Jersusalem Delivered

by Torquato Tasso

  The terrors of that forest's dreadful sight,

  Storms, earthquakes, thunders, cries, he all despised,

  He fearéd nothing, yet a motion light,

  That quickly vanished, in his heart arised

  When lo, between him and the charméd wood,

  A fiery city high as heaven up stood.

  The knight stepped back and took a sudden pause,

  And to himself, "What help these arms?" quoth he,

  "If in this fire, or monster's gaping jaws

  I headlong cast myself, what boots it me?

  For common profit, or my country's cause,

  To hazard life before me none should be:

  But this exploit of no such weight I hold,

  For it to lose a prince or champion bold.

  "But if I fly, what will the Pagans say?

  If I retire, who shall cut down this spring?

  Godfredo will attempt it every day.

  What if some other knight perform the thing?

  These flames uprisen to forestall my way

  Perchance more terror far than danger bring.

  But hap what shall;" this said, he forward stepped,

  And through the fire, oh wondrous boldness, leapt!

  He bolted through, but neither warmth nor heat

  He felt, nor sign of fire or scorching flame;

  Yet wist he not in his dismayed conceit,

  If that were fire or no through which he came;

  For at first touch vanished those monsters great,

  And in their stead the clouds black night did frame

  And hideous storms and showers of hail and rain;

  Yet storms and tempests vanished straight again.

  Amazed but not afraid the champion good

  Stood still, but when the tempest passed he spied,

  He entered boldly that forbidden wood,

  And of the forest all the secrets eyed,

  In all his walk no sprite or phantasm stood

  That stopped his way or passage free denied,

  Save that the growing trees so thick were set,

  That oft his sight, and passage oft they let.

  At length a fair and spacious green he spied,

  Like calmest waters, plain, like velvet, soft,

  Wherein a cypress clad in summer's pride,

  Pyramid-wise, lift up his tops aloft;

  In whose smooth bark upon the evenest side,

  Strange characters he found, and viewed them oft,

  Like those which priests of Egypt erst instead

  Of letters used, which none but they could read.

  Mongst them he pickéd out these words at last,

  Writ in the Syriac tongue, which well he could,

  "Oh hardy knight, who through these woods hast passed:

  Where Death his palace and his court doth hold!

  Oh trouble not these souls in quiet placed,

  Oh be not cruel as thy heart is bold,

  Pardon these ghosts deprived of heavenly light,

  With spirits dead why should men living fight?"

  This found he graven in the tender rind,

  And while he muséd on this uncouth writ,

  Him thought he heard the softly whistling wind

  His blasts amid the leaves and branches knit

  And frame a sound like speech of human kind,

  But full of sorrow grief and woe was it,

  Whereby his gentle thoughts all filléd were

  With pity, sadness, grief, compassion, fear.

  He drew his sword at last, and gave the tree

  A mighty blow, that made a gaping wound,

  Out of the rift red streams he trickling see

  That all bebled the verdant plain around,

  His hair start up, yet once again stroke he,

  He nould give over till the end he found

  Of this adventure, when with plaint and moan,

  As from some hollow grave, he heard one groan.

  "Enough, enough!" the voice lamenting said,

  "Tancred, thou hast me hurt, thou didst me drive

  Out of the body of a noble maid

  Who with me lived, whom late I kept on live,

  And now within this woful cypress laid,

  My tender rind thy weapon sharp doth rive,

  Cruel, is't not enough thy foes to kill,

  But in their graves wilt thou torment them still?

  "I was Clorinda, now imprisoned here,

  Yet not alone within this plant I dwell,

  For every Pagan lord and Christian peer,

  Before the city's walls last day that fell,

  In bodies new or graves I wot not clear,

  But here they are confined by magic's spell,

  So that each tree hath life, and sense each bough,

  A murderer if thou cut one twist art thou."

  As the sick man that in his sleep doth see

  Some ugly dragon, or some chimera new,

  Though he suspect, or half persuaded be,

  It is an idle dream, no monster true,

  Yet still he fears, he quakes, and strives to flee,

  So fearful is that wondrous form to view;

  So feared the knight, yet he both knew and thought

  All were illusions false by witchcraft wrought:

  But cold and trembling waxed his frozen heart,

  Such strange effects, such passions it torment,

  Out of his feeble hand his weapon start,

  Himself out of his wits nigh, after went:

  Wounded he saw, he thought, for pain and smart,

  His lady weep, complain, mourn, and lament,

  Nor could he suffer her dear blood to see,

  Or hear her sighs that deep far fetchéd be.

  Thus his fierce heart which death had scornéd oft,

  Whom no strange shape or monster could dismay,

  With feignéd shows of tender love made soft,

  A spirit false did with vain plaints betray;

  A whirling wind his sword heaved up aloft,

  And through the forest bare it quite away.

  O'ercome retired the prince, and as he came,

  His sword he found, and repossessed the same,

  Yet nould return, he had no mind to try

  His courage further in those forests green;

  But when to Godfrey's tent he proachéd nigh,

  His spirits waked, his thoughts composéd been,

  "My Lord," quoth he, "a witness true am I

  Of wonders strange, believe it scant though seen,

  What of the fire, the shades, the dreadful sound

  You heard, all true by proof myself have found;

  "A burning fire, so are those deserts charmed,

  Built like a battled wall to heaven was reared;

  Whereon with darts and dreadful weapons armed,

  Of monsters foul mis-shaped whole bands appeared;

  But through them all I passed, unhurt, unharmed,

  No flame or threatened blow I felt or feared,

  Then rain and night I found, but straight again

  To day, the night, to sunshine turned the rain.

  "What would you more? each tree through all that wood

  Hath sense, hath life, hath speech, like human kind,

  I heard their words as in that grove I stood,

  That mournful voice still, still I bear in mind:

  And, as they were of flesh, the purple blood

  At every blow streams from the wounded rind;

  No, no, not I, nor any else, I trow,

  Hath power to cut one leaf, one branch, one bough."

  While thus he said, the Christian's noble guide

  Felt uncouth strife in his contentious thought,

  He thought, what if himself in person tried

  Those witchcrafts strange, and bring those charms to naught,

  For such he deemed them, or elsewhere provide

  For timber easier got though further sought,


  But from his study he at last abraid,

  Called by the hermit old that to him said:

  "Leave off thy hardy thought, another's hands

  Of these her plants the wood dispoilen shall,

  Now, now the fatal ship of conquest lands,

  Her sails are struck, her silver anchors fall,

  Our champion broken hath his worthless bands,

  And looseth from the soil which held him thrall,

  The time draws nigh when our proud foes in field

  Shall slaughtered lie, and Sion's fort shall yield."

  This said, his visage shone with beams divine,

  And more than mortal was his voice's sound,

  Godfredo's thought to other acts incline,

  His working brain was never idle found.

  But in the Crab now did bright Titan shine,

  And scorched with scalding beams the parchéd ground,

  And made unfit for toil or warlike feat

  His soldiers, weak with labor, faint with sweat:

  The planets mild their lamps benign quenched out,

  And cruel stars in heaven did signorize,

  Whose influence cast fiery flames about

  And hot impressions through the earth and skies,

  The growing heat still gathered deeper rout,

  The noisome warmth through lands and kingdoms flies,

  A harmful night a hurtful day succeeds,

  And worse than both next morn her light outspreads.

  When Phœbus rose he left his golden weed,

  And donned a gite in deepest purple dyed,

  His sanguine beams about his forehead spread,

  A sad presage of ill that should betide,

  With vermeil drops at even his tresses bleed,

  Foreshows of future heat, from the ocean wide

  When next he rose, and thus increaséd still

  Their present harms with dread of future ill.

  While thus he bent against earth his scorching rays,

  He burnt the flowers, burnt his Clytie dear,

  The leaves grew wan upon the withered sprays,

  The grass and growing herbs all parchéd were,

  Earth cleft in rifts, in floods their streams decays,

  The barren clouds with lightning bright appear,

  And mankind feared lest Climenes' child again

  Had driven awry his sire's ill-guided wain.

  As from a furnace flew the smoke to skies,

  Such smoke as that when damnéd Sodom brent,

  Within his caves sweet Zephyr silent lies,

  Still was the air, the rack nor came nor went,

  But o'er the lands with lukewarm breathing flies

  The southern wind, from sunburnt Afric sent,

  Which thick and warm his interrupted blasts

  Upon their bosoms, throats, and faces casts.

  Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night,

  In her thick shades was burning heat uprolled,

  Her sable mantle was embroidered bright

  With blazing stars and gliding fires for gold,

  Nor to refresh, sad earth, thy thirsty sprite,

  The niggard moon let fall her May dews cold,

  And driéd up the vital moisture was,

  In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass.

  Sleep to his quiet dales exiléd fled

  From these unquiet nights, and oft in vain

  The soldiers restless sought the god in bed,

  But most for thirst they mourned and most complain;

  For Juda's tyrant had strong poison shed,

  Poison that breeds more woe and deadly pain,

  Than Acheron or Stygian waters bring,

  In every fountain, cistern, well and spring:

  And little Siloe that his store bestows

  Of purest crystal on the Christian bands,

  The pebbles naked in his channel shows

  And scantly glides above the scorchéd sands,

  Nor Po in May when o'er his banks he flows,

  Nor Ganges, waterer of the Indian lands,

  Nor seven-mouthed Nile that yields all Egypt drink,

  To quench their thirst the men sufficient think.

  He that the gliding rivers erst had seen

  Adown their verdant channels gently rolled,

  Or falling streams which to the valleys green

  Distilled from tops of Alpine mountains cold,

  Those he desired in vain, new torments been,

  Augmented thus with wish of comforts old,

  Those waters cool he drank in vain conceit,

  Which more increased his thirst, increased his heat.

  The sturdy bodies of the warriors strong,

  Whom neither marching far, nor tedious way,

  Nor weighty arms which on their shoulders hung,

  Could weary make, nor death itself dismay;

  Now weak and feeble cast their limbs along,

  Unwieldly burdens, on the burnéd clay,

  And in each vein a smouldering fire there dwelt,

  Which dried their flesh and solid bones did melt.

  Languished the steed late fierce, and proffered grass,

  His fodder erst, despised and from him cast,

  Each step he stumbled, and which lofty was

  And high advanced before now fell his crest,

  His conquests gotten all forgotten pass,

  Nor with desire of glory swelled his breast,

  The spoils won from his foe, his late rewards,

  He now neglects, despiseth, naught regards.

  Languished the faithful dog, and wonted care

  Of his dear lord and cabin both forgot,

  Panting he laid, and gathered fresher air

  To cool the burning in his entrails hot:

  But breathing, which wise nature did prepare

  To suage the stomach's heat, now booted not,

  For little ease, alas, small help, they win

  That breathe forth air and scalding fire suck in.

  Thus languishéd the earth, in this estate

  Lay woful thousands of the Christians stout,

  The faithful people grew nigh desperate

  Of hopéd conquest, shameful death they doubt,

  Of their distress they talk and oft debate,

  These sad complaints were heard the camp throughout:

  "What hope hath Godfrey? shall we still here lie

  Till all his soldiers, all our armies die?

  "Alas, with what device, what strength, thinks he

  To scale these walls, or this strong fort to get?

  Whence hath he engines new? doth he not see,

  How wrathful Heaven gainst us his sword doth whet?

  These tokens shown true signs and witness be

  Our angry God our proud attempts doth let,

  And scorching sun so hot his beams outspreads,

  That not more cooling Inde nor Æthiop needs.

  "Or thinks he it an eath or little thing

  That us despised, neglected, and disdained,

  Like abjects vile, to death he thus should bring,

  That so his empire may be still maintained?

  Is it so great a bliss to be a king,

  When he that wears the crown with blood is stained

  And buys his sceptre with his people's lives?

  See whither glory vain, fond mankind drives.

  "See, see the man, called holy, just, and good,

  That courteous, meek, and humble would be thought,

  Yet never cared in what distress we stood

  If his vain honor were diminished naught,

  When driéd up from us his spring and flood

  His water must from Jordan streams be brought,

  And how he sits at feasts and banquets sweet

  And mingleth waters fresh with wines of Crete."

  The French thus murmured, but the Greekish knight

  Tatine, that of this war was we
ary grown:

  "Why die we here," quoth he, "slain without fight,

  Killed, not subdued, murdered, not overthrown?

  Upon the Frenchmen let the penance light

  Of Godfrey's folly, let me save mine own,"

  And as he said, without farewell, the knight

  And all his cornet stole away by night.

  His bad example many a troop prepares

  To imitate, when his escape they know,

  Clotharius his band, and Ademare's,

  And all whose guides in dust were buried low,

  Discharged of duty's chains and bondage snares,

  Free from their oath, to none they service owe,

  But now concluded all on secret flight,

  And shrunk away by thousands every night.

  Godfredo this both heard, and saw, and knew,

  Yet nould with death them chastise though he mought,

  But with that faith wherewith he could renew

  The steadfast hills and seas dry up to naught

  He prayed the Lord upon his flock to rue,

  To ope the springs of grace and ease this drought,

  Out of his looks shone zeal, devotion, faith,

  His hands and eyes to heaven he heaves, and saith:

  "Father and Lord, if in the deserts waste

  Thou hadst compassion on thy children dear,

  The craggy rock when Moses cleft and brast,

  And drew forth flowing streams of waters clear,

  Like mercy, Lord, like grace on us down cast;

  And though our merits less than theirs appear,

  Thy grace supply that want, for though they be

  Thy first-born son, thy children yet are we."

  These prayers just, from humble hearts forth sent,

  Were nothing slow to climb the starry sky,

  But swift as wingéd bird themselves present

  Before the Father of the heavens high:

  The Lord accepted them, and gently bent

  Upon the faithful host His gracious eye,

  And in what pain and what distress it laid,

  He saw, and grieved to see, and thus He said:

  "Mine armies dear till now have suffered woe,

  Distress and danger, hell's infernal power

  Their enemy hath been, the world their foe,

  But happy be their actions from this hour:

  What they begin to blesséd end shall go,

  I will refresh them with a gentle shower;

  Rinaldo shall return, the Egyptian crew

  They shall encounter, conquer, and subdue."

  At these high words great heaven began to shake,

  The fixéd stars, the planets wandering still,

  Trembled the air, the earth and ocean quake,

  Spring, fountain, river, forest, dale and hill;

  From north to east, a lightning flash outbrake,

  And coming drops presaged with thunders shrill: