LVI.
Sembra il Ciel nell’aspetto atra fornace:
Nè cosa appar che gli occhj almen ristaure.
Nelle spelonche sue Zefiro tace:
444 E in tutto è fermo il vaneggiar dell’aure.
Solo vi soffia (e par vampa di face)
Vento che move dalle arene Maure:
Che gravoso e spiacente, e seno e gote
448 Co’ densi fiati ad or ad or percuote.
LVI
As from a furnace flew the smoke to skies,
Such smoke as that when damned Sodom brent,
Within his caves sweet Zephyr silent lies,
Still was the air, the rack nor came nor went,
But o’er the lands with lukewarm breathing flies
The southern wind, from sunburnt Afric sent,
Which thick and warm his interrupted blasts
Upon their bosoms, throats, and faces casts.
LVI
A lurid furnace seems the leaden sky,
Nor to refresh the sight doth aught appear;
Still in their grots the slumbering zephyrs lie,
Hushed altogether is each breath of air;
Alone, as if from blazing torch, there blows
Sirocco’s blast from Mauritanian sands,
Whose stifling breath more dense each moment grows,
And strikes and suffocates the Christian bands.
LVII.
Non ha poscia la notte ombre più liete,
Ma del caldo del Sol pajono impresse:
E di travi di foco, e di comete,
452 E d’altri fregj ardenti il velo intesse.
Nè pur, misera terra, alla tua sete
Son dall’avara Luna almen concesse
Sue rugiadose stille; e l’erbe e i fiori
456 Bramano indarno i lor vitali umori.
LVII
Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night,
In her thick shades was burning heat uprolled,
Her sable mantle was embroidered bright
With blazing stars and gliding fires for gold,
Nor to refresh, sad earth, thy thirsty sprite,
The niggard moon let fall her May dews cold,
And dried up the vital moisture was,
In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass.
LVII
No longer grateful fall the shades of night,
But with the sun’s full glare imprinted seem;
Inwrought her mantle is with comets bright,
With many a meteor flash, and fiery beam;
Nor to thy thirst, sad earth! her dewy showers
Concedes the miser moon. Thro’ all the plain,
The withered herbage, the exhausted flowers
Long for their vital moisture, but in vain.
LVIII.
Dalle notti inquiete il dolce sonno
Bandito fugge: e i languidi mortali,
Lusingando, ritrarlo a se non ponno;
460 Ma pur la sete è il pessimo de’ mali:
Perocchè di Giudea l’iniquo Donno,
Con veneni e con succhi, aspri e mortali
Più dell’inferna Stige e d’Acheronte,
464 Torbido fece e livido ogni fonte.
LVIII
Sleep to his quiet dales exiled fled
From these unquiet nights, and oft in vain
The soldiers restless sought the god in bed,
But most for thirst they mourned and most complain;
For Juda’s tyrant had strong poison shed,
Poison that breeds more woe and deadly pain,
Than Acheron or Stygian waters bring,
In every fountain, cistern, well and spring:
LVIII
From restless nights sweet slumber exiled flies,
Nor can faint mortals call it back; repose
Comes not, though fondly courted, to their eyes;
But thirst is still the greatest of their woes:
Since with inhuman craft Judaea’s king
Did with the fountains deadly poison mix,
And thus more black and turbid made each spring
Than the infernal Acheron or Styx.
LIX.
E il picciol Siloè, che puro e mondo
Offria cortese ai Franchi il suo tesoro,
Or di tepide linfe appena il fondo
468 Arido copre, e dà scarso ristoro.
Nè il Po, qualor di Maggio è più profondo,
Parria soverchio ai desiderj loro:
Nè il Gange, o ‘l Nilo allor che non s’appaga
472 De’ sette alberghi, e ‘l verde Egitto allaga.
LIX
And little Siloe that his store bestows
Of purest crystal on the Christian bands,
The pebbles naked in his channel shows
And scantly glides above the scorched sands,
Nor Po in May when o’er his banks he flows,
Nor Ganges, waterer of the Indian lands,
Nor seven-mouthed Nile that yields all Egypt drink,
To quench their thirst the men sufficient think.
LIX
And little Siloë, whose crystal tide
Erst to the Franks its grateful treasures spread,
Now but a scant restorative supplied;
Its tepid waters scarce conceal its bed;
Nor had appeared superfluous to their want,
The Po in May, when it profoundest grows,
‘Nor Ganges, nor the Nile, when, not content
With its seven homes, it Egypt overflows.
LX.
S’alcun giammai tra frondeggianti rive
Puro vide stagnar liquido argento:
O giù precipitose ir acque vive
476 Per Alpe, o in piaggia erbosa a passo lento;
Quelle al vago desio forma e descrive,
E ministra materia al suo tormento;
Chè l’immagine lor gelida e molle
480 L’asciuga e scalda, e nel pensier ribolle.
LX
He that the gliding rivers erst had seen
Adown their verdant channels gently rolled,
Or falling streams which to the valleys green
Distilled from tops of Alpine mountains cold,
Those he desired in vain, new torments been,
Augmented thus with wish of comforts old,
Those waters cool he drank in vain conceit,
Which more increased his thirst, increased his heat.
LX
If any e’er thro’ shady banks had seen
Pure molten silver stagnate in a lake,
Or living water dash down Alps between,
Or its calm course thro’ flowery meadows take;
These in fond fancy they once more behold,
They furnish fresh material for their pain;
Their image, so refreshing and so cold,
Parches their lips and parboils in their brain.
LXI.
Vedi le membra de’ guerrier robuste,
Cui nè cammin per aspra terra preso,
Nè ferrea salma, onde gir sempre onuste,
484 Nè domò ferro alla lor morte inteso;
Ch’or risolute, e dal calore aduste,
Giacciono a se medesme inutil peso.
E vive nelle vene occulto foco,
488 Che pascendo le strugge a poco a poco.
LXI
The sturdy bodies of the warriors strong,
Whom neither marching far, nor tedious way,
Nor weighty arms which on their shoulders hung,
Could weary make, nor death itself dismay;
Now weak and feeble cast their limbs along,
Unwieldly burdens, on the burned clay,
And in each vein a smouldering fire there dwelt,
Which dried their flesh and solid bones did melt.
LXI
The limbs of manliest, stoutest cavaliers,
That proof ‘gainst journey o’er the roughest road,
&n
bsp; ‘Gainst weight of armour, proof ‘gainst levelled spears
Of cruel foemen thirsting for their blood,
Relaxed and melted by the burning heat,
Now to themselves a useless burden lay,
While in their veins lurk secret fires, that eat
By slow degrees their very life away.
LXII.
Langue il corsier già sì feroce, e l’erba
Che fu suo caro cibo a schifo prende:
Vacilla il piede infermo, e la superba
492 Cervice dianzi, or giù dimessa pende.
Memoria di sue palme or più non serba:
Nè più nobil di gloria amor l’accende.
Le vincitrici spoglie e i ricchi fregj
496 Par che, quasi vil soma, odj e dispregi.
LXII
Languished the steed late fierce, and proffered grass,
His fodder erst, despised and from him cast,
Each step he stumbled, and which lofty was
And high advanced before now fell his crest,
His conquests gotten all forgotten pass,
Nor with desire of glory swelled his breast,
The spoils won from his foe, his late rewards,
He now neglects, despiseth, naught regards.
LXII
The war-horse languishes, so fierce before,
And loathes the grass, his former dearest food;
His faint limbs totter, the proud crest he bore
Droops to the ground dejected and subdued;
No longer mindful of his victories,
Nor with the love of glory more elate,
His victor trappings and embroideries
He now despises as ignoble weight.
LXIII.
Languisce il fido cane, ed ogni cura
Del caro albergo e del signor oblia:
Giace disteso, ed alla interna arsura,
500 Sempre anelando, aure novelle invia.
Ma se altrui diede il respirar natura,
Perchè il caldo del cor temprato sia;
Or nulla o poco refrigerio n’have:504Sì quello, onde si spira, è denso e grave.
LXIII
Languished the faithful dog, and wonted care
Of his dear lord and cabin both forgot,
Panting he laid, and gathered fresher air
To cool the burning in his entrails hot:
But breathing, which wise nature did prepare
To suage the stomach’s heat, now booted not,
For little ease, alas, small help, they win
That breathe forth air and scalding fire suck in.
LXIII
The faithful dog, too, languishes; all care
Of home and lord forgotten as he lies
Panting, outstretched, and with fresh draughts of air
To mitigate his inward fever tries;
For if boon Nature respiration gave,
To temper heat’s excessive vehemence,
Now it can none or small refreshment have,
Since this they breathe so heavy is and dense.
LXIV.
Così languia la terra, e in tale stato
Egri giaceansi i miseri mortali:
E ‘l buon popol fedel, già disperato
508 Di vittoria, temea gli ultimi mali:
E risonar s’udia per ogni lato
Universal lamento in voci tali:
Che più spera Goffredo? o che più bada?
512 Sinchè tutto il suo campo a morte vada?
LXIV
Thus languished the earth, in this estate
Lay woful thousands of the Christians stout,
The faithful people grew nigh desperate
Of hoped conquest, shameful death they doubt,
Of their distress they talk and oft debate,
These sad complaints were heard the camp throughout:
“What hope hath Godfrey? shall we still here lie
Till all his soldiers, all our armies die?
LXIV
Thus pined the earth; in such condition lay
Its wretched sons, consumed by burning thirst;
And the good, faithful host, despairing they
Of victory now, anticipate the worst.
On every side lamenting voices pour
Their loud complaints with simultaneous breath:
‘What hopes for Godfred? Why delays he more,
Till all the camp is swallowed up by death?
LXV.
Deh con quai forze superar si crede
Gli alti ripari de’ nemici nostri?
Onde machine attende? ei sol non vede
516 L’ira del Cielo a tanti segni mostri?
Della sua mente avversa a noi fan fede
Mille novi prodigj, e mille mostri:
Ed arde a noi sì il Sol, che minor uopo
520 Di refrigerio ha l’Indo e l’Etiópo.
LXV
“Alas, with what device, what strength, thinks he
To scale these walls, or this strong fort to get?
Whence hath he engines new? doth he not see,
How wrathful Heaven gainst us his sword doth whet?
These tokens shown true signs and witness be
Our angry God our proud attempts doth let,
And scorching sun so hot his beams outspreads,
That not more cooling Inde nor Aethiop needs.
LXV
‘Ah! with what forces doth he hope to gain
The strong defences of our enemies?
Whence arms expect? Doth he alone disdain
To see Heaven’s wrath revealed in signs like these?
A thousand prodigies, a thousand signs,
How adverse is the Almighty mind assure;
On us the sun with such fierce fervour shines,
Less needs relief the Indian or the Moor.
LXVI.
Dunque stima costui che nulla importe
Che n’andiam noi, turba negletta indegna,
Vili ed inutil alme a dura morte,
524 Purch’ei lo scettro imperial mantegna?
Cotanto dunque fortunata sorte
Rassembra quella di colui che regna,
Che ritener si cerca avidamente
528 A danno ancor della soggetta gente?
LXVI
“Or thinks he it an eath or little thing
That us despised, neglected, and disdained,
Like abjects vile, to death he thus should bring,
That so his empire may be still maintained?
Is it so great a bliss to be a king,
When he that wears the crown with blood is stained
And buys his sceptre with his people’s lives?
See whither glory vain, fond mankind drives.
LXVI
To him, insensible! imports it not
That we advance unto a death of pain;
Vile, useless beings, slighted and forgot,
That he forsooth his royal power maintain!
What! is it then such happiness to reign,
That he with so much eagerness should try
The pomp and ease of kingship to retain,
While thus around his subject-people die?
LXVII.
Or mira d’uom c’ha il titolo di pio,
Provvidenza pietosa, animo umano;
La salute de’ suoi porre in oblio,
532 Per conservarsi onor dannoso e vano.
E veggendo a noi secchi i fonti e ‘l rio,
Per se l’acque condur fin dal Giordano:
E fra pochi sedendo a mensa lieta
536 Mescolar l’onde fresche al vin di Creta.
LXVII
“See, see the man, called holy, just, and good,
That courteous, meek, and humble would be thought,
Yet never cared in what distress we stood
If his vain honor were diminished naught,
When dried up from us his spring and flood
His water must from Jordan streams be brought,
And how he sits at feasts and banquets sweet
And mingleth waters fresh with wines of Crete.”
LXVII
‘Behold the piteous care and mind humane
Of him who bears the name of Pious — yet,
An empty, dangerous honour to retain,
Doth thus the safety of his troops forget;
And, seeing for us the founts and river dry,
For its cool crystal to the Jordan sends,
And at gay feasts, in joyous company,
The wines of Crete with its fresh water blonds,’
LXVIII.
Così i Franchi dicean; ma ‘l Duce Greco
Che il lor vessillo è di seguir già stanco,
Perchè morir quì, disse, e perchè meco
540 Far che la schiera mia ne vegna manco?
Se nella sua follia Goffredo è cieco,
Siasi in suo danno, e del suo popol Franco:
A noi che nuoce? E senza tor licenza,
544 Notturna fece e tacita partenza.
LXVIII
The French thus murmured, but the Greekish knight
Tatine, that of this war was weary grown:
“Why die we here,” quoth he, “slain without fight,
Killed, not subdued, murdered, not overthrown?
Upon the Frenchmen let the penance light
Of Godfrey’s folly, let me save mine own,”
And as he said, without farewell, the knight
And all his comet stole away by night.
LXVIII
Thus the Franks murmured. But the Grecian chief,
Already tired their standard to pursue,
Exclaimed: ‘Why here expire without relief?
Why witness thus my people perish too?
If, in his madness, Godfred be so blind,
Let him and his the consequences rue;
What’s that to us?’ Nor would he stay behind
Ev’n to take leave, but in the night withdrew.
LXIX.
Mosse l’esempio assai, come al dì chiaro
Fu noto: e d’imitarlo alcun risolve.
Quei che seguir Clotareo, ed Ademaro,
548 E gli altri Duci ch’or son ossa e polve,
Poi che la fede che a color giuraro,
Ha disciolto colei che tutto solve,
Già trattano di fuga: e già qualch’uno
552 Parte furtivamente all’aer bruno.
LXIX
His bad example many a troop prepares
To imitate, when his escape they know,
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