while the wearied warrior dozed

  And caught some rest, thus thundered in his ear:

  VIII

  ‘O Solymano, for a happier hour

  And fitter time, thy slothful slumbers save,

  Since, ‘neath the yoke of the accursed Giaour,

  The land, once ruled by thee, is still a slave.

  Canst on this earth repose thy sluggard head,

  While here such marks of thy disgrace, remain?

  While blanch the bones of thy unburied dead,

  Canst idly wait till mom return again?’

  IX

  Awaked, the soldan lifts his eyes, and sees

  One with appearance of extreme old age
,

  With a curved staff support his tottering knees

  And guide his steps, and asks him in his rage:

  ‘What wantest here? and tell me who art thou,

  Intrusive spirit, that has dared to break

  The brief repose of travellers? and how

  Can my revenge or shame thy interest wake?’

  X

  ‘I,’ said the hoary sage, ‘am one, to whom

  Is known, at least in part, thy new design;

  And, as a friend more careful of thee, come,

  Than in thy ignorance thou mayst opine.

  Nor idle are the biting truths I preach,

  Since wrath is valour’s whetstone; whence, good sir,

  Kindly receive these words, and let my speech

  Act on thy ready heart as whip and spur.

  XI

  ‘As, then, thy steps, if I judge right, are bent

  Toward Egypt’s mighty monarch, I forebode

  A rough and useless journey, if intent,

  Thou still persistest to pursue that road.

  The Saracens, ev’n if thou shouldst not go,

  Will soon collect, and march to their allies;

  Nor place is there, where to employ or show

  Thy valour ‘gainst our common enemies.

  XII

  ‘But if thou’lt follow me, I pledge my word

  To lead thee safely, in the broad day light

  (Nor wilt thou have occasion for thy sword),

  Within those walls, now girt; by Latin might;

  There thou mayst reap the glory and delight

  Of struggles gainst discomforts and the Giaours,

  And Salem hold till, to renew the fight,

  The Egyptian army joins its force with ours,’

  XIII

  The Turk could not, though angry, fail to admire

  The old man’s eyes and voice, as thus he spoke,

  And cast away all trace of pride and ire

  From his intolerant thoughts and savage look.

  ‘Ready,’ he said, ‘to follow thy behest

  Am I, O father, nor will e’er recoil;

  And that advice to me will seem the best

  Which greatest risks combines with greatest toil.’

  XIV

  The sage approved; and since his wounds were chilled

  By the night breeze, which rankled them still more,

  In them a sovran balsam he instilled,

  To staunch the blood, and his lost strength restore;

  When, seeing Apollo light with gold the roses,

  Already blushing from Aurora’s hues:

  “Tis time to leave; the sun our path discloses,

  And the world calls to its diurnal dues.’

  XV

  To his chariot, then, which waited his command,

  He with the fierce Nicæan straight proceeds;

  Mounts, slacks the reins, and with a master hand

  Lashes alternately the snorting steeds,

  Who fly so swiftly that the dusty plain

  No trace preserves of hoof or glowing wheel.

  Away, away! — they smoke, they pant, they strain,

  Blanching with flecks of foam the burnished steel.

  XVI

  I will tell marvels: The surrounding air

  Was gathered and embodied in a shroud,

  Veiling the enchanted chariot, altho’ there

  Appeared not ev’n the vestige of a cloud;

  Yet rocks could not have pierced its density,

  When launched from war’s most powerful machine;

  Still from its deep recess they both could see

  Around the cloud, beyond the sky serene.

  XVII

  The warrior gazed in mute bewilderment,

  With brow contracted and uplifted eye,

  At cloud and car, which all impediment

  So swiftly passed that they appeared to fly.

  The sage, who, by his fixed, yet vacant stare,

  Perceived his stupor, the dead silence broke,

  Calling the prince from his abstracted air,

  Who with an effort roused himself, and spoke:

  XVIII

  ‘Whoe’er thou art, that, passing mortal skill,

  To strange unearthly use doth Nature bind,

  And, secrets scanning, rangest at thy will

  Thro’ the most dark recesses of the mind;

  If, with the knowledge that thy God bestows,

  Thou canst things hidden and remote foresee,

  Ah, tell me, pray, amid her mighty throes,

  Is peace or ruin Asia’s destiny?

  XIX

  ‘But first reveal thy name, and by what art

  Thou doest things that mortal powers transcend;

  But if this stupor does not first depart,

  How to thy other words can I attend?’

  The old man smiled: ‘In one part not at all

  ’Tis hard to gratify thy wish. I am hight

  Ismeno, and the Syrian people call

  Me wizard, since those arts are my delight.

  XX

  ‘But to unveil the future, and unfold

  The eternal records of hid Destiny,

  Is aim too lofty and desire too bold,

  Nor is such granted to mortality;

  To face misfortune and contend ‘gainst wrong,

  Let each employ his head and hands, since not

  Unoft it happens that the wise and strong

  Carve for themselves the best and happiest lot.

  XXI

  ‘Thy unconquered arm (to which it easy were

  To shake the straggling forces of the West,

  Much more to guard the strong position where

  Their ruthless legions Salem’s walls invest)

  Prepare ‘gainst fire — prepare, I say, ‘gainst arms

  Dare, suffer, trust — my hope is great; but thee

  I now will tell what should possess great charms,

  And which, obscurely, as thro’ clouds I see.

  XXII

  ‘I see, or seem to see, before me borne,

  Ere yonder sun thro’ many lustres roll,

  One that will Asia with bright deeds adorn,

  And fruitful Egypt ‘neath his sway control.

  I pass in silence, since I scarce can see,

  The charms of peaceful arts and leisure hours,

  And all his virtues; but enough for thee

  That he’ll not only shake the Christian powers,

  XXIII

  ‘But, in his last proud triumph, from its base

  Will hurl the fabric of their rule unjust,

  And the sad remnant to a narrow place,

  Alone defended by the ocean, thrust

  He of thy blood will be.’ Here ceased the sage,

  And the other said: ‘O happy, whom Fate’s voice

  Selects for such a glorious heritage’ —

  And tho’ he envies, inly doth rejoice.

  XXIV

  Adding: ‘Let Fortune change, or good or ill,

  As is predestined by divine decree,

  No power has she to thwart my resolute will,

  Nor me, shall ever but undaunted, see;

  The moon and stars shall first their course forsake

  Ere I one step from what is just and right

  Swerve in the least.’ As thus the soldan spake,

  His eye-balls Hashed with more than mortal light.

  XXV

  Thus on they went conversing, till they were

  Nigh where they saw the Frank pavilions rise.

  Ah, cruel spectacle, and hard to bear!

  Ah, in what various forms Death met their eyes!

  With gloom and anger the fierce soldan’s swelled;

  His face grew woe-begone, as, deeply sighing,

  In abject degradation he beheld

  Upon the ground his once-feared standards lying,

  XXVI

  And scouring o’er it, Franks
, exulting, tread

  Upon the face and breast of some known friend,

  And scornfully from the unburied dead

  Their armour and ill-fated vestments rend;

  O’er their departed comrades some convene

  To pay the last sad rites — some carry fire —

  And here an intermingled crowd is seen

  Of Turks and Arabs feed one common pyre.

  XXVII

  Deeply he sighed, and, burning for the attack,

  Sprang from the chariot with uplifted blade;

  But the old wizard caught and drew him back,

  And, having chid his mad resolve, and made

  Him mount the car again, his course inclined

  To where the mountain rears its lofty flanks.

  Thus for a time they journeyed, till behind

  They left the entire encampment of the Franks.

  XXVIII

  They then alighted from the magic car,

  Which vanished; but, still screened beneath the veil

  Of the same cloud, on foot the adventurous pair

  Leftwards descended thro’ a lonely vale,

  Until they reached a spot where, towards the west, (7)

  Majestic Sion turns her shoulders; here

  The wizard halted, and, as if in quest

  Of something hid, the beetling steep drew near.

  XXIX

  In the hard rock a hollow cavern oped,

  Wrought in the mountain centuries before;

  But from disuse the aperture was stopped

  By briars and brambles which concealed the door.

  The wizard cleared the way, and, stooping low,

  With body suited to the passage, tried,

  One hand being pilot, through the pass to go,

  And to the prince the other gave as guide.

  XXX

  Outspake the soldan then: ‘What! thither grope?

  What end can this thy furtive path afford?

  Other, it may be, better I could ope,

  By thy permission, with my trusty sword,’

  ‘Disdain not thou, fastidious soul,’ he said,

  ‘Brave tho’ thou be, to pass these darksome ways;

  Since mighty Herod here was wont to tread,

  Whose feats in arms are still the theme of praise.

  XXXI

  ‘The king of whom I speak this cavern framed,

  ‘ When the unruly Jews he would restrain,

  And thro’ it, by that lofty turret, named,

  From his great friend, Antonia, he could gain

  A secure entrance, visible to none,

  Into the massive venerable fane;

  From thence escape in secret from the town,

  Lead squadrons out and bring them back again.

  XXXII

  ‘But to myself, alone of living men,

  This dark and solitary path is known;

  We will pass through its secret windings then,

  To where the king has gathered round his throne