Jersusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  At last so close their battle fierce they make,

  They could not wield their swords, so nigh they came,

  They used the hilts, and each on other rushed,

  And helm to helm, and shield to shield they crushed.

  Thrice his strong arms he folds about her waist,

  And thrice was forced to let the virgin go,

  For she disdainéd to be so embraced,

  No lover would have strained his mistress so:

  They took their swords again, and each enchased

  Deep wounds in the soft flesh of his strong foe,

  Till weak and weary, faint, alive uneath,

  They both retired at once, at once took breath.

  Each other long beheld, and leaning stood

  Upon their swords, whose points in earth were pight,

  When day-break, rising from the eastern flood,

  Put forth the thousand eyes of blindfold night;

  Tancred beheld his foe's out-streaming blood,

  And gaping wounds, and waxed proud with the sight,

  Oh vanity of man's unstable mind,

  Puffed up with every blast of friendly wind!

  Why joy'st thou, wretch? Oh, what shall be thy gain?

  What trophy for this conquest is't thou rears?

  Thine eyes shall shed, in case thou be not slain,

  For every drop of blood a sea of tears:

  The bleeding warriors leaning thus remain,

  Each one to speak one word long time forbears,

  Tancred the silence broke at last, and said,

  For he would know with whom this fight he made:

  "Evil is our chance and hard our fortune is

  Who here in silence, and in shade debate,

  Where light of sun and witness all we miss

  That should our prowess and our praise dilate:

  If words in arms find place, yet grant me this,

  Tell me thy name, thy country, and estate;

  That I may know, this dangerous combat done,

  Whom I have conquered, or who hath me won."

  "What I nill tell, you ask," quoth she, "in vain,

  Nor moved by prayer, nor constrained by power,

  But thus much know, I am one of those twain

  Which late with kindled fire destroyed the tower."

  Tancred at her proud words swelled with disdain,

  "That hast thou said," quoth he, "in evil hour;

  Thy vaunting speeches, and thy silence both,

  Uncivil wretch, hath made my heart more wroth."

  Ire in their chaféd breasts renewed the fray,

  Fierce was the fight, though feeble were their might,

  Their strength was gone, their cunning was away,

  And fury in their stead maintained the fight,

  Their swords both points and edges sharp embay

  In purple blood, whereso they hit or light,

  And if weak life yet in their bosoms lie,

  They lived because they both disdained to die.

  As Ægean seas when storms be calmed again

  That rolled their tumbling waves with troublous blasts,

  Do yet of tempests past some shows retain,

  And here and there their swelling billows casts;

  So, though their strength were gone and might were vain,

  Of their first fierceness still the fury lasts,

  Wherewith sustained, they to their tackling stood,

  And heapéd wound on wound, and blood on blood.

  But now, alas, the fatal hour arrives

  That her sweet life must leave that tender hold,

  His sword into her bosom deep he drives,

  And bathed in lukewarm blood his iron cold,

  Between her breasts the cruel weapon rives

  Her curious square, embossed with swelling gold,

  Her knees grow weak, the pains of death she feels,

  And like a falling cedar bends and reels.

  The prince his hand upon her shield doth stretch,

  And low on earth the wounded damsel layeth,

  And while she fell, with weak and woful speech,

  Her prayers last and last complaints she sayeth,

  A spirit new did her those prayers teach,

  Spirit of hope, of charity, and faith;

  And though her life to Christ rebellious were,

  Yet diéd she His child and handmaid dear.

  "Friend, thou hast won, I pardon thee, nor save

  This body, that all torments can endure,

  But save my soul, baptism I dying crave,

  Come wash away my sins with waters pure:"

  His heart relenting nigh in sunder rave,

  With woful speech of that sweet creäture,

  So that his rage, his wrath, and anger died,

  And on his cheeks salt tears for ruth down slide.

  With murmur loud down from the mountain's side

  A little runnel tumbled near the place,

  Thither he ran and filled his helmet wide,

  And quick returned to do that work of grace,

  With trembling hands her beaver he untied,

  Which done he saw, and seeing, knew her face,

  And lost therewith his speech and moving quite,

  Oh woful knowledge, ah unhappy sight!

  He diéd not, but all his strength unites,

  And to his virtues gave his heart in guard,

  Bridling his grief, with water he requites

  The life that he bereft with iron hard,

  And while the sacred words the knight recites,

  The nymph to heaven with joy herself prepared;

  And as her life decays her joys increase,

  She smiled and said, "Farewell, I die in peace."

  As violets blue mongst lilies pure men throw,

  So paleness midst her native white begun;

  Her looks to heaven she cast, their eyes I trow

  Downward for pity bent both heaven and sun,

  Her naked hand she gave the knight, in show

  Of love and peace, her speech, alas, was done,

  And thus the virgin fell on endless sleep,—

  Love, Beauty, Virtue, for your darling weep!

  But when he saw her gentle soul was went,

  His manly courage to relent began,

  Grief, sorrow, anguish, sadness, discontent,

  Free empire got and lordship on the man,

  His life within his heart they close up pent,

  Death through his senses and his visage ran:

  Like his dead lady, dead seemed Tancred good,

  In paleness, stillness, wounds and streams of blood.

  And his weak sprite, to be unbodiéd

  From fleshly prison free that ceaseless strived,

  Had followed her fair soul but lately fled

  Had not a Christian squadron there arrived,

  To seek fresh water thither haply led,

  And found the princess dead, and him deprived

  Of signs of life; yet did the knight remain

  On live, nigh dead, for her himself had slain.

  Their guide far off the prince knew by his shield,

  And thither hasted full of grief and fear,

  Her dead, him seeming so, he there beheld,

  And for that strange mishap shed many a tear;

  He would not leave the corpses fair in field

  For food to wolves, though she a Pagan were,

  But in their arms the soldiers both uphent,

  And both lamenting brought to Tancred's tent.

  With those dear burdens to their camp they pass,

  Yet would not that dead seeming knight awake,

  At last he deeply groaned, which token was

  His feeble soul had not her flight yet take:

  The other lay a still and heavy mass,

  Her spirit had that earthen cage forsake;

  Thus were they brought, and thus they placéd were

  In sundry
rooms, yet both adjoining near.

  All skill and art his careful servants used

  To life again their dying lord to bring,

  At last his eyes unclosed, with tears suffused,

  He felt their hands and heard their whispering,

  But how he thither came long time he mused,

  His mind astonished was with everything;

  He gazed about, his squires in fine he knew,

  Then weak and woful thus his plaints out threw:

  "What, live I yet? and do I breathe and see

  Of this accurséd day the hateful light?

  This spiteful ray which still upbraideth me

  With that accurséd deed I did this night,

  Ah, coward hand, afraid why should'st thou be,

  Thou instrument of death, shame and despite,

  Why should'st thou fear, with sharp and trenchant knife,

  To cut the thread of this blood-guilty life?

  "Pierce through this bosom, and my cruel heart

  In pieces cleave, break every string and vein;

  But thou to slaughters vile which uséd art,

  Think'st it were pity so to ease my pain:

  Of luckless love therefore in torments' smart

  A sad example must I still remain,

  A woful monster of unhappy love,

  Who still must live, lest death his comfort prove:

  "Still must I live in anguish, grief, and care;

  Furies my guilty conscience that torment,

  The ugly shades, dark night, and troubled air

  In grisly forms her slaughter still present,

  Madness and death about my bed repair,

  Hell gapeth wide to swallow up this tent;

  Swift from myself I run, myself I fear,

  Yet still my hell within myself I bear.

  "But where, alas, where be those relics sweet,

  Wherein dwelt late all love, all joy, all good?

  My fury left them cast in open street,

  Some beast hath torn her flesh and licked her blood,

  Ah noble prey! for savage beast unmeet,

  Ah sweet! too sweet, and far too precious food,

  Ah, seely nymph! whom night and darksome shade

  To beasts, and me, far worse than beasts, betrayed.

  "But where you be, if still you be, I wend

  To gather up those relics dear at least,

  But if some beast hath from the hills descend,

  And on her tender bowels made his feast,

  Let that fell monster me in pieces rend,

  And deep entomb me in his hollow chest:

  For where she buried is, there shall I have

  A stately tomb, a rich and costly grave."

  Thus mourned the knight, his squires him told at last,

  They had her there for whom those tears he shed;

  A beam of comfort his dim eyes outcast,

  Like lightning through thick clouds of darkness spread,

  The heavy burden of his limbs in haste,

  With mickle pain, he drew forth of his bed,

  And scant of strength to stand, to move or go,

  Thither he staggered, reeling to and fro.

  When he came there, and in her breast espied

  His handiwork, that deep and cruel wound,

  And her sweet face with leaden paleness dyed,

  Where beauty late spread forth her beams around,

  He trembled so, that nere his squires beside

  To hold him up, he had sunk down to ground,

  And said, "O face in death still sweet and fair!

  Thou canst not sweeten yet my grief and care:

  "O fair right hand, the pledge of faith and love?

  Given me but late, too late, in sign of peace,

  How haps it now thou canst not stir nor move?

  And you, dear limbs, now laid in rest and ease,

  Through which my cruel blade this flood-gate rove,

  Your pains have end, my torments never cease,

  O hands, O cruel eyes, accursed alike!

  You gave the wound, you gave them light to strike.

  "But thither now run forth my guilty blood,

  Whither my plaints, my sorrows cannot wend."

  He said no more, but, as his passion wood

  Inforcéd him, he gan to tear and rend

  His hair, his face, his wounds, a purple flood

  Did from each side in rolling streams descend,

  He had been slain, but that his pain and woe

  Bereft his senses, and preserved him so.

  Cast on his bed his squires recalled his sprite

  To execute again her hateful charge,

  But tattling fame the sorrows of the knight

  And hard mischance had told this while at large:

  Godfrey and all his lords of worth and might,

  Ran thither, and the duty would discharge

  Of friendship true, and with sweet words the rage

  Of bitter grief and woe they would assuage.

  But as a mortal wound the more doth smart

  The more it searchéd is, handled or sought;

  So their sweet words to his afflicted heart

  More grief, more anguish, pain and torment brought

  But reverend Peter that would set apart

  Care of his sheep, as a good shepherd ought,

  His vanity with grave advice reproved

  And told what mourning Christian knights behoved:

  "O Tancred, Tancred, how far different

  From thy beginnings good these follies be?

  What makes thee deaf? what hath thy eyesight blent?

  What mist, what cloud thus overshadeth thee?

  This is a warning good from heaven down sent,

  Yet His advice thou canst not hear nor see

  Who calleth and conducts thee to the way

  From which thou willing dost and witting stray:

  "To worthy actions and achievements fit

  For Christian knights He would thee home recall;

  But thou hast left that course and changéd it,

  To make thyself a heathen damsel's thrall;

  But see, thy grief and sorrow's painful fit

  Is made the rod to scourge thy sins withal,

  Of thine own good thyself the means He makes,

  But thou His mercy, goodness, grace forsakes.

  "Thou dost refuse of heaven the proffered grace,

  And gainst it still rebel with sinful ire,

  Oh wretch! Oh whither doth thy rage thee chase?

  Refrain thy grief, bridle thy fond desire,

  At hell's wide gate vain sorrow doth thee place,

  Sorrow, misfortune's son, despair's foul fire:

  Oh see thine evil, thy plaint and woe refrain,

  The guides to death, to hell, and endless pain."

  This said, his will to die the patient

  Abandonéd, that second death he feared,

  These words of comfort to his heart down went,

  And that dark night of sorrow somewhat cleared;

  Yet now and then his grief deep sighs forth sent,

  His voice shrill plaints and sad laments oft reared,

  Now to himself, now to his murdered love,

  He spoke, who heard perchance from heaven above.

  Till Phœbus' rising from his evening fall

  To her, for her, he mourns, he calls, he cries;

  The nightingale so when her children small

  Some churl takes before their parents' eyes,

  Alone, dismayed, quite bare of comforts all,

  Tires with complaints the seas, the shores, the skies,

  Till in sweet sleep against the morning bright

  She fall at last; so mourned, so slept the knight.

  And clad in starry veil, amid his dream,

  For whose sweet sake he mourned, appeared the maid,

  Fairer than erst, yet with that heavenly beam

  Not out of knowledge w
as her lovely shade,

  With looks of ruth her eyes celestial seem

  To pity his sad plight, and thus she said,

  "Behold how fair, how glad thy love appears,

  And for my sake, my dear, forbear these tears.

  "Thine be the thanks, my soul thou madest flit

  At unawares out of her earthly nest,

  Thine be the thanks, thou hast advancéd it

  In Abraham's dear bosom long to rest,

  There still I love thee, there for Tancred fit

  A seat preparéd is among the blest;

  There in eternal joy, eternal light,

  Thou shalt thy love enjoy, and she her knight;

  "Unless thyself, thyself heaven's joys envý,

  And thy vain sorrow thee of bliss deprive,

  Live, know I love thee, that I nill deny,

  As angels, men: as saints may wights on live:"

  This said, of zeal and love forth of her eye

  An hundred glorious beams bright shining drive,

  Amid which rays herself she closed from sight,

  And with new joy, new comfort left her knight.

  Thus comforted he waked, and men discreet

  In surgery to cure his wounds were sought,

  Meanwhile of his dear love the relics sweet,

  As best he could, to grave with pomp he brought:

  Her tomb was not of varied Spartan greet,

  Nor yet by cunning hand of Scopas wrought,

  But built of polished stone, and thereon laid

  The lively shape and portrait of the maid.

  With sacred burning lamps in order long

  And mournful pomp the corpse was brought to ground

  Her arms upon a leafless pine were hung,

  The hearse, with cypress; arms, with laurel crowned:

  Next day the prince, whose love and courage strong

  Drew forth his limbs, weak, feeble, and unsound,

  To visit went, with care and reverence meet,

  The buried ashes of his mistress sweet:

  Before her new-made tomb at last arrived,

  The woful prison of his living sprite,

  Pale, cold, sad, comfortless, of sense deprived,

  Upon the marble gray he fixed his sight,

  Two streams of tears were from his eyes derived:

  Thus with a sad "Alas!" began the knight,

  "O marble dear on my dear mistress placed!

  My flames within, without my tears thou hast.

  "Not of dead bones art thou the mournful grave,

  But of quick love the fortress and the hold,

  Still in my heart thy wonted brands I have

  More bitter far, alas! but not more cold;

  Receive these sighs, these kisses sweet receive,

  In liquid drops of melting tears enrolled,

  And give them to that body pure and chaste,

  Which in thy bosom cold entombed thou hast.