Jersusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  Remained behind, among his scattered foes:

  To win the conquest strove his squadron stout,

  Which he unperfect left; yet loth to lose

  The day, the Christians fight, resist and die,

  And ready were to yield, retire and fly.

  The Gascoign bands retired, but kept array,

  The Syrian people ran away outright,

  The fight was near the place where Tancred lay,

  His house was full of noise and great affright,

  He rose and lookéd forth to see the fray,

  Though every limb were weak, faint, void of might;

  He saw the country lie, his men o'erthrown,

  Some beaten back, some killed, some felléd down.

  Courage in noble hearts that ne'er is spent,

  Yet fainted not, though faint were every limb,

  But reinforced each member cleft and rent,

  And want of blood and strength supplied in him;

  In his left hand his heavy shield he hent,

  Nor seemed the weight too great, his curtlax trim

  His right hand drew, nor for more arms he stood

  Or stayed, he needs no more whose heart is good:

  But coming forth, cried, "Whither will you run,

  And leave your leader to his foes in prey?

  What! shall these heathen of his armor won,

  In their vile temples hang up trophies gay?

  Go home to Gascoign then, and tell his son

  That where his father died, you ran away:"

  This said, against a thousand arméd foes,

  He did his breast weak, naked, sick, oppose.

  And with his heavy, strong and mighty targe,

  That with seven hard bulls' hides was surely lined,

  And strengthened with a cover thick and large

  Of stiff and well-attempered steel behind,

  He shielded Raymond from the furious charge,

  From swords, from darts, from weapons of each kind,

  And all his foes drove back with his sharp blade,

  That sure and safe he lay, as in a shade.

  Thus saved, thus shielded, Raymond 'gan respire,

  He rose and reared himself in little space,

  And in his bosom burned the double fire

  Of vengeance; wrath his heart; shame filled his face;

  He looked around to spy, such was his ire,

  The man whose stroke had laid him in that place,

  Whom when he sees not, for disdain he quakes,

  And on his people sharp revengement takes.

  The Gascoigns turn again, their lord in haste

  To venge their loss his band recorded brings,

  The troop that durst so much now stood aghast,

  For where sad fear grew late, now boldness springs,

  Now followed they that fled, fled they that chased;

  So in one hour altereth the state of things,

  Raymond requites his loss, shame, hurt and all,

  And with an hundred deaths revenged one fall.

  Whilst Raymond wreakéd thus his just disdain

  On the proud heads of captains, lords and peers,

  He spies great Sion's king amid the train,

  And to him leaps, and high his sword he rears,

  And on his forehead strikes, and strikes again,

  Till helm and head he breaks, he cleaves, he tears;

  Down fell the king, the guiltless land he bit,

  That now keeps him, because he kept not it.

  Their guides, one murdered thus, the other gone,

  The troops divided were in diverse thought,

  Despair made some run headlong against their fone,

  To seek sharp death that comes uncalled, unsought;

  And some, that laid their hope on flight alone,

  Fled to their fort again; yet chance so wrought,

  That with the flyers in the victors pass,

  And so the fortress won and conquered was.

  The hold was won, slain were the men that fled,

  In courts, halls, chambers high; above, below,

  Old Raymond fast up to the leads him sped,

  And there, of victory true sign and show,

  His glorious standard to the wind he spread,

  That so both armies his success might know.

  But Solyman saw not the town was lost,

  For far from thence he was, and near the host;

  Into the field he came, the lukewarm blood

  Did smoke and flow through all the purple field,

  There of sad death the court and palace stood,

  There did he triumphs lead, and trophies build;

  An arméd steed fast by the Soldan yood,

  That had no guide, nor lord the reins to wield,

  The tyrant took the bridle, and bestrode

  The courser's empty back, and forth he rode.

  Great, yet but short and sudden was the aid

  That to the Pagans, faint and weak, he brought,

  A thunderbolt he was, you would have said,

  Great, yet that comes and goes as swift as thought

  And of his coming swift and flight unstayed

  Eternal signs in hardest rocks hath wrought,

  For by his hand a hundred knights were slain;

  But time forgot hath all their names but twain;

  Gildippes fair, and Edward thy dear lord,

  Your noble death, sad end, and woful fate,

  If so much power our vulgar tongue afford,

  To all strange wits, strange ears let me dilate,

  That ages all your love and sweet accord,

  Your virtue, prowess, worth may imitate,

  And some kind servant of true love that hears,

  May grace your death, my verses, with some tears.

  The noble lady thither boldly flew,

  Where first the Soldan fought, and him defied,

  Two mighty blows she gave the Turk untrue,

  One cleft his shield, the other pierced his side;

  The prince the damsel by her habit knew,

  "See, see this mankind strumpet, see," he cried,

  "This shameless whore, for thee fit weapons were

  Thy neeld and spindle, not a sword and spear."

  This said, full of disdain, rage and despite,

  A strong, a fierce, a deadly stroke he gave,

  And pierced her armor, pierced her bosom white,

  Worthy no blows, but blows of love to have:

  Her dying hand let go the bridle quite,

  She faints, she falls, 'twixt life and death she strave,

  Her lord to help her came, but came too late,

  Yet was not that his fault, it was his fate.

  What should he do? to diverse parts him call

  Just ire and pity kind, one bids him go

  And succor his dear lady, like to fall,

  The other calls for vengeance on his foe;

  Love biddeth both, love says he must do all,

  And with his ire joins grief, with pity woe.

  What did he then? with his left hand the knight

  Would hold her up, revenge her with his right.

  But to resist against a knight so bold

  Too weak his will and power divided were;

  So that he could not his fair love uphold,

  Nor kill the cruel man that slew his dear.

  His arm that did his mistress kind enfold,

  The Turk cut off, pale grew his looks and cheer,

  He let her fall, himself fell by her side,

  And, for he could not save her, with her died.

  As the high elm, whom his dear vine hath twined

  Fast in her hundred arms and holds embraced,

  Bears down to earth his spouse and darling kind

  If storm or cruel steel the tree down cast,

  And her full grapes to naught doth bruise and grind,

  Spoils his own leaves, faints, withers, dies at last,<
br />
  And seems to mourn and die, not for his own,

  But for her death, with him that lies o'erthrown:

  So fell he mourning, mourning for the dame

  Whom life and death had made forever his;

  They would have spoke, but not one word could frame,

  Deep sobs their speech, sweet sighs their language is,

  Each gazed on other's eyes, and while the same

  Is lawful, join their hands, embrace and kiss:

  And thus sharp death their knot of life untied,

  Together fainted they, together died.

  But now swift fame her nimble wings dispread,

  And told eachwhere their chance, their fate, their fall,

  Rinaldo heard the case, by one that fled

  From the fierce Turk and brought him news of all.

  Disdain, good-will, woe, wrath the champion led

  To take revenge; shame, grief, for vengeance call;

  But as he went, Adrastus with his blade

  Forestalled the way, and show of combat made.

  The giant cried, "By sundry signs I note

  That whom I wish, I search, thou, thou art he,

  I marked each worthy's shield, his helm, is coat,

  And all this day have called and cried for thee,

  To my sweet saint I have thy head devote,

  Thou must my sacrifice, my offering be,

  Come let us here our strength and courage try,

  Thou art Armida's foe, her champion I."

  Thus he defied him, on his front before,

  And on his throat he struck him, yet the blow

  His helmet neither bruiséd, cleft nor tore,

  But in his saddle made him bend and bow;

  Rinaldo hit him on the flank so sore,

  That neither art nor herb could help him now;

  Down fell the giant strong, one blow such power,

  Such puissance had; so falls a thundered tower.

  With horror, fear, amazedness and dread,

  Cold were the hearts of all that saw the fray,

  And Solyman, that viewed that noble deed,

  Trembled, his paleness did his fear bewray;

  For in that stroke he did his end areed,

  He wist not what to think, to do, to say,

  A thing in him unuséd, rare and strange,

  But so doth heaven men's hearts turn, alter, change.

  As when the sick or frantic men oft dream

  In their unquiet sleep and slumber short,

  And think they run some speedy course, and seem

  To move their legs and feet in hasty sort,

  Yet feel their limbs far slower than the stream

  Of their vain thoughts that bears them in this sport,

  And oft would speak, would cry, would call or shout,

  Yet neither sound, nor voice, nor word send out:

  So run to fight the angry Soldan would,

  And did enforce his strength, his might, his ire,

  Yet felt not in himself his courage old,

  His wonted force, his rage and hot desire,

  His eyes, that sparkled wrath and fury bold,

  Grew dim and feeble, fear had quenched that fire,

  And in his heart an hundred passions fought,

  Yet none on fear or base retire he thought.

  While unresolved he stood, the victor knight

  Arrived, and seemed in quickness, haste and speed,

  In boldness, greatness, goodliness and might,

  Above all princes born of human seed:

  The Turk small while resists, not death nor fight

  Made him forget his state or race, through dreed,

  He fled no strokes, he fetched no groan nor sigh,

  Bold were his motions last, proud, stately, high.

  Now when the Soldan, in these battles past

  That Antheus-like oft fell oft rose again,

  Evermore fierce, more fell, fell down at last

  To lie forever, when this prince was slain,

  Fortune, that seld is stable, firm or fast,

  No longer durst resist the Christian train,

  But ranged herself in row with Godfrey's knights,

  With them she serves, she runs, she rides, she fights.

  The Pagan troops, the king's own squadron fled,

  Of all the east, the strength, the pride, the flower,

  Late called Immortal, now discomfited,

  It lost that title proud, and lost all power;

  To him that with the royal standard fled,

  Thus Emireno said, with speeches sour,

  "Art not thou he to whom to bear I gave

  My king's great banner, and his standard brave?

  "This ensign, Rimedon, I gave not thee

  To be the witness of thy fear and flight,

  Coward, dost thou thy lord and captain see

  In battle strong, and runn'st thyself from fight?

  What seek'st thou? safety? come, return with me,

  The way to death is path to virtue right,

  Here let him fight that would escape; for this

  The way to honor, way to safety is."

  The man returned and swelled with scorn and shame,

  The duke with speeches grave exhorts the rest;

  He threats, he strikes sometime, till back they came,

  And rage gainst force, despair against death addressed.

  Thus of his broken armies gan he frame

  A battle now, some hope dwelt in his breast,

  But Tisiphernes bold revived him most,

  Who fought and seemed to win, when all was lost;

  Wonders that day wrought noble Tisipherne,

  The hardy Normans all he overthrew;

  The Flemings fled before the champion stern,

  Gernier, Rogero, Gerard bold he slew;

  His glorious deeds to praise and fame etern

  His life's short date prolonged, enlarged and drew,

  And then, as he that set sweet life at nought,

  The greatest peril, danger, most he sought.

  He spied Rinaldo, and although his field

  Of azure purple now and sanguine shows,

  And though the silver bird amid his shield

  Were arméd gules; yet he the champion knows,

  And says, "Here greatest peril is, heavens yield

  Strength to my courage, fortune to my blows,

  That fair Armida her revenge may see,

  Help, Macon, for his arms I vow to thee."

  Thus prayéd he, but all his vows were vain,

  Mahound was deaf, or slept in heavens above,

  And as a lion strikes him with his train,

  His native wrath to quicken and to move,

  So he awaked his fury and disdain,

  And shared his courage on the whetstone love;

  Himself he saved behind his mighty targe,

  And forward spurred his steed and gave the charge.

  The Christian saw the hardy warrior come,

  And leapéd forth to undertake the fight,

  The people round about gave place and room,

  And wondered on that fierce and cruel sight,

  Some praised their strength, their skill and courage some,

  Such and so desperate blows struck either knight,

  That all that saw forgot both ire and strife,

  Their wounds, their hurts, forgot both death and life.

  One struck, the other did both strike and wound,

  His arms were surer, and his strength was more;

  From Tisipherne the blood streamed down around,

  His shield was cleft, his helm was rent and tore.

  The dame, that saw his blood besmear the ground,

  His armor broke, limbs weak, wounds deep and sore,

  And all her guard dead, fled, and overthrown,

  Thought, now her field lay waste, her hedge lay down:

  Environed with so brave a troop but late,

 
Now stood she in her chariot all alone,

  She fearéd bondage, and her life did hate,

  All hope of conquest and revenge was gone,

  Half mad and half amazed from where she sate,

  She leapéd down, and fled from friends and fone,

  On a swift horse she mounts, and forth she rides

  Alone, save for disdain and love, her guides.

  In days of old, Queen Cleopatra so

  Alone fled from the fight and cruel fray,

  Against Augustus great his happy foe,

  Leaving her lord to loss and sure decay.

  And as that lord for love let honor go,

  Followed her flying sails and lost the day:

  So Tisipherne the fair and fearful dame

  Would follow, but his foe forbids the same.

  But when the Pagan's joy and comfort fled,

  It seemed the sun was set, the day was night,

  Gainst the brave prince with whom he combated

  He turned, and on the forehead struck the knight:

  When thunders forged are in Typhoius' bed,

  Not Brontes' hammer falls so swift, so right;

  The furious stroke fell on Rinaldo's crest,

  And made him bend his head down to his breast.

  The champion in his stirrups high upstart,

  And cleft his hauberk hard and tender side,

  And sheathed his weapon in the Pagan's heart,

  The castle where man's life and soul do bide;

  The cruel sword his breast and hinder part

  With double wound unclosed, and opened wide;

  And two large doors made for his life and breath,

  Which passed, and cured hot love with frozen death.

  This done, Rinaldo stayed and looked around,

  Where he should harm his foes, or help his friends;

  Nor of the Pagans saw he squadron sound:

  Each standard falls, ensign to earth descends;

  His fury quiet then and calm he found,

  There all his wrath, his rage, and rancor ends,

  He called to mind how, far from help or aid

  Armida fled, alone, amazed, afraid:

  Well saw he when she fled, and with that sight

  The prince had pity, courtesy and care;

  He promised her to be her friend and knight

  When erst he left her in the island bare:

  The way she fled he ran and rode aright,

  Her palfrey's feet signs in the grass outware:

  But she this while found out an ugly shade,

  Fit place for death, where naught could life persuade.

  Well pleaséd was she with those shadows brown,

  And yet displeased with luck, with life, with love;

  There from her steed she lighted, there laid down

  Her bow and shafts, her arms that helpless prove.

  "There lie with shame," she says, "disgraced, o'erthrown,