Jerusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  The maiden passed away, as if asleep.

  LXX

  But, seeing her pure and gentle soul depart,

  He, with it, lost the strength he had attained,

  And yielded up dominion of his heart

  To sorrow passionate and unrestrained.

  It froze his life’s blood, and a deathlike shade

  O’er his wan face and flickering spirit threw:

  The living languishes most like the dead,

  In blood, in silence, attitude, and hue.

  LXXI

  And sure his life, in that despairing mood,

  Bursting its frail defence’s fragile thread,

  Had her emancipated soul pursued,

  That just before its deathless wings had spread;

  But that, by chance, a troop of Franks arrived,

  Whom water, or such want, had thither led:

  They took the maid and warrior, who survived

  Scarce in himself, and who in her was dead.

  LXXII

  Their chief, tho’ distant, by his armour, knew

  The Christian prince, and thither straightway went:

  He recognised the lifeless beauty too,

  And mourned the strange, unhappy accident;

  Yet would not leave to savage wolves a prey

  (Tho’ Pagan deeming it) her lovely corse,

  But both their bodies made his men convey,

  And to Tancredi’s quarters bent his course.

  LXXIII

  Nor was the slow and easy motion felt

  By the unconscious wounded cavalier,

  Whose moans declared that life within still dwelt;

  That death had not yet ended his career:

  But the other voiceless, moveless mass of clay,

  Too clearly proved the vital spark had fled;

  Thus near but in two separate chambers they

  Were placed, the half-living warrior and the dead.

  LXXIV

  Engaged on varied duties round the knight,

  A crowd of sympathising esquires stands,

  When lo! returns to his faint eyes the light,

  He hears the voices, feels the soothing hands;

  But still his mind, bewildered by the past,

  Of his return not certain, hung in doubt;

  Stupid he stared, and recognised at last

  The squires, the room, then feebly faltered out;

  LXXV

  ‘Do I then breathe and live? Still see the beams,

  The odious beams of this disastrous day?

  That, witness of my dark misdoing, seems

  Against me by its presence to inveigh.

  Ah, timid, tardy hand! why now not dare,

  Thou, so adept in all the ways of strife?

  Foul minister of death! why now forbear

  To cut the thread of this my guilty life?

  LXXVI

  ‘Pierce, pierce this breast; and with thy cruel sword

  Complete the torture of thy martyred chief;

  Perhaps tho’ used to actions so abhorred,

  Thou’dst deem it mercy thus to end my grief;

  Then as a dread example I’ll remain,

  The wretched monster of unhappy love —

  A wretched monster, worthy of the pain

  That life itself will for the future prove.

  LXXVII

  ‘My life I’ll pass ‘mid torments and ‘mid care;

  Just Furies, they will my sad steps pursue;

  The dark and lonely shadows I shall fear,

  Since they will ever bring my crime in view;

  And the sun’s face with hate and horror seeing,

  I shall avoid as some reproachful elf;

  Fearing myself, and from myself aye fleeing,

  I still shall aye be haunted by myself.

  LXXVIII

  ‘But where — woe, woe is me! — ah, where remain

  The relics of that form so chaste, so fair?

  All that my fury left entire, has been,

  It may be, mangled by wild wolf or bear.

  Ah, prey too noble! (ah, unfortunate maid! )

  Ah, far too sweet — ah, far too precious feast!

  ‘Gainst whom the darkness and the wood arrayed

  My fatal falchion and the ravening beast

  LXXIX

  ‘But I will fly to where ye are, if ye

  Exist on earth, dear, darling relics, still;

  But should it hap on your fair limbs (ah me! )

  Wild beast has glutted his bloodthirsty will,

  The self-same jaws that swallowed, the same tomb

  That them engulphed, my sepulchre shall be.

  Ah, doubly honoured and most welcome doom,

  That will unite me, tho’ in death, with thee!’

  LXXX

  Thus spoke the wretched knight, but when he hears

  That in his tent her precious body lies,

  His gloomy aspect in a moment clears,

  Like cloud o’er which a flash of lightning flies.

  Then raising up his limbs’ enfeebled weight

  From off the couch where they supported lay,

  Scarce able to move, with vacillating gait,

  Thither the silent mourner bends his way.

  LXXXI

  But when he came, and saw in that fair breast

  The ghastly wound his murderous hand had given,

  And that no lustre her wan face possessed,

  Like a nocturnal tho’ unclouded heaven,

  He trembled so that he had fallen, if aid

  Had been at greater distance from the spot.

  ‘Ah face, that canst ev’n sweeten death,’ he said,

  ‘Thou canst not sweeten more my bitter lot!

  LXXXII

  ‘Ah, lovely hand, that didst outstretch to me

  The tender pledge of friendship and of peace,

  How do I come, and how, alas! find thee?

  And you, chaste, delicate members, are not these

  The hateful and intolerable sign

  Of my ferocious rage and cruelty?

  Ye stony eyes match well these hands of mine —

  They gave the wounds that ye still live to see.

  LXXXIII

  ‘Tearless ye see them too; then stream, my blood!

  Stream, since my frozen tears refuse to flow.’

  Sudden he ceased, grown desperate, nor could

  Resist the wish to end by death his woe.

  He tore his bandages away; red rain

  In streams poured from each irritated wound,

  And died he had, if from the poignant pain

  That made him swoon, new life he had not found.

  LXXXIV

  Placed on the couch again, his fluttering soul

  Back to its odious offices returns;

  But his sad fortune and excessive dole

  Each from the tongue of busy rumour learns;

  Thither at once the pious chief repairs,

  And thither throngs each true and anxious friend;

  But no grave counsels, no persuasive prayers,

  Could his soul’s settled stubborn sorrow bend.

  LXXXV

  As mortal wound that in a delicate limb

  Angers if touched, and feels still greater smart,

  So the sweet comforts that surrounded him

  Increased still more the anguish of his heart;

  But venerable Peter, like good herds

  That tend their sickly lambs with kindly care,

  Rebuked his frenzy with stem, solemn words,

  And tried to check, by counsel, his despair.

  LXXXVI

  ‘O Tancred, Tancred! how thyself unlike;

  How changed the early promptings of thy mind.

  What stops thine ear? What clouds of darkness strike

  Thine eyes, and render thee so lost, so blind?

  This thy misfortune is the work of God;

  Dost Him not see, His gracious words not hea
r,

  Who the lost path, by thee once haply trod,

  Points out, and chides thy fatuous career?

  LXXXVII

  ‘He now recalls thee to that dignity

  Of cavalier of Christ in this Crusade,

  Which thou hast left, (unworthy change!) to be

  Th’ inglorious lover of a Pagan maid.

  Ah, blest misfortune! thy compassionate God

  Gives thee thyself the means of grace to choose,

  And thy mad faults corrects with gentle rod.

  His gracious offer wilt thou then refuse?

  LXXXVIII

  ‘Refuse, ungrateful, Heaven’s salubrious gift,

  And against God thy puny wrath display?

  Ah, wretched Tancred! why thus plunge adrift,

  And to such unchecked hopelessness give way?

  On dread eternity’s tremendous brink,

  Thou hang’st at mercy of His slightest breath —

  See’st thou it not? Ah, see, I pray, and think,

  And curb that grief which leads to double death.’

  LXXXIX

  He ceased. That second death raised up such fear

  As for the first allayed the wish; whence he

  To those blest words of comfort lent an ear,

  And somewhat calmed his griefs intensity;

  But still at times he wept beyond control,

  And, unrestrained, bewailed his hapless doom;

  Himself addressing now, now her freed soul,

  Which perhaps listened from its heavenly home.

  XC

  To her at rise, to her at sunset hour,

  He prays, he weeps, he calls with faltering tongue:

  Like nightingale, from whose deserted bower

  Hard-hearted churl has filched her unfledged young,

  Mourning the sad lone nights, her piteous cries

  Thro’ the still air and silent forest peal.

  At length, as day breaks, he half shuts his eyes,

  O’er which, still weeping, ruthful slumbers steal.

  XCI

  When dreaming, lo! in vesture star-inwrought,

  Appeared the form of his lamented love;

  But much more beautiful than erst, she brought

  With her old look a splendour from above;

  She seemed, with tenderest sympathy, to dry

  His streaming eyes; she seemed to whisper,’See

  How lovely, how beatified am I;

  Calm, then, thy grief, dear faithful friend, for me,

  XCII

  ‘Since thou hast made me such. Twas thy mistake

  That took me from the living in thy sphere;

  Twas thy devotion did me worthy make

  To reach my God, and sit with angels here;

  And, ‘mid these realms of heavenly bliss, I’ll pray

  That here a place He will to thee assign,

  Where, in the sunshine of eternal day,

  Thou mayst enjoy their loveliness and mine.

  XCIII

  ‘If, then, thou grudgest not thyself such bliss,

  Nor art by sensual madness led astray,

  Live; for I love thee (and acknowledge this),

  As far as love a child of earth I may,’

  Thus speaking, rapture sparkled in her gaze,

  And did a more than mortal light impart;

  Then, shrouded in the halo of her rays,

  She left, fresh cheer infusing in his heart.

  XCIV

  Consoled, he woke, and to the prudent care

  Of skilled physicians his worn frame resigned,

  Then orders gave to its last home to bear

  That form which erst such noble life enshrined;

  And if her tomb was not with marble decked,

  Or by the chisel of skilled sculptor chased,

  Chosen at least was stone and architect,

  As far as time permitted to his haste.

  XCV

  Illumed by torches in extended line,

  With noble pomp her body was conveyed;

  Her arms suspended from a branchless pine,

  In form of trophied emblems, were displayed.

  But when the still enfeebled cavalier

  His limbs could raise upon the following day,

  With ruth and reverence filled, he went to where,

  Interred, her loved and honoured relics lay.

  XCVI

  And having reached the loved, the fatal tomb,

  Where his own living soul imprisoned lies,

  Cold, faltering, mute, with look of deepest gloom,

  On the dull stone he riveted his eyes.

  Bursting at length into a flood of tears,

  He faintly sighed, then feebly faltered out:

  ‘Oh, stone, which this my loving heart reveres,

  That hast my flame within, my tears without.

  XCVII

  ‘Not Death thou dost in thy cold clasp conceal,

  But quick warm ashes, where lies buried Love;

  In thee too well my wonted fires I feel,

  Which, if less sweet, not less impassioned prove.

  Ah, take these sighs, and these my kisses take!

  Thus drowned in tears, they will my grief attest,

  And since I cannot, give them for my sake

  To the loved relics that within thee rest

  XCVIII

  ‘Give them; for if her lovely spirit e’er

  Upon her lovely relics cast her eyes,

  No anger ‘gainst my boldness she will bear,

  Since hate and anger dwell not in the skies.

  In the sole thought she did my crime condone,

  My heart still beats amid such misery;

  She knows that guilty was my hand alone,

  Nor grieves if loving her I lived — so die!

  XCIX

  ‘Yes, loving her, I’ll die. Ah, happy day,

  Whene’er it come; but happier, happier far,

  If, as now round thee loitering, I may,

  Within thy womb, lie side by side with her.

  In heaven may our united souls abide;

  May our frail ashes share the self-same tomb,

  And death possess what was to life denied:

  Ah, could I hope for this, how blest my doom!’

  C

  Meanwhile of her untimely fate and fall

  Confused reports and busy whispers rise,

  Till they gain certainty, and spread; thro’ all

  The affrighted town the unwelcome rumour flies,

  Mingled with women’s wail and shrieks of ire,

  As tho’ by storm Jerusalem were ta’en,

  And the fierce foe laid waste with sword and fire

  Each hallowed dwelling and each holy fane.

  CI

  But on Arsete, whose sad face appears

  The picture of despair, are turned all eyes;

  He like the rest did not dissolve in tears

  Grief, which in him too indurated is.

  But with foul dust begrimed his silver hair,

  And beat distractedly his face and breast;

  Now while on him the assembled people stare,

  Forth stepped Arganté, and the crowd addressed:

  CII

  ‘Much did I wish to follow the bold maid,

  Soon as I knew that she remained outside,

  And ran at once to offer every aid,

  Nor from her destiny my own divide.

  Where did I fail in act or speech? I prayed

  The king to unbar the portal; but in vain;

  No reason moved, no warm entreaty swayed,

  Him who doth all with power despotic rein.

  CII

  ‘Ah, had I then gone forth, I either would

  The warrior maid have rescued from her foes,

  Or, where the earth was crimsoned with her blood,

  Life ended by a memorable close.

  But what, alas! could I do more? — what try?

  Against my c
ounsel man and God were set;

  Clorinda’s death predestined was; but I

  Can ne’er what to her memory’s due forget.

  CIV

  ‘Hear, Salem, what Arganté doth declare!

  Hear it, O Heaven, and if I fail, do thou

  Blast me with lightning! I deep vengeance swear

  ‘Gainst the Frank murderer; nay, more, I vow,

  Ne’er from my settled purpose to depart,

  Nor e’er this falchion from my hip depose

  Till I have plunged it in Tancredi’s heart,

  And flung his felon carcass to the crows.’

  CV

  Thus spoke Arganté; his concluding words

  The assembled crowd saluted with applause;

  For in their grief his vowed revenge affords

  Hope that his sabre will avenge her cause.

  Vain, idle oaths! how opposite in all,

  To vaunt so lofty, the result will be;

  Since in like combat will he ‘neath him fall,

  O’er whom he boasts in fancied victory.

  CANTO XIII.

  I

  SCARCE had the wall-breaching immense machine

  In ashes fallen, than in his subtle breast

  New projects were concerted by Ismene,

  Whereby the town might more securely rest,

  By which prevent he might the attacking power

  From getting fresh material from the wood;

  So that they could not make another tower,

  Nor more molest the battered city could.

  II

  At no great distance from the Christian tents,

  ‘Twixt lonely vales, a lofty wood is found,

  Most thick with antique horrid timber, whence

  Are cast unwholesome shadows all around;

  Here, when the sun shines brightest from oh high,

  Uncertain, dull, and colourless the light;

  Such as seems doubtful in a clouded sky,

  If night to day succeeds, or day to night.

  III

  But when the sun goes down, o’ershadowing, rise

  Night, darkness, clouds, and horrors, that appear.

  Like Acheron’s deepest gloom; they blind the eyes

  And fill all hearts with strange mysterious fear.

  No flocks nor herds, for pasture or for shade,

  Doth rustic here, or frightened shepherd guide;

  Or traveller enter, save when he has strayed

  From the right road, but points and passes wide.

  IV

  The witches hold their midnight revels here,

  Each with her lover; o’er the clouds they float;

  This a ferocious dragon doth appear,

  That wears the shape of shapeless mountain goat.

  Foul, shameless gathering, whom the attractive bait

  Of happiness allures by false delights,

  With lewd, indecent pomp to celebrate

  Banquets profane, and impious marriage rites.

  V