The deadly menace and the clank of steel,
Herself, her love, abandons in despair
And her fleet palfrey pricks with timid heel.
CXI.
Fugge Erminia infelice, e ‘l suo destriero
Con prontissimo piede il suol calpesta.
Fugge ancor l’altra donna, e lor quel fero
884 Con molti armati di seguir non resta.
Ecco che dalle tende il buon scudiero
Con la tarda novella arriva in questa:
E l’altrui fuga ancor dubbio accompagna:
888 E gli sparge il timor per la campagna.
CXI
Erminia fled, scantly the tender grass
Her Pegasus with his light footsteps bent,
Her maiden’s beast for speed did likewise pass;
Yet divers ways, such was their fear, they went:
The squire who all too late returned, alas.
With tardy news from Prince Tancredi’s tent,
Fled likewise, when he saw his mistress gone,
It booted not to sojourn there alone.
CXI.
Away Erminia flies; with wingèd feet
Her destrier flies; the other damsel too
Follows her flying mistress’s retreat,
Nor fails fierce Polypherno to pursue;
When from the tents, lo! came the squire in sight,
Bringing the news, but bringing it in vain.
Perplexed he joined the others in their flight,
And fear dispersed them o’er the wide champaign.
CXII.
Ma il più saggio fratello, il quale anch’esso
La non vera Clorinda avea veduto,
Non la volle seguir, ch’era men presso;
892 Ma nell’insidie sue s’è ritenuto:
E mandò con l’avviso al campo un messo,
Che non armento, od animal lanuto,
Nè preda altra simíl; ma ch’è seguita
896 Dal suo german Clorinda impaurita.
CXII
But Alicandro wiser than the rest,
Who this supposed Clorinda saw likewise,
To follow her yet was he nothing pressed,
But in his ambush still and close he lies,
A messenger to Godfrey he addressed,
That should him of this accident advise,
How that his brother chased with naked blade
Clorinda’s self, or else Clorinda’s shade.
CXII.
But his more prudent brother, though he, too,
Had her he deemed to be Clorinda seen,
Since he was farther off, did not pursue,
But kept in covert of his ambushed screen;
And to the camp a herald sent to say
That ’twas not beasts nor fleecy flocks they viewed,
But that Clorinda was the frightened prey
Whom his brave brother Polypherne pursued.
CXIII.
E ch’ei non crede già, nè ‘l vuol ragione,
Ch’ella ch’è duce, e non è sol guerriera,
Elegga all’uscir suo tale stagione
900 Per opportunità che sia leggiera.
Ma giudichi, e comandi il pio Buglione;
Egli farà ciò che da lui s’impera.
Giunge al campo tal nova, e se n’intende
904 Il primo suon nelle Latine tende.
CXIII
Yet that it was, or that it could be she,
He had small cause or reason to suppose,
Occasion great and weighty must it be
Should make her ride by night among her foes:
What Godfrey willed that observed he,
And with his soldiers lay in ambush close:
These news through all the Christian army went,
In every cabin talked, in every tent.
CXIII.
Nor did he think, nor was it like, that she
Who not mere soldier but a leader was,
To sally forth at such an hour would be
Tempted, without some grave and urgent cause;
That he would execute his lord’s commands,
Who thus advised could judge of the events.
Such was the news that reached the Christian bands,
And first was heard among the Latin tents.
CXIV.
Tancredi, cui dinanzi il cor sospese
Quell’avviso primiero, udendo or questo,
Pensa: deh forse a me venia cortese,
908 E in periglio è per me; nè pensa al resto.
E parte prende sol del grave arnese;
Monta a cavallo, e tacito esce e presto:
E seguendo gl’indizj e l’orme nuove,
912 Rapidamente a tutto corso il muove.
CXIV
Tancred, whose thoughts the squire had filled with doubt
By his sweet words, supposed now hearing this,
Alas! the virgin came to seek me out,
And for my sake her life in danger is;
Himself forthwith he singled from the rout,
And rode in haste, though half his arms he miss;
Among those sandy fields and valleys green,
To seek his love, he galloped fast unseen.
CXIV.
Tancred, whose heart already hung in doubt
From the first message, when this last was known,
Thinks, ‘Ah, perhaps she kindly seeks me out,
And has endangered for my life her own:’
Flings on a portion of his arms in haste,
Vaults on his steed, and silently departs;
And following up the footmarks freshly traced,
Swift as an arrow from the encampment darts.
Canto settimo
SEVENTH BOOK
ARGOMENTO.
Fugge Erminia, e un pastor l’accoglie; intanto
Tancredi, invan di lei cercando, il piede
Pon ne’ laccj d’Armida: il fero vanto
D’Argante riprovar Raimondo ha fede:
Però difeso da custode santo
Seco entra in campo: Belzebù che vede
Ch’al Pagan male il folle ardir riesce,
Per lui salvar guerra e procelle mesce.
THE ARGUMENT.
Whom whilst Tancredi seeks in vain to find,
He is entrapped in Armida’s trains:
Raymond with strong Argantes is assigned
To fight, an angel to his aid he gains:
Satan that sees the Pagan’s fury blind,
And hasty wrath turn to his loss and harm,
Doth raise new tempest, uproar and alarm.
I.
Intanto Erminia infra l’ombrose piante
D’antica selva dal cavallo è scorta:
Nè più governa il fren la man tremante;
4 E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta.
Per tante strade si raggira e tante
Il corridor che in sua balía la porta;
Ch’alfin dagli occhj altrui pur si dilegua,
8 Ed è soverchio omai ch’altri la segua.
I
Erminia’s steed this while his mistress bore
Through forests thick among the shady treen,
Her feeble hand the bridle reins forlore,
Half in a swoon she was, for fear I ween;
But her fleet courser spared ne’er the more,
To bear her through the desert woods unseen
Of her strong foes, that chased her through the plain,
And still pursued, but still pursued in vain.
I.
THRO’ the thick covert of an ancient wood,
Erminia meanwhile by her horse was led;
To hold the rein her hand no longer could,
And she appeared half living and half dead,
As thro’a thousand paths her untired steed
Bore her at his wild will. At last, from view
Of all she disappeared, and little need
‘Twere now for ev’n the swift
est to pursue.
II.
Qual dopo lunga e faticosa caccia
Tornansi mesti ed anelanti i cani
Che la fera perduta abbian di traccia,
12 Nascosa in selva dagli aperti piani;
Tal pieni d’ira e di vergogna in faccia
Riedono stanchi i cavalier Cristiani.
Ella pur fugge, e timida e smarrita
16 Non si volge a mirar s’anco è seguita.
II
Like as the weary hounds at last retire,
Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase,
When the sly beast tapished in bush and brier,
No art nor pains can rouse out of his place:
The Christian knights so full of shame and ire
Returned back, with faint and weary pace:
Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind,
Nor ever stayed, nor ever looked behind.
II.
As after lengthened and fatiguing chase,
The panting hounds return in downcast mood,
Foiled of their prey, of whom they have lost all trace,
In the thick covert of some sheltering wood;
Such signs, on their return, of rage and shame
Were in the faces of the Christians viewed.
Bewildered, still fled on the affrighted dame,
Nor once turned round to see if still pursued.
III.
Fuggì tutta la notte, e tutto il giorno
Errò senza consiglio e senza guida,
Non udendo o vedendo altro d’intorno
20 Che le lagrime sue, che le sue strida.
Ma nell’ora che ‘l Sol dal carro adorno
Scioglie i corsieri, e in grembo al mar s’annida,
Giunse del bel Giordano alle chiare acque,
24 E scese in riva al fiume, e quì si giacque.
III
Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she drived,
Withouten comfort, company, or guide,
Her plaints and tears with every thought revived,
She heard and saw her griefs, but naught beside:
But when the sun his burning chariot dived
In Thetis’ wave, and weary team untied,
On Jordan’s sandy banks her course she stayed
At last, there down she light, and down she laid.
III.
All night she fled, and next day’s weary round
Wandered without a plan, without a guide;
Nor saw but tears, nor heard the slightest sound,
Save what the outburst of her plaints supplied.
But when Apollo had unyoked his team
From his gold car, and ‘neath the horizon sank,
She reached the noble Jordan’s sparkling stream,
And there lay down exhausted on its bank.
IV.
Cibo non prende già, chè de’ suoi mali
Solo si pasce, e sol di pianto ha sete:
Ma ‘l sonno, che de’ miseri mortali
28 È col suo dolce oblio posa e quiete,
Sopì co’ sensi i suoi dolori, e l’ali
Dispiegò sovra lei placide e chete:
Nè però cessa Amor, con varie forme,
32 La sua pace turbar mentre ella dorme.
IV
Her tears, her drink; her food, her sorrowings,
This was her diet that unhappy night:
But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings,
To ease the griefs of discontented wight,
Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings,
In his dull arms folding the virgin bright;
And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept
Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept.
IV.
No food the fair one takes; her sole repast
Misfortune’s cud, and only thirsts for tears;
But Sleep, that doth his sweet oblivion cast
O’er wretched mortals, comforts them and cheers,
Extends his soothing soporific wing,
And in forgetfulness her senses steeps;
Tho’ Cupid ceases not her breast to wring,
Her peace disturbing, even while she sleeps.
V.
Non si destò finchè garrir gli augelli
Non sentì lieti e salutar gli albóri,
E mormorare il fiume e gli arboscelli,
36 E con l’onda scherzar l’aura e co’ fiori:
Apre i languidi lumi, e guarda quelli
Alberghi solitarj de’ pastori:
E parle voce udir, tra l’acqua e i rami,
40 Ch’ai sospiri ed al pianto la richiami.
V
The birds awaked her with their morning song,
Their warbling music pierced her tender ear,
The murmuring brooks and whistling winds among
The rattling boughs and leaves, their parts did bear;
Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along
Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings were;
And that sweet noise, birds, winds and waters sent,
Provoked again the virgin to lament.
V.
She slept, till wakened by the dulcet call
Of twittering birds, that hailed the break of day;
Heard the shrubs rustle, the crisped river brawl,
And breath of mom with flowers and waters play.
Then opes her languid eyes, nor aught perceives,
But solitary huts of shepherds near;
Then deems she hears a voice among the leaves,
That back recalls the bitter sigh and tear.
VI.
Ma son, mentre ella piange, i suoi lamenti
Rotti da un chiaro suon ch’a lei ne viene,
Che sembra ed è di pastorali accenti
44 Misto, e di boscarecce inculte avene.
Risorge, e là s’indrizza a passi lenti,
E vede un uom canuto all’ombre amene
Tesser fiscelle alla sua greggia a canto,
48 Ed ascoltar di tre fanciulli il canto.
VI
Her plaints were interrupted with a sound,
That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed,
Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round,
And to his voice he tuned his oaten reed;
Thither she went, an old man there she found,
At whose right hand his little flock did feed,
Sat making baskets, his three sons among,
That learned their father’s art, and learned his song.
VI.
But as she weeps, her plaints are broken by
Clear tones, that seem, nay, truly do proceed
From pastoral voices blent in harmony
With music of the uncultivated reed.
Thither she goes, and one with hoary locks
Sees seated there, the pleasant shades among,
Engaged in weaving baskets near his flocks,
And listening while three little children sung.
VII.
Vedendo quivi comparir repente
Le insolite arme, sbigottir costoro;
Ma gli saluta Erminia, e dolcemente
52 Gli affida, e gli occhj scopre e i bei crin d’oro.
Seguite, dice, avventurosa gente
Al Ciel diletta, il bel vostro lavoro;
Chè non portano già guerra quest’armi
56 All’opre vostre, ai vostri dolci carmi.
VII
Beholding one in shining Arms appear,
The seely man and his were sore dismay’d;
But sweet Erminia comforted their fear,
Her vental up, her visage open laid;
You happy folk, of heav’n beloved dear,
Work on, quoth she, upon your harmless trade;
These dreadful arms, I bear, no warfare bring
To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you sing.
VII.
The sudden apparition of
her arms
Their simple souls affrighted, since so rare;
Whence, reassuring them from all alarms,
Erminia showed her eyes and golden hair.
‘O fortunate, Heaven-belovèd folk,’ she cries,
‘Your innocent tasks continue, since no wrong
These arms intend against the exercise
Or of your craft, or of your simple song.
VIII.
Soggiunse poscia: o padre, or che d’intorno
D’alto incendio di guerra arde il paese,
Come quì state in placido soggiorno
60 Senza temer le militari offese?
Figlio, ei rispose, d’ogni oltraggio e scorno
La mia famiglia e la mia greggia illese
Sempre quì fur; nè strepito di Marte
64 Ancor turbò questa remota parte.
VIII
“But, father, since this land, these towns and towers
Destroyed are with sword, with fire and spoil,
How may it be unhurt that you and yours
In safety thus apply your harmless toil?”
“My son,” quoth he, “this poor estate of ours
Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil;
This wilderness doth us in safety keep,
No thundering drum, no trumpet breaks our sleep.
VIII.
‘But tell me, father, how, when all around
The flames of war spread terror through the land,
Thou hast so peaceful an asylum found,
Nor fear’st incursion of marauding band?’
‘Here, son,’ he answered, ‘free from wrongs and scorn,
My family and flocks have aye remained;
No clank of steel, nor blast of martial horn,
Has yet the calm of this lone spot profaned.
IX.
O sia grazia del Ciel che l’umiltade
D’innocente pastor salvi, e sublime;
O che, siccome il folgore non cade
68 In basso pian ma sulle eccelse cime;
Così il furor di peregrine spade
Sol de’ gran Re le altere teste opprime;
Nè gli avidi soldati a preda alletta
72 La nostra povertà vile e negletta.
IX
“Haply just Heaven’s defence and shield of right
Doth love the innocence of simple swains,
The thunderbolts on highest mountains light,
And seld or never strike the lower plains;
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