Jerusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  And thee, poor child, upon the sward forsook;

  The horrid beast then, turning her proud head,

  Approached and fixed on thee a searching look;

  Nathless her murderous instincts she repressed,

  And her aspect became most meek and mild,

  And drawing near, with her huge tongue caressed

  Your tiny form: you patted her and smiled.

  XXXI

  ‘And as with her you fearless ‘gan to play,

  And your small hand upon her muzzle placed,

  She offered you her teats, as is the way

  Of nurses, and disposed them for your taste;

  And you did suck. As I the scene descried,

  I stared like one that some strange portent viewed;

  But when her milk your wants had satisfied,

  She left and sought the covert of the wood.

  XXXII

  ‘I straight jumped down, and, seizing thee, returned

  To where my footsteps first directed were.

  And in a little burg some time sojourned,

  There brought thee up in secresy, and there

  With thee remained till the revolving sun

  Had sixteen months to weary mortals brought:

  To lisp forth half-formed words thou hadst begun,

  And on the ground uncertain footprints wrought.

  XXXIII

  ‘But having reached that period when the old

  Decline in strength and hasten towards the grave,

  Rich to repletion with thy mother’s gold,

  Which, queen-like, she at my departure gave,

  I longed that roving sort of life to quit,

  And oft for my dear native country sighed;

  I pined once more among old friends to sit,

  And cheer life’s winter at my own fireside.

  XXXIV

  ‘Whence towards my native Egypt I disposed

  My homeward course, and thou my flight didst share;

  Then reached a stream, but found myself enclosed

  By robbers here, and by the river there.

  How act? Thou, burthen sweet, could not be left,

  Yet would I ‘scape the threatened robbery;

  I plunged in the stream, and while my right hand cleft

  The foaming flood, the left supported thee.

  XXXV

  ‘Swift rolled its angry waters, and midway

  Whirled round in circling eddies; but being thrown

  Into the centre of the vortex, they

  Whisked me, all helpless, round and dragged me down.

  I left thee then, but favouring currents bore

  And placed thee safely on the sandy beach;

  The breeze, too, helped to carry thee ashore:

  I, faint and panting, scarce the land could reach.

  XXXVI

  ‘With joy I took thee up, but in the night,

  When Nature slept in silence most profound,

  Dreaming, I saw the figure of a knight

  Brandish a sword; he menacingly frowned,

  And sternly cried, “I charge thee to revere

  Her mother’s first injunctions unto thee;

  Baptize this infant, who to Heaven is dear,

  And whose safe care entrusted is to me.

  XXXVII

  ‘ “I guard her and defend; ’twas I that gave

  Sense to the stream, compassion to the beast;

  And woe! if thou my solemn warning brave,

  Who am God’s messenger.” This said, he ceased.

  I, waking, rose, and from the spot withdrew

  With the first twinkle of the morning star;

  But, the shade deeming false and my creed true,

  To have thee christened took no further care,

  XXXVIII

  ‘Nor of thy mother’s wish: whence thou wast bred

  A Pagan, and I hid from thee the truth.

  Thou grew’st in years, hast nobly fought and bled,

  O’ercome thy sex and nature, and in youth

  Both fame and lands acquired. Thyself dost know

  What since that early period has occurred;

  Thou know’st I have been thy slave and father too,

  And at thy side through hostile squadrons spurred.

  XXXIX

  ‘But yester morn, at day-breads earliest beam,

  Oppressed by slumber that resembled death,

  I saw the self-same figure in a dream;

  More stern his look was, and with louder breath,

  “Traitor!” he cried, “behold Clorinda’s doom

  Approaches fast; the hour is almost due.

  Mine she shall yet, in spite of thee, become;

  The grief be thine: “this said, away he flew.

  XL

  ‘Take heed then, dearest, for the angered skies

  Menace thee with some strange misfortune soon:

  I know not how. Perhaps their threats arise

  That others should their fathers’ faith impugn;

  Perhaps that faith is true. Then doff thy arms,

  Curb thy bold spirit, nor with Heaven contest.’

  He ceased, and wept; she, too, felt strange alarms,

  Since such another dream her heart oppressed.

  XLI

  Still brightening up her brow, she said at last:

  ‘I’ll hold that faith which I consider true,

  But o’er which thou the veil of doubt wouldst cast,

  That faith which with my nurse’s milk I drew;

  No fear shall turn me from this enterprise

  (To draw back now no generous spirit could);

  No, not if Death himself, in fiercest guise

  That mortal eye e’er saw, before me stood.’

  XLII

  She then consoled him; but as the hour drew nigh

  To execute her vaunt, the undaunted fair

  Went off and joined Arganté, her ally,

  Who the grave perils wished with her to share:

  Ismeno spurred their innate courage, which

  Flowed of itself, and ere they sought the field,

  Gave them two balls, of sulphur made and pitch,

  With light in lamp of hollow brass concealed.

  XLIII

  Softly they steal, ‘neath cover of the night,

  And down the hill with rapid footsteps go,

  Then reach the spot where towers, in giant height,

  The formidable turret of the foe;

  Their full hearts throb with feverish desire,

  Nor can contain the rage that boils within;

  Fierce passions prompt to deeds of blood and fire,

  When the guard challenges— ‘The countersign!’

  XLIV

  They still proceed in silence, whence the guard,

  ‘To arms! to arms!’ shouts with redoubled force;

  At this, concealment the bold pair discard,

  Nor tardy now is their adventurous course.

  As Heaven’s artillery or mortal shells

  Fire, thunder, burst, so for each daring Turk

  To start, arrive, cut down the sentinels,

  Ope and rush in, was but a moment’s work.

  XLV

  Not arms of thousands, nor a thousand blows,

  Could stop them from effecting their desire;

  The lights concealed they hastily unclose,

  And set the fierce combustibles on fire,

  Then spread and wrap them round the frame of oak.

  But how describe from every quarter how

  Crept and increased the flames, and how the smoke,

  In lurid volumes, stained Heaven’s stainless brow!

  XLVI

  Mixed with its turbid wreaths, to heaven aspire

  Great globes of flame, in many a tortuous maze;

  The rising wind, too, fans the raging fire,

  Uniting all in one tremendous blaze.

  Prepared, the Christians seize their arms, since all
r />   That burst of light with sudden fear dismays;

  The dreaded sides of the huge engine fall,

  And one short hour destroys the work of days.

  XLVII

  Meanwhile two squadrons of the Christians came

  With prompt despatch to where the fire arose.

  ‘Your blood,’ Arganté shouts, ‘shall quench that flame,’

  And turned with threatening front upon his foes.

  Still inch by inch with fair Clorinda yields,

  With her to gain the ridge’s top intent.

  From rains streams less increase, than o’er the fields

  The crowds collect, and mount with them the ascent

  XLVIII

  Wide open lay the Golden Gate, and there, (2)

  Girt by his armèd legions, stood the king,

  From their great feat to welcome the bold pair,

  If favouring fortune should them homeward bring.

  Both sprang upon the threshold; on their track

  Precipitously dashed the Christian rout;

  But Solymano charged and drove them back:

  The gate then fell, but shut Clorinda out.

  XLIX

  Alone excluded was the warrior maid,

  For as they barred the portal she had gone,

  With cruel purpose and enfeloned blade,

  To punish one who struck her — Arimon.

  One stroke sufficed to lay the offender low,

  Nor knew Arganté she had left his side,

  Since the fierce fight, dense air, and surging foe,

  His sight and other senses stupefied.

  L

  But when her angered spirit she had quenched

  With the Frank’s blood, and to reflect was led,

  Saw the gate closed, and she herself intrenched

  By hostile swords, she gave herself for dead.

  Still noticing she was observed by none,

  To save her life a novel thought arose;

  She feigned to be a Christian, and, as one

  Unnoticed, stole among her mortal foes.

  LI

  Then as a wolf slinks cowering to his lair,

  Some dark deed done, and shuns the beaten way,

  So, favoured by the darkness of the air

  And wild confusion, she retired away.

  Alone Tancredi the occurrence knew;

  For he, arriving but a short time back,

  The combat reached as Arimon she slew,

  Then watched her, marked, and followed on her track.

  LII

  He wished to prove her strength in arms; a knight

  He deemed her, worthy with himself to mate;

  But she went winding round the rugged height,

  To gain admission at some other gate.

  But as behind the impetuous Tancred sped,

  His armour rattled, whence, with angry breath,

  Upon him turning, ‘Why such haste?’ she said;

  ‘What bring’st thou me?’ He answered, ‘War and Death.’

  LIII

  ‘War thou shalt have, and Death,’ Clorinda cried;

  ‘I’ll give thee both.’ This said, the maiden halts;

  And seeing his foe on foot, with knightly pride

  At once Tancredi from his destrier vaults,

  And having drawn his broadsword, she her brand

  (Their self-love sharpened and their anger fired),

  They for the dread encounter take their stand,

  Like two young bulls by jealous rage inspired.

  LIV

  Worthy those deeds, instead of envious gloom,

  Of crowded lists and clearest sunshine were.

  O Night, that hidest in thy lightless womb

  And in oblivion screenest feats so rare,

  Grant that I draw them thenceforth, and consign

  To future ages their full blaze of light,

  That their fame live, and thro’ their glory shine

  Undying memory of thy darkness — Night!

  LV

  Retire they don’t, or foil, or parry — no;

  Nor plays dexterity the slightest part;

  Not theirs the full, the feigned, the cautious blow;

  Their rage — the darkness mocks the use of art;

  Clash with discordant resonance their brands,

  As steel meets steel; their feet their ground maintain:

  Moveless are they, while ever move their hands,

  And not a stroke or thrust descends in vain.

  LVI

  Offence resentment to revenge incites,

  And vengeance taken the offence renews;

  Whence aye fresh causes goad the furious knights,

  And in each stroke fresh virulence infuse.

  And as more close the cruel contest grows,

  Finding how unavailing is the blade,

  They used the pommel, and with desperate blows

  To smash each other’s helm and shield essayed.

  LVII

  Three times the cavalier the maiden grasps

  In his strong arms, and thrice the maiden too,

  From their tenacious knots, herself unclasps —

  Knots not of lover, but of savage foe.

  Once more they use their sabres, which they stain

  In many a crimson wound; then, out of breath,

  With one consent, both he and she refrain,

  Overstrained, exhausted, from the work of death.

  LVIII

  Each now returned his foe’s defiant gaze,

  While leaning, breathless, on the falchion’s hilt;

  Already the last star had paled its rays

  Before the dawn, which Orient splendour gilt,

  When Tancred, seeing that more profusely ran

  His foeman’s life-blood than his own, repress

  He could not his delight. Vain, puffed-up man!

  Elated by each semblance of success.

  LIX

  Fool! why this joy? Lost, lost in endless pain

  Will be thy triumph, when the truth appears;

  Thine eyes will pay (if life the shock sustain),

  For every drop of blood, a sea of tears.

  As, without speaking, each the other eyed,

  The blood-stained knights obtained a brief repose;

  Breaking at length the silence, Tancred cried

  That his opponent should his name disclose.

  LX

  ’Tis hard that we, unseen by mortal eyes,

  Should so much valour uselessly display;

  Since, then, invidious destiny denies

  Praise, or a witness adequate, I pray

  (If prayers can find acceptance from a foe),

  Thee to reveal thy name and quality,

  That, conqueror or conquered, I may know

  Who will adorn my death or victory.’

  LXI

  Fiercely she answered: ‘You demand in vain

  What it is not my habit to unfold;

  But whosoe’er I be, one of the twain

  That fired your mighty turret you behold.’

  With wrath her speech inflamed the Christian knight,

  Who shouted: ‘This in evil hour you tell;

  Your silence, no less than your words, invite

  Me to revenge, discourteous infidel.’

  LXII

  Rage to their hearts returned at this, and led

  Once more to battle the exhausted knights.

  Fierce fray! whence skill is banished, strength is dead,

  And in their place alone brute fury fights.

  Oh, what wide bloody gaps the falchion rived

  In their soft flesh, thro’ steel and quilted vest;

  And if frail life in either still survived,

  Despite it was that bound it to the breast.

  LXIII

  As the Ægean, tho’ the storm be o’er,

  That had convulsed it to its deepest caves,

  Not tranquil yet, retains the roll and
roar

  In its still big and agitated waves;

  Thus, tho’ with loss of blood that vigour waned,

  Which put at first such life into each blow,

  Yet still their former energy remained,

  Impelled by which they madly fight; but, lo!

  LXIV

  The hour, the fatal hour at length arrives,

  To quit this life that bold Clorinda should:

  Through her fair bosom the sword’s point he drives,

  Which there infixed drinks greedily her blood.

  A reeking torrent deluges her vest,

  Which, stiff with tissue of embroidered gold,

  Confined with yielding tenderness her breast;

  She feels death near, nor can herself uphold.

  LXV

  He, threat’ning, follows up his victory,

  Forcing and pressing the transfixèd maid,

  Who, as she fell in mortal agony,

  Her last words uttered, her last wish conveyed;

  Words a new spirit prompted unto her,

  Spirit of Hope, of Charity, of Faith,

  By God Himself inspired, who, tho’ she were

  In life a rebel, willed her true in death.

  LXVI

  ‘Friend, thou hast won, and, as I pardon thee,

  Do thou too pardon, not this fearless clay,

  But my dark soul. Ah, pray for it, and free,

  By baptism, all my secret sins away.’

  In that faint voice’s gentle tones there stole

  Such soft unearthly music on his ear,

  As quenched all rage, and, gliding to his soul,

  Forced to his eyes a sympathetic tear.

  LXVII

  A short way off, a little murmuring rill

  Burst from the mountain’s bosom; there the knight

  Hastened, his helmet from its source to fill,

  Then sad returned for the great pious rite.

  He felt his hand shake, while he sought to bare

  Her, as yet, unknown features to the light:

  He saw, he knew her, and stood rooted there.

  Ah, recognition! ah, heart-rending sight!

  LXVIII

  Yet died he not, for in that hour of strife

  He summoned all his fortitude, the pain

  He felt suppressing, while he gave new life

  To her with water whom his sword had slain.

  But while he spoke the sacred words, a ray

  Of joy ecstatic lit Clorinda’s face;

  Dying, she smiled, and, reborn, seemed to say,

  ‘Heaven opes its portals — I depart in peace.’

  LXIX

  Her snowy face a lovely pallor wears;

  Of lilies, blent with violets, such the hue;

  Her eyes are fixed on heaven, and Heaven appears,

  With tender ruth, the penitent to view.

  Then, raising up her cold and ungloved arm,

  She gave the knight her hand, as earnest deep

  Of peace in lieu of words, and in that form