Jerusalem Delivered
Page 219
Thy happy conquest in my death, I trow,
Like chance awaits thee from a hand more strong,
Which by my side will shortly lay thee low:”
He smiled, and said, “Of mine hour short or long
Let heaven take care; but here meanwhile die thou,
Pasture for wolves and crows,” on him his foot
He set, and drew his sword and life both out.
LXXX.
‘Not thou, whoe’er thou art, shalt triumph long
In this my death; proud conqueror, for thee
Like fate is preordained; an arm more strong
Shall stretch thy lifeless carcass beside me.’
Grimly he smiled, and answered him: ‘Let God
Care for my lot; meanwhile die thou, and feast
The dogs and birds; ‘then on his body trod,
And with one tug, both steel and soul released.
LXXXI.
Un paggio del Soldan misto era in quella
Turba di sagittarj e lanciatori,
A cui non anco la stagion novella
644 Il bel mento spargea de’ primi fiori.
Pajon perle e rugiade, in su la bella
Guancia irrigando, i tepidi sudori:
Giunge grazia la polve al crine incolto:
648 E sdegnoso rigor dolce è in quel volto.
LXXXI
Among this squadron rode a gentle page,
The Soldan’s minion, darling, and delight,
On whose fair chin the spring-time of his age
Yet blossomed out her flowers, small or light;
The sweat spread on his cheeks with heat and rage
Seemed pearls or morning dews on lilies white,
The dust therein uprolled adorned his hair,
His face seemed fierce and sweet, wrathful and fair.
LXXXI.
Among the archers and the lancers rode
One of the pages of King Solyman,
On whose smooth chin no indication showed
That spring to strew its first flowers had begun;
The sweat that moistened his soft cheeks was fair
As glistening dew-drops or bright pearls; fresh grace
The dust imparted to his unkempt hair,
And anger ev’n looked charming in that face.
LXXXII.
Sotto ha un destrier che, di candore, agguaglia
Pur or nell’Apennin caduta neve:
Turbo o fiamma non è, che roti o saglia
652 Rapida sì, come è quel pronto e leve.
Vibra ei, presa nel mezzo, una zagaglia:
La spada al fianco tien ritorta e breve:
E con barbara pompa in un lavoro
656 Di porpora risplende intesta e d’oro.
LXXXII
His steed was white, and white as purest snow
That falls on tops of aged Apennine,
Lightning and storm are not so ‘swift I trow
As he, to run, to stop, to turn and twine;
A dart his right hand shaked, prest to throw;
His cutlass by his thigh, short, hooked, fine,
And braving in his Turkish pomp he shone,
In purple robe, o’erfret with gold and stone.
LXXXII.
The graceful stripling rode a destrier, white
As snow fresh fallen upon the Apennines;
Less swift is whirlwind, rising flame less light,
Than it to wheel and curvet through the lines:
Grasped by the middle, he a javelin bore,
A scimetar hung jangling at his side;
Tunic of purple, gold-inwove, he wore,
That shone resplendent with barbaric pride.
LXXXIII.
Mentre il fanciullo, a cui novel piacere
Di gloria il petto giovenil lusinga,
Di qua turba e di là tutte le schiere,
660 E lui non è chi tanto o quanto stringa;
Cauto osserva Argillan tra le leggiere
Sue rote il tempo, in che l’asta sospinga:
E colto il punto, il suo destrier di furto
664 Gli uccide, e sovra gli è, ch’appena è surto.
LXXXIII
The hardy boy, while thirst of warlike praise
Bewitched so his unadvised thought,
Gainst every band his childish strength assays,
And little danger found, though much he sought,
Till Argillan, that watched fit time always
In his swift turns to strike him as he fought,
Did unawares his snow-white courser slay,
And under him his master tumbling lay:
LXXXIII.
While the young boy, whose heart the new delights
Of glory charmed, endeavoured to molest,
By dashing in among them, the Frank knights,
Nor was there any could his course arrest,
Argillan watched his opportunity
To launch his spear, as round and round he flies —
Caught it, and slew his destrier stealthily,
And o’er him stood, before he had time to rise,
LXXXIV.
Ed al supplice volto, il quale invano
Con l’arme di pietà fea sue difese,
Drizzò, crudel, l’inesorabil mano,
668 E di Natura il più bel pregio offese.
Senso aver parve, e fu dell’uom più umano
Il ferro, che si volse e piatto scese:
Ma che pro? se, doppiando il colpo fero,
672 Di punta colse ove egli errò primiero.
LXXXIV
And gainst his face, where love and pity stand,
To pray him that rich throne of beauty spare,
The cruel man stretched forth his murdering hand,
To spoil those gifts, whereof he had no share:
It seemed remorse and sense was in his brand
Which, lighting flat, to hurt the lad forbare;
But all for naught, gainst him the point he bent
That, what the edge had spared, pierced and rent.
LXXXIV.
And ‘gainst his suppliant face, which vainly strove
Itself with arms of pity to defend,
The inexorable steel Argillan drove
The choicest gift of Nature to offend;
But the sword seemed more human than the man,
Since, turning, it fell flat; but what availed
The sabred ruth, since with fresh force he ran
Him thro’ the place where he at first had failed?
LXXXV.
Soliman, che di là non molto lunge
Da Goffredo in battaglia è trattenuto,
Lascia la zuffa, e ‘l destrier volve e punge,
676 Tosto che ‘l rischio ha del garzon veduto:
E i chiusi passi apre col ferro, e giunge
Alla vendetta si, non all’ajuto:
Perchè vede, ahi dolor! giacerne ucciso
680 Il suo Lesbin, quasi bel fior succiso.
LXXXV
Fierce Solyman that with Godfredo strived
Who first should enter conquest’s glorious gate,
Left off the fray and thither headlong drived,
When first he saw the lad in such estate;
He brake the press, and soon enough arrived
To take revenge, but to his aid too late,
Because he saw his Lesbine slain and lost,
Like a sweet flower nipped with untimely frost.
LXXXV.
But Solymano, who, not far from there
Engaged in battle had with Godfred been,
Forsook the fight, and turned his destrier,
Soon as he had his page’s peril seen,
And quickly oped thro’ closest crowds a lane,
For vengeance — yes, but for assistance — no,
Since he beheld — ah, grief! — his Lesbin slain,
Like a fair flower in bloom of youth laid low.
LXXXVI.
E in atto s�
� gentil languir tremanti
Gli occhj, e cader sul tergo il collo mira:
Così vago è il pallore, e da’ sembianti
684 Di morte una pietà sì dolce spira;
Ch’ammollì il cor, che fu dur marmo innanti
E ‘l pianto scaturì di mezzo all’ira.
Tu piangi, Soliman! tu che distrutto
688 Mirasti il regno tuo col ciglio asciutto?
LXXXVI
He saw wax dim the starlight of his eyes,
His ivory neck upon his shoulders fell,
In his pale looks kind pity’s image lies,
That death even mourned, to hear his passing bell.
His marble heart such soft impression tries,
That midst his wrath his manly tears outwell,
Thou weepest, Solyman, thou that beheld
Thy kingdoms lost, and not one tear could yield.
LXXXVI.
So gently did his trembling eyelids close,
And droop so gracefully his neck, the youth
So well became his pallor, and the throes
Of death inspired such sympathetic ruth,
That his heart melts, than marble erst more cold,
And, ‘mid his anger, scalding tear-drops rise:
What! weep’st thou, Solyman, that didst behold
Thy realm’s destruction with unmoistened eyes?
LXXXVII.
Ma come ei vede il ferro ostil che molle
Fuma del sangue ancor del giovinetto;
La pietà cede, e l’ira avvampa e bolle,
692 E le lagrime sue stagna nel petto.
Corre sovra Argillano, e ‘l ferro estolle,
Parte lo scudo opposto, indi l’elmetto,
Indi il capo e la gola; e dello sdegno
696 Di Soliman ben quel gran colpo è degno.
LXXXVII
But when the murderer’s sword he hapt to view
Dropping with blood of his Lesbino dead,
His pity vanished, ire and rage renew,
He had no leisure bootless tears to shed;
But with his blade on Argillano flew,
And cleft his shield, his helmet, and his head,
Down to his throat; and worthy was that blow
Of Solyman, his strength and wrath to show:
LXXXVII.
But when he saw the sabre smoking still
With the youths blood, all pity disappears,
And seethed and burned his maddened anger, till
It dried the very sources of his tears;
He on Argillan rushed with sword on high,
And cleft opposing shield, helm, head, and throat.
Of Solymano’s animosity
That mighty blow did well the strength denote.
LXXXVIII.
Nè di ciò ben contento, al corpo morto,
Smontato del destriero, anco fa guerra;
Quasi mastin che ‘l sasso, ond’a lui porto
700 Fu duro colpo, infellonito afferra.
Oh d’immenso dolor vano conforto,
Incrudelir nell’insensibil terra!
Ma frattanto de’ Franchi il Capitano
704 Non spendea l’ire, e le percosse invano.
LXXXVIII
And not content with this, down from his horse
He lights, and that dead carcass rent and tore,
Like a fierce dog that takes his angry course
To bite the stone which had him hit before.
Oh comfort vain for grief of so great force,
To wound the senseless earth that feels no sore!
But mighty Godfrey ‘gainst the Soldan’s train
Spent not, this while, his force and blows in vain.
LXXXVIII.
Nor yet content, upon the inanimate corse
He sought, dismounted, to do battle; so
A mastiff seizes with enfeloned force
The unconscious stone that gave the cruel blow.
Of overpowering dole vain vain relief,
To wreak one’s vengeance on insensate clay!
Meanwhile not thus the gallant Christian chief
His blows and anger idly threw away.
LXXXIX.
Mille Turchi avea quì che di loriche,
E d’elmetti, e di scudi eran coperti,
Indomiti di corpo alle fatiche,
708 Di spirto audaci, e in tutti i casi esperti:
E furon già delle milizie antiche
Di Solimano, e seco ne’ deserti
Seguir d’Arabia i suo’ errori infelici,
712 Nelle fortune avverse ancora amici.
LXXXIX
A thousand hardy Turks affront he had
In sturdy iron armed from head to foot,
Resolved in all adventures good or bad,
In actions wise, in execution stout,
Whom Solyman into Arabia lad,
When from his kingdom he was first cast out,
Where living wild with their exiled guide
To him in all extremes they faithful bide;
LXXXIX.
Sheathed in chain armour, iron helm, and shield,
With Solyman a thousand Turks campaigned,
Who to fatigue were never known to yield,
Of dauntless courage and in all points trained;
The remnant of his ancient guard they were,
That in the deserts of wild Araby
Did aye their liege’s hapless fortunes share,
And still were faithful in adversity.
XC.
Questi ristretti insieme in ordin folto
Poco cedeano o nulla al valor Franco.
In questi urtò Goffredo, e ferì il volto
716 Al fier Corcutte, ed a Rosteno il fianco:
A Selin dalle spalle il capo ha sciolto:
Tronco a Rosseno il destro braccio e ‘l manco.
Nè già soli costor; ma in altre guise
720 Molti piagò di loro, e molti uccise.
XC
All these in thickest order sure unite,
For Godfrey’s valor small or nothing shrank,
Corcutes first he on the face did smite,
Then wounded strong Rosteno in the flank,
At one blow Selim’s head he stroke off quite,
Then both Rossano’s arms, in every rank
The boldest knights, of all that chosen crew,
He felled, maimed, wounded, hurt and slew.
XC.
These in close order linked together, yield
Little or nothing to the valorous Frank;
Among them Godfred charged, and through his shield,
Pierced fell Corcuté’s face and Rosten’s flank;
Then from the shoulders severed Selim’s head,
And shore Rossano’s right and left arm thro’;
Nor these alone beneath his sabre bled,
Elseways he many maimed and many slew.
XCI.
Mentre ei così la gente Saracina
Percuote, e lor percosse anco sostiene:
E in nulla parte al precipizio inchina
724 La fortuna de’ Barbari, e la spene:
Nova nube di polve ecco vicina,
Che folgori di guerra in grembo tiene;
Ecco d’arme improvvise uscir un lampo,
728 Che sbigottì degl’infedeli il campo.
XCI
While thus he killed many a Saracine
And all their fierce assaults unhurt sustained,
Ere fortune wholly from the Turks decline,
While still they hoped much, though small they gained,
Behold a cloud of dust, wherein doth shine
Lightning of war in midst thereof contained,
Whence unawares burst forth a storm of swords,
Which tremble made the Pagan knights and lords.
XCI.
But while he thus attacked the infidel,
And bore the fury of their slashing swords,
And in no single point desponding fe
ll
The hopes and fortunes of the barbarous hordes,
Lo! a fresh cloud of ominous dust draws nigh,
Big with the rattling thunderbolts of war;
From gleaming arms, lo! sudden flashes fly,
That panic strike the Saracen. They are
XCII.
Son cinquanta guerrier, che in puro argento
Spiegan la trionfal purpurea Croce.
Non io, se cento bocche e lingue cento
732 Avessi, e ferrea lena e ferrea voce,
Narrar potrei quel numero che spento,
Ne’ primi assalti, ha quel drappel feroce.
Cade l’Arabo imbelle, e ‘l Turco invitto,
736 Resistendo e pugnando, anco è trafitto.
XCII
These fifty champions were, mongst whom there stands,
In silver field, the ensign of Christ’s death,
If I had mouths and tongues as Briareus hands,
If voice as iron tough, if iron breath,
What harm this troop wrought to the heathen bands,
What knights they slew, I could recount uneath
In vain the Turks resist, the Arabians fly;
If they fly, they are slain; if fight, they die.
XCII.
Fifty Crusaders, that, in silver clad,
Display the purple and triumphant Cross;
Not if a hundred mouths and tongues I had,
And lungs of iron and an iron voice,
Could I recount the numbers that were slain
By the first charge of that impetuous troop:
The unwarlike Arab falls, the Turk in vain
Resists, and sinks beneath their lightning swoop.
XCIII.
L’orror, la crudeltà, la tema, il lutto
Van d’intorno scorrendo: e in varia imago
Vincitrice la Morte errar per tutto
740 Vedresti, ed ondeggiar di sangue un lago.
Già con parte de’ suoi s’era condutto
Fuor d’una porta il Re, quasi presago
Di fortunoso evento; e quinci d’alto
744 Mirava il pian soggetto, e ‘l dubbio assalto.
XCIII
Fear, cruelty, grief, horror, sorrow, pain,
Run through the field, disguised in divers shapes,
Death might you see triumphant on the plain,
Drowning in blood him that from blows escapes.
The king meanwhile with parcel of his train
Comes hastily out, and for sure conquest gapes,
And from a bank whereon he stood, beheld