Book XII

’Twas night; nor yet had either wearied host
Found soft refreshment in the arms of sleep;
But here the Christians, wakeful at their post,
, Guard o’er the workmen round the engine keep;
And there the Pagans their defences steep,
Trembling and nodding to their fall, repair;
And, to build up the breaches wide and deep
Of the dismantled walls, no labor spare;
And each their wounded tend, with like consid’rate care.

At length the wounds are bandaged, and complete
Is every one of their nocturnal tasks;
The rest they leave; and, woo’d to slumber sweet
By gentler quiet, and the gloom that masks
The world at noon of night, their cumbrous casques
They cast aside: not so the Warrior maid;
Hungering for fame, she still for action asks, —
Action, from which fatigues all else dissuade;
With her Argantes walk’d, and inly thus she said:

“Deeds rare and wonderful indeed this day
Have the bold Soldan and divine Argaunt
Accomplish’d, by themselves to take then way,
Huge towers beat down, and hostile millions daunt;
While I, (the utmost merit I can vaunt,)
Coop’d in on high, with distant shafts but check’d
Their eager escalade; my shafts, I grant,
Flew fair enough, some fatal, I suspect;
But is this then the whole we women can effect?

“Better it were in woods and wilds again
To stags and wolves my arrows to confine,
Than trifle thus, a damsel, in the train
Of knights whose actions so superior shine;
Why not the cuirass and the sword resign?
Resume my woman’s weeds, and live dissolved
In careless ease?” thus mused she; but in fine
A daring project in her breast revolved, —
Turn’d to the knight, and thus broke forth with soul resolved:

“I know not what blest ardor sets ablaze
My restless mind, — or do the Gods inspire
The daring thought that on my spirit preys,
Or make we Gods of each sublime desire?
Far lie the Franks encamp’d: look forth; admire
The twinkling lights that burn towards the west;
There will I go with torch and sword, and fire
Their rolling fort; this passion of my breast
Let me but see fulfilled, and Heaven arrange the rest!

“But, if I chance to be by Fate debarr’d
From measuring back my steps’, to thee, my friend,
The man that loves me with a sire’s regard,
And my devoted damsels I commend:
Each kind protection to their griefs extend,
And back to Egypt, with the dear old sage,
Th’ inconsolable girls in safety send;
Promise me this! their sex and his great age
May well thy care demand, thy sympathies engage.’

Argantes stood amazed; touch’d in his breast
Were all the springs of glory, and he cried;
“Wilt thou do this? and leave thy friend, disgraced,
Here with th’ inglorious vulgar to abide?
Safe from the risk shall I with joy or pride
See the fire kindle? no, Clorinda, no!
If I have ever been in arms allied
With thee, with thee this night too will I go,
And all thy fortunes share, betide me weal or wo!

“I have a heart too can scorn death, and feel
The bauble life well flung for fame away:”
“To this,” she answer’d, “an eternal seal
Didst thou in thy brave sally set to-day;
But I am a mere woman in the way;
Feeble indeed are my poor powers, and small
The aid I lend; my death would none dismay;
But (Heaven avert the omen!) shouldst thou fall,
Who will remain behind to guard the sacred wall?”

“Why these excuses vain?” the knight replied;
“Fix’d is my will, and settled mine intent;
Allow’d, I follow; but, if once denied,
I go before thee, and thy zeal prevent:”
Thus overpower’d, Clorinda gave consent, —
They seek the King, with Emir, prince, and peer
Engaged in high and serious argument;
Then thus the Virgin spoke; “O She, give ear,
And what we wish to say with kind acceptance hear!

“Argantes swears (nor vain will be the boast)
To fire yon rolling fort, — the same swear I;
We wait alone till on the guardian host
Deep sleep falls heavy; those who wake shall die!”
The hoary King held up his hands on high;
A tear of joy stream’d down his wither’d cheek;
“And praised,” he said, “be Thou, who yet dost eye
With gracious care thy worshippers, and seek
Still to preserve my crown, and guard these kingdoms weak!

“Fall they shall not, while in their sure defence
Two such undaunted demigods are found;
To your deserts what equal recompense
Can I decree? O, evermore renown’d!
Let Fame her golden trumpet take, and sound
Your glory, tuned to music’s loftiest pitch,
And fill th’ enchanted Universe around!
The deed itself be your reward; to which
No trifling part I add of realms esteem’d as rich.

He said, and fondly to his bosom strain’d
Now him, now her; to equal transport charm’d,
The Soldan stood, nor in his heart contain’d
The gen’rous envy that his spirit warm’d:
But cried; “And not for nothing am I arm’d
With this good sword, nor shall I be less slow
To toss the fires!” the Amazon, alarm’d
For her endanger’d fame, replied, “Not so;
Are all to make th’ attempt? who stays, if thou shouldst go?”

Argantes too, with features full of pride,
Stood ready to reject his scorn’d request;
But this the King forestall’d, and first replied
With placid aspect to his regal guest;
“Forward thou ever art to manifest
Thyself emphatically great, a knight
Prompt to dispute the laurel with the best,
Consistent with thyself, untired in fight,
Whom no new shape of death or danger can affright!

“I know that, sallying forth, thou deeds wouldst do
Worthy the Soldan; but for all to quit
Your wonted stations in the town, of you,
My bravest heroes, were a thing unfit,
Fraught with alarm; I would not e’en permit
These to depart, with such a jealous care
Guard I their lives, if I could well commit
To other hands the enterprise they dare, —
Or if the deed itself of less importance were.

“But since around th’ immeasurable tower
The guards so thick are station’d, that a few
Would not suffice, and numbers at this hour
Could not conveniently be spared on new
Fatiguing services, e’en let the two
That, to such risks accustom’d, first proposed
The noble task, with prosp’ring stars pursue
Their schemes alone, and realize a boast
Made in no idle mood; they are themselves a host.

“Do thou, as best becomes a king, remain
As regent of the gates; and when the pair,
Of whose success sure hopes I entertain,
Have fired the pile and back their footsteps bear,
Press’d by the Christians, with thy Turks repair,
Beat off the fierce pursuers, and prevent
The harms which else revenging rage may dare:
Thus spoke the King; the Soldan, ill content,
Said not another word, but smiled a sour assent.

“Yet go not,” said Ismeno, “till I mix,
Of various grain impregn’d with fiery spume,
Tartareous balls, that where they strike shall fix,
Fixing ignite, and blazing, soon consume
The tower to dust: the witching hour of gloom
Draws nigh; by then the soldiers may remit
Their watch, o’erpower’d by languor, and the fume
Of sleep;” all praise the sorcerer’s pregnant wit,
And parting wait the hour by him determined fit.

Her sculptured helm, her greaves of silver plate,
And burnish’d mail aside Clorinda laid;
And in a suit prophetic of her fate,
Sable, and rough with rust, her limbs array’d,
Where no bright jewel flash’d, nor plumage play’d:
For thus she thought unseen to leave beguiled
The watch, swift stealing through the friendly shade;
’Twas then her eunuch came, Arsetes mild,
Who had her cradle rock’d, and nursed her from a child.

All careless of fatigue, the good old man
Tended her still; and, chancing now to see
The surreptitious arms, he soon began
To comprehend her risk; and on his knee,
Sore weeping, by the pious memory
Of His past offices, by locks grown gray
In her dear service, and by every plea
Of love and pity, did he long time pray
Her to resign th’ attempt, and still she answer’d nay.

At length he said; “Since in its wrong thy mind
Is obstinate, since to my feeble years,
Since to my silver tresses thou art blind,
Blind to my love, and proof to all my tears,
My piteous prayers, and too prophetic fears, —
Lo, from thy hitherto unknown descent
I rend the veil! that known, do what appears
Good in thy sight:” — amazed, Clorinda bent
On him her large dark eyes, and thus the story went.

“In former days o’er Ethiopia reign’d,
Happy perchance reigns still, Senapo brave;
Who with his dusky people still maintain’d
The laws which Jesus to the nations gave:
’Twas in his court, a Pagan and a slave,
I lived, o’er thousand maids advanced to guard,
And wait with authorized assumption grave,
On her whose beauteous brows the crown instarr’d;
True, she was brown, but naught the brown her beauty marr’d.

“The King adored her, but his jealousies
Equall’d the fervors of his love; the smart
At length of sharp suspicion by degrees
Gain’d such ascendence in his troubled heart,
That from all men in closest bower apart
He mew’d her, where e’en Heaven’s chaste eyes, the bright
Stars, were but half allow’d their looks to dart;
While she, meek, wise, and pure as virgin light,
Made her unkind lord’s will her rule and chief delight.

“Hung was her room with storied imageries
Of martyrs and of saints; a Virgin here,
On whose fair cheeks the rose’s sweetest dyes
Glow’d, was depicted in distress; and near,
A monstrous dragon, which with poignant spear
An errant knight transfixing, prostrate laid:
The gentle Lady oft with many a tear
Before this painting meek confession made
Of secret faults, and mourn’d, and Heaven’s forgiveness pray’d.

“Pregnant meanwhile, she bore (and thou wert she)
A daughter white as snow; th’ unusual hue,
With wonder, fear, and strange perplexity
Disturb’d her, as though something monstrous too:
But, as by sad experience well she knew
His jealous temper and suspicious haste,
She cast to hide thee from thy father’s view;
For in his mind, (perversion most misplaced!)
Thy snowy chasteness else had argued her unchaste.

“And in thy cradle to his sight exposed
A negro’s new-born infant for her own;
And, as the tower wherein she lived enclosed
Was kept by me and by her maids alone, —
To me whose firm fidelity was known,
Who loved and served her with a soul sincere,
She gave thee, beauteous as a rose unblown,
Yet unbaptized; for there, it would appear,
Baptized thou couldst not be in that thy natal year.

“Weeping she placed thee in my arms, to bear
To some far spot; what tongue can tell the rest!
The plaints she used; and with what wild despair
She clasp’d thee to her fond maternal breast:
How many times ’twixt sighs, ’twixt tears caress’d;
How oft, how very oft her vain adieu
Seal’d on thy cheek; with what sweet passion press’d
Thy little lips! at length a glance she threw
To Heaven, and cried; ‘Great God, that look’st all spirits through! —

“‘If both my heart and members are unstain’d,
And naught did e’er my nuptial bed defile, —
(I pray not for myself; I stand arraign’d
Of thousand sins, and in thy sight am vile;)
Preserve this guiltless infant, to whose smile
The tend’rest mother must refuse her breast,
And from her eyes their sweetest bliss exile!
May she with chastity like mine be bless’d;
But stars of happier rule have influence o’er the rest!

“‘And thou, bless’d Knight, that from the cruel teeth
Of the grim dragon freed’st that holy maid,
Lit by my hands if ever odorous wreath
Rose from thy altars; if I e’er have laid
Thereon gold, cinnamon, or myrrh, and pray’d
For help, through ev’ry chance of life display,
In guardianship of her, thy powerful aid!’
Convulsions choked her words, — she swoon’d away —
And the pale hues of death on her chill temples lay.

“With tears I took thee, in a little ark
So hid by flowers and leaves that none could guess
The secret, brought thee forth ’twixt light and dark.
And, unsuspected, in a Moorish dress,
Pass’d the town walls: as through a wilderness
Of forests horrid with brown glooms, I took
My pensive way, I saw, to my distress,
A tigress issuing from a bosky nook,
Rage in her scowling brows, and lightning in her look.

“Wild with affright, I on the flowery ground
Cast thee, and instant climb’d a tree close by;
The savage brute came up, and glancing round
In haughty menace, saw where thou didst lie;
And, soft’ning to a mild humanity
Her stern regard, with placid gestures meek,
As by thy beauty smit, came courteous nigh;
In am’rous pastime fawning lick’d thy cheek;
And thou on her didst smile, and stroke her mantle sleek.

“With her fierce muzzle and her cruel front
Thy little hands did innocently play;
She offer’d thee her teats, as is the wont
With nurses, and adapted them, as they,
To thy young lips; nor didst thou turn away, —
She suckled thee! a prodigy so new
Fill’d me with fresh confusion and dismay:
She, when she saw thee satisfied, withdrew
Into the shady wood, and vanish’d from my view.

“Again I took thee, and pursued my way —
Through woods, and vales, and wildernesses dun;
Till in a little village making stay,
I gave thee secretly in charge to one,
Who fondly nursed thee till the circling sun,
With sixteen months of equatorial heat,
Had tinged thy face; till thou too hadst begun
To prattle of thy joys in murmurs sweet,
And print her cottage floor with indecisive feet.

“But having pass’d the autumn of my years,
As sprightly vigor fail’d and life declined,
Rich in the gold that with her farewell tears
Thy bounteous mother to my hands consign’d,
I for my native country inly pined;
After my many toils and wand’rings wide,
I longed amidst old faces left behind,
In my dear birthplace tranquil to reside,
And spend life’s wintry eve at my own warm fireside.

“To Egypt then, where first my eyes unclosed,
I took, conducting thee, a secret road,
And reach’d a flood, to equal risks exposed, —
Here robbers chased me, there the torrent flow’d:
What should I do! resign my cherish’d load?
No! yet how shun the meditated theft?
A moment’s thought hereon when I bestow’d,
I braved the stream; with one bold arm I cleft
Venturous the roaring waves, and bore thee in my left.

“Swift as an arrow flow’d the flood; midway,
The jangling tides forever boil and spin;
There, as a curling snake devours its prey,
The volumed whirlpool gaped, and suck’d me in;
Giddy, toss’d round, distracted with the din,
Thee then I miss’d; but the wild waves upbore, —
Propitious breezes caught thy garments thin,
And laid thee safe on the smooth sandy shore;
Which I at length too reach’d, when hope almost was o’er.

“With joy I took thee up; eve’s dusky light
The landscape veil’d, when, slumbering on the sand,
Methought the figure of a frowning knight
Came near, and pointing at my breast his brand,
Imperiously exclaim’d; ‘No more withstand
The solemn charge with which thou long hast striven,
A mother’s precept! christen, I command,
This babe, the choice inheritant of heaven; —
To my peculiar care the orphan child is given.

“’Twas I gave mercy to th’ infuriate brute,
Life to the wind, and mildness to the stream;
And wo to thee, if thou my words dispute,
Or as a vacant phantom disesteem
The heavenly form I am!’ with morn’s first beam
I woke, and, shaking off the dews of night,
Went forward; but, as false I judged the dream,
And true my faith, I scrupled not to slight
The angel’s threat, and still withheld the sacred rite; —

“But as a Pagan bred thee, nor reveal’d
The secret of thy birth; while thou hast grown
Valiant in arms, the phoenix of the field,
And o’er thy sex and Nature’s self hast shown
Thyself victorious; hosts hast thou o’erthrown;
Won riches, realms, and palms forever green; —
What since has happen’d, thou thyself hast known,
And how in peace, in battle, I have been
Thy she at once and slave, through each succeeding.

“Last morn a sleep, the simile of death,
Ere yet the stars had faded from the sky,
Sank on my soul, and by our holy faith
Again thy Genius in my sleep pass’d by;
But haughtier was his look, more fierce his cry,-
‘Traitor!’ he said, ‘the hour to disunite
Clorinda from the bonds of earth draws nigh;
Mine shall she yet become in thy despite;
Be thine the wo!’ — he frown’d, and heavenward took his flight.

“Thus, then, be warn’d! for sadly I suspect
O’er thee, my love, strange accidents impend;
Perhaps the heavens are wroth when we reject
The faith our wise forefathers did commend;
Perhaps that faith is true; oh, condescend,
Deign, I entreat thee, to put off this vest
Of sable, deign thy purpose to suspend!”
He ceased, and wept; fear thrill’d her pensive breast,
For on her heart a like remember’d vision press’d.

But soon her aspect she serened, and said;
“This faith, which surely strikes my mind as true,
Which thou wouldst have me doubt in thy vain dread,
The faith that with my nurse’s milk I drew,
Still will I keep; nor yet resign, (beshrew
The soul that would!) my old heroic spear,
And plighted purpose; no, not if I knew
That Death, with that fierce visage which strikes fear
Into the hearts of men, would dog me as a deer!”

She sooths him, smiles on him, and straight retires,
For now the hurrying hours to action call;
And with the dauntless hero who desires
To share, her hazard, seeks the palace hall:
Ismeno joins them, and with words of gall
Spurs on the daring hearts that little need
Renew’d excitements; gives to each a ball
Of pitch and sulphur; in a hollow reed
Shuts up the fatal flame, and bids them do the deed.

Charged, they depart; and over dale and hill
Circling the valleys, through the darkness scud,
With speed incessant, side by side, until
They near the spot where the vast engine stood;
There high their spirit rises, hot the blood
Boils in their veins; desire and scorn combine
To cheer them on, and in their madding mood,
Drawn are their swords; the watch behold the shine
Of coming arms, and loud demand the passing sign.

Mute they move on; “To arms!” exclaim the guard;
Their sudden shouts the valiant couple stun,
But naught their gen’rous enterprise retard, —
They bound abroad, and all concealment shun:
As from th’ electric cloud or levell’d gun,
At the same instant comes the flash, the thunder,
And bolt of ruin; so for them to run,
Arrive, strike, penetrate, and cleave asunder
The phalanx, is but one, one moment’s work of wonder.

Through thousand arms, amidst a thousand blows
They pass, and execute their glorious aim;
Their glimm’ring lights secreted they disclose,
And tip the black combustible with flame:
Toss’d, to the tower it fixes; words are tame
To picture how it creeps, expands, aspires;
How soon it runs o’er all the timber’d frame;
How thick the smoke, and in what billowy gyres,
Climbs to the lofty stars, and cloaks their shining fires.

Vast globes of fire amid the ceaseless whirl
Of smoke voluminous, now dim, now bright,
As the cloud fluctuates, high to heaven upcurl, —
The blust’ring winds add fury to their flight:
Then join the scatter’d flames; a sudden light
Strikes the awed host, — they arm in mute amaze;
’Tis done! the pile so terrible in fight,
Sinks in a lofty, broad, columnar blaze;
And one brief hour destroys the workmanship of days.

Two bands meantime to where the pile is burning
Haste from the Camp; which when Argantes sees,
He shouts, “Your blood shall quench the fire!” and turning
His sword against them, with wild menaces
Keeps them at bay; but, yielding by degrees
With fair Clorinda, to the brown hill’s bent
Retires, while fast behind the crowds increase,
Like headlong floods which August rains augment;
Hotly they press the chase, and climb with them th.

The Golden Gate turns on its hinge; and there,
With his arm’d people stands the Turkish King,
Ready to welcome back the dauntless pair,
If favoring fortune should them homeward bring;
High o’er the ruins of the fosse they spring
Before a grove of spears, — the Soldan stout
Gives the known word, the portals wide they fling,
Drive back the Franks, and, wheeling swift about,
Close the strong gates, — alas! these shut Clorinda out.

For at the moment when the Turks let fall
The pendulous portcullis, forth she flew
To wreak her ire on Arimon the tall,
Whose daring sword had cut her hauberk through;
This she revenged, nor yet Argantes knew
That she was separate from his side; the glare
Of steel, the anarchy of fight, the crew
That press’d behind, and denseness of the air,
Wholly his sight confused, distracting every care.

But when her sultry anger she had quench’d
In the proud blood of dying Arimon,
Saw the gates closed, and how she stood intrench’d,
She deem’d Clorinda utterly undone,
And look’d alone for death; but soon, as none
Pierced her disguise, fresh hopes of safety rose.
With other turns of wit, she feigns her one
Of the same troop, a bold demeanor shows,
And with cool unconcern slips in amidst her foes.

Then, as the still wolf glides to the green wood,
Conscious of crime, and in close ambush lies;
So, by the tumult favor’d, and unview’d,
Through the dun shade of the nocturnal skies,
Dissever’d from the press, Clorinda flies:
Tancred alone, it seems, the secret knew
Both of her fatal chance and sly device;
Arriving there as Arimon she slew,
He saw her, mark’d her out, and kept in constant view.

Her would he fight with, deeming her a man
Glorious in arms as lively in address;
Around the winding ramparts swift she ran,
In at some other gate to gain access;
As swift behind her did th’ avenger press:
Nor was it long, ere on the gusty breath
Of the night-wind she heard, with some distress,
The sound of arms; whence, turning, “Halt!” she saith;
’What fleet foot news bring’st thou?” He answer’d, “War and death!”

“War shalt thou have,” said she, “and death, if these
Are thy request;” and here her step she stay’d;
Tancred his steed abandons, when he sees
His foe on foot, by lonely hills embay’d:
Then she her sabre, he his poignant blade
Draws from the sheath; they stand as mortal foes;
Wrath nerves the hero, haughtiness the maid;
Like two young bulls each smarting with the throes
Of envy, rage, and love, in desp’rate strife they close.

Worthy of royal lists, and the clear shine
Of suns would be the battle, if descried;
Dark Abbess! thou that in thy Gothic serine
The mould’ring relics of their tale dost hide!
Grant me to lift thy cowl, to waft aside
The curtain, and in radiant numbers braid
Their deeds, for endless ages to abide;
So with their glory, glorious shall be made,
In page of high Romance, the mem’ry of thy shade.

They shrink not, trifle not, strive not to smite
By artificial rules, with wary will;
Stand not on postures or on points, the night
And their blind rage forbid the tricks of skill;
But swords clash horribly with swords, and shrill
The mountain echo shrieks along the plain;
Not a foot stirs, — where stood, there stand they still;
But aye their hands in motion they maintain;
And not a lounge, or foin, or slash descends in vain;

Shame stings disdain to vengeance, vengeance breeds
New shame, — thus passion runs a ceaseless round:
To spite despite, to rage fresh rage succeeds,
The agony to strike, the lust to wound:
And now the battle blends in narrower ground;
No room have they to foin, no room to lash;
Their blades flung back, like butting rams they bound,
Fight with the hilts, wild, savage, raging, rash,
And shield at sounding shield, and helm at helmet dash.

Thrice in his boist’rous arms the maid he press’d,
And thrice was forced to loose his sinewy clasp;
, She had no fancy to be so caress’d;
Impassion’d Love is not an angry asp.
Again with eagerness their swords they grasp,
And tinge them ruddy as Vesuvian fire,
In blood of many wounds; till, tired, they gasp
For very breath, — some paces back retire;
And from their long fatigues all pantingly respire.

Faint on their swords, with like exhausted frame,
Alike they rest, and echo gaze for gaze:
Fades the last star; Aurora, robed in flame,
Unbars Elysium, and the morning plays;
Tancred perceives, beneath its grateful rays,
From her the trickling blood profusely rain,
And glories in the languor she displays;
Oh man, vain man! poor fool of pride and pain!
Puff’d up with every breath from Fortune’s wav’ring vane!

Why that proud smile? sad, O how sad, shall be
Thy acted triumphs when th’ illusion clears!
Thine eyes shall weep, if still the light they see,
For every drop of blood a sea of tears:
Thus resting, gazing, full of hopes and fears,
The bleeding warriors, silent as the dead,
Stood for a space; at length some feelings fierce
Tancred deposed, — kind thoughts rose in their stead,
He wish’d her name to know, and, breaking silence, said;

“Hard is our chance, our prowess thus to spend
On deeds which silence and these shades conceal;
To which thwart Fortune yields no praise, no friend
On our view’d acts to set his speaking seal!
Yet, if amid the sullen shock of steel
Prayers may have access, courtesies find place,
Thy name, thy country, and thy rank reveal;
That I, whatever issue crown the case,
May know at least who gives my death or victory grace.”

Sternly she said; “Thy prayer no access wins;
Custom forbids; but, whatsoe’er my name,
Thou seest before thee one of those brave twins,
Who gave your towering structure to the flame.”
Fired at her answer, Tancred made exclaim;
“In evil hour hast thou thy guilt avow’d;
Thy speech and silence are to me the same,
Discourteous wretch, contemptible as proud!
Both chide my sloth, and both for vengeance plead aloud.”

Rage to their hearts returns, and spurs them on,
Though weak, to war; dire war! from which the sleights
Of art are banish’d, whence all strength is gone,
And in the room of both, brute fury fights:
Oh, sharp his falchion, sharp her sabre smites!
What bloody gaps they make through plate and chain,
In their soft flesh! revenge, revenge requites;
If life parts not, ’tis only that disdain
Knits it in pure despite to the rebellious brain.

As the deep Euxine, though the wind no more
Blows, that late toss’d its billows to the stars,
Stills not at once its rolling and its roar,
But with its coasts long time conflicting jars;
Thus, though their quickly-ebbing blood debars
Force from their blades as vigor from their arms,
Still lasts the phrensy of the flame which Mars
Blew in their breasts; sustain’d by whose strong charms,
Yet heap they strokes on strokes, yet harms inflict on harms.

But now, alas, the fatal hour arrives
That must shut up Clorinda’s life in shade;
In her fair bosom deep his sword he drives;
’Tis done — life’s purple fountain bathes the blade!
The golden-flower’d cymar of light brocade,
That swathed so tenderly her breasts of snow,
Is steep’d in the warm stream: the hapless maid
Feels her end nigh; her knees their strength forego;
And her enfeebled frame droops languishing and low.

He, following up the thrust with taunting cries,
Lays the pierced Virgin at his careless feet;
She, as she falls, in mournful tones outsighs,
Her last faint words, pathetically sweet;
Which a new spirit prompts, a spirit replete
With charity, and faith, and hope serene,
Sent dove-like down from God’s pure mercy-seat,
Who, though through life his rebel she had been,
Would have her die a fond, repentant Magdalene.

“Friend! thou hast won; I pardon thee, and O
Forgive thou me I I fear not for this clay,
But my dark soul — pray for it, and bestow
The sacred rite that laves all stains away:”
Like dying hymns heard far at close of day,
Sounding I know not what in the sooth’d ear
Of sweetest sadness, the faint words make way
To his fierce heart, and, touch’d with grief sincere,
Streams from his pitying eye th’ involuntary tear.

Not distant, gushing from the rocks, a rill
Clash’d on his ear; to this with eager pace
He speeds — his hollow casque the waters fill —
And back he hurries to the deed of grace;
His hands as aspens tremble, while they raise
The lock’d aventayle of the unknown knight; —
God, for thy mercy! ’tis her angel face!
Aghast and thunderstruck, he loathes the light;
Ah, knowledge best unknown! ah, too distracting sight.

Yet still he lived; and, must’ring all his power
To the sad task, restrain’d each wild lament,
Fain to redeem by those baptismal showers
The life his sword bereft; while thus intent
The hallowing words he spoke, with ravishment
Her face transfigured shone, and half apart
Her bland lips shed a lively smile that sent
This silent speech in sunshine to his heart:
‘Heaven gleams; in blissful peace behold thy friend depart!”

A paleness beauteous as the lily’s mix’d
With the sweet violet’s, like a gust of wind
Flits o’er her face; her eyes on Heaven are fix’d,
And Heaven on her returns its looks as kind:
Speak she can not; but her cold hand, declined,
In pledge of peace on Tancred she bestows;
And to her fate thus tenderly resign’d,
In her meek beauty she expires, and shows
But as a smiling saint indulging soft repose.

But when he saw her starlike spirit set,
The self-possession which had mann’d his soul,
Bent to the storm of anguishing regret
That o’er his bosom burst beyond control:
Pangs of despair convulsed his heart; life stole
As to its last recess; death’s icy dew
Bathed his pale brow, his blood forebore to roll;
Till like the breathless dead the living grew,
In dullness, silence, air, and attitude, and hue.

And sure his life, impatient of the light,
Struggling had burst in its rebellious scorn
From its weak chain, and follow’d in its flight
The beauteous spirit, that, but just reborn,
Had spread its wings in sunshine of the morn, —
Had not a party of the Franks, dispread
In search of water o’er the gleaming lawn,
By providential guidance thither led,
Seen where he lay supine, the dying by the dead.

Their Chief, though distant, by his armor knew
The Latin Prince, and hasten’d to the place;
The lifeless beauty he remember’d too
For Tancred’s love, and mourn’d her fatal case;
He would not leave a form so full of grace,
Albeit a Pagan, as he deem’d, a prey
To wolves, but lifting, in a little space,
To others’ arms both bodies whence they lay,
Took straight to Tancred’s tent his melancholy way.

Not yet the knight, so equably and slow
They march’d, from his dark trance awaken’d was;
But feeble groans at intervals might show
Some sands still glided in his vital glass;
The Lady lay a mute and stirless mass,
Nor breath, nor pulse gave hope that life was there
Incorporate with its beauty: thus they pass;
Thus, side by side, the two, lamenting, bear;
And in adjoining rooms dispose with silent care.

His pitying squires drew nigh; with busy pain
Chafed his chill temples, and his mail unbound;
His languid eyes at length he oped again,
Felt the physician’s hand, the smarting wound,
And heard, yet dubious of his sense, the sound
Of whisp’ring lips, — where was he, and with whom?
Long with bewilder’d gaze he look’d around;
At length his squires, at length he knew the room,
And in low feeble words lamented thus his doom:

“Yet do I breathe? yet live to view the beams
Of this cursed day, more odious than the shade?
Clear witness of my blind misdeed, it streams
T’ accuse my rashness, and my guilt upbraid:
Ah, coward hand! why now art thou afraid,
Thou, so well versed in all the turns of strife,
The impious minister of death repaid
In infamy, to grasp the vengeful knife,
And cut the pall-black thread of this opprobrious life.

“Take the fell steel, and hide it to the hilt
Within me, — my sad heart in sunder cleave!
But thou, perhaps, inured to deeper guilt,
May’st deem it mercy such quick ease to give:
Then as a dire example let me live,
Monster of luckless Love! a mark for men
To point at, and abhor; this base reprieve
To shameful life will be th’ alone fit pain
For such enormous guilt, and of so dark a grain.

“Vex’d by just Furies, anguish, grief, and care,
A wand’ring maniac must I live — to run,
Shrieking, from phantoms with which sleep shall scare
My soul, when Night her orgies has begun;
To hold in horror and in hate the Sun,
That did my fatal error show; to eye
Myself with fear, and strive myself to shun; —
Evermore flying, evermore to fly,
While hell’s pursuing fiends are ever howling nigh!

“But where, alas, where lie the relics chaste
Of my slain angel? what my cruel scorn
Left whole, perchance some savage of the waste —
The lion mangles, or the wolf has torn;
Ah spoils for them too rich! dear beauty, born
To different end! too sweet, too precious fruit!
Poor injured maiden! whom the shades forlorn
And lone hills have betray’d, first in dispute
To me, and next in prey to some ferocious brute.

“Yet will I go, and the loved spoils collect;
Dear limbs! where late the hues of beauty bloom’d;
But if the wolf, in hungry disrespect,
Those virgin relics has indeed consumed,
In the same cavern let me be entomb’d,
Let the same jaws ingulph me! hail’d by me
Will the stroke come; but, prey’d on or inhumed,
A glorious sepulchre, my love, ’twill be,
Where’er thy bones are cast, to be inurn’d with thee!”

But being told that her lamented form
Lay in his tent, a beam of joy appear’d,
Like lightning flashing through a sable storm,
To light his aspect, and the darkness clear’d;
Straight from the couch of his repose he rear’d
The heavy burden of his limbs, and slow —
Weak as an infant, full of pain, but cheer’d
By her dear image, thither strove to go,
On frail unsteady steps, loose staggering to and fro.

But when he came, and in her beauteous breast
Saw the red gash his murd’rous hand had made,
And her late radiant aspect calm’d to rest,
Like a nocturnal sky, in livid shade, —
His height’ning color was perceived to fade;
A trembling ague rock’d his frame; and there
Would he have sunk, but for immediate aid;
“Sweet face!” he sigh’d, “thou canst make death look fan,
But hast not power to sooth, or sweeten my despair!

“Fair hand! dear pledge of pard’ning amity!
Late forceful pleader, utt’ring love’s farewell!
What do I find thee, now? ah, what am I!
And you, light limbs, that did in flight excel
The graceful motions of the fleet gazelle,
What but upbraiding vestiges are ye
Of my irreparable rage? too well
My stony eyes and cruel hand agree,
When, what the one destroy’d, the other brooks to see;

“And see without a tear! then weep, my blood,
Since my remorseless eyes to weep forbear!”
Frantic he spoke.; and in his madding mood,
Strong with desire of death, began to tear
His hands away, and to his nails laid bare
Each irritated wound, — the blood like ram
Gush’d forth, and in this fit of wild despair,
He must have died, had not excess of pain
Caused him to swoon away, and life perforce retain.

Borne to his bed again, his fluttering sprite
Back to its hated mansion they reclaim;
The dire mischance and anguish of the knight
This while was widely spread by babbling fame;
And thither came the Chief, and thither came.
With his loved friends, the Solitary Sage;
But neither grave admonishment could tame,
Nor pity sooth, nor gentlest prayers assuage
Of his distracted grief the stubbornness and rage.

As in a tender limb the serpent’s sting,
With oils fomented, doth the keener smart;
So their kind solacer of love but bring
Acuter pangs to his afflicted heart!
But reverend Peter, who the faithful part
Of a good shepherd ever undertook
With his sick flock, bless’d counsels to impart,
His long romantic passion would rebuke,
And from its phrensied trance his wilful spirit shook:

“O Tancred! Tancred! how unlike that mind,
Whose first unfoldings did so bright appear!
What cloud, what darkness does thy vision blind,
What sorcery shuts thy intellectual ear?
This thy sore trouble is instruction clear
Sent from the Lord; dost thou not see the ray
That would direct thy feet? dost thou not hear
The voice that calls thee to the safer way,
Wherein thou first didst walk, whence now thy footsteps stray?

“To actions worthy thy first love, his voice
Recalls thee, vow’d to this divine crusade;
Which thou hast left (unwise, unworthy choice!)
For the blind worship of a Pagan maid.
Happy misfortune! Heaven on thee has laid
In tend’rest clemency its chast’ning rod;
Thy fault, thyself has it the agent made
Of thine own good; and is it in this mode
That thou the gift receiv’st, and own’st the grace bestow’d.

“Scorn’st thou then, ingrate, the salubrious gift
Of God, with God incensed? unhappy! think
Whither this angry whirlwind bears thee — swift
O’er dark Eternity’s tremendous brink;
Down the deep precipice about to sink,
Thou hang’st at mercy of the slenderest breath;
Call, I entreat, call back thy senses, shrink
From the momentous danger, look beneath,
And curb this impious wo, that leads to endless death!”

That second death the sufferer’s soul alarm’d,
And, all relinquishing his wish to die,
Their soothing words he entertain’d, and calm’d
The hurricane within; yet still a sigh —
A groan at times escaped; by fits his eye
Would weep, and his sad tongue lament aloud,
Now holding with himself wild colloquy,
Now with his love, who from some rosy cloud
To his fond plaints perchance an ear of pity bow’d.

On her at smile of morn, for her at frown
Of eve he calls, he murmurs, and complains;
Like a lorn nightingale when some rude clown
Has stol’n her plumeless brood; in piercing strains
She fills the dying winds, and woods, and plains
With her sweet quarrel; all night long she weeps,
And to the list’ning stars repeats her pains,
Till morn with rosy tears the forest steeps; —
Then on his streaming eyes awhile calm slumber creeps.

And, clad in starry robes, the maid for whom
He mourn’d, appears amid his morning dreams;
Fairer than erst, but by the deathless bloom
And heavenly radiance that around her beams,
Graced, not disguised; in sweetest act she seems
To stoop, and wipe away the tears that flow
From his dim eyes: “Behold what glory streams
Round me,” she cries; “how beauteous now I show,
And for my sake, dear friend, this waste of grief forego:

“Thee for my bliss I thank; Earth’s sordid clod
Thou by a happy error forced to quit,
And for the glorious Paradise of God
By sacred baptism mad’st my spirit fit:
There now midst angels and bless’d saints I sit,
In rapturous love and fellowship divine;
There may our souls together yet be knit,
And there in fields where suns eternal shine,
Shalt thou at once enjoy their loveliness and mine; —

“If by thy passions unseduced, if thou
Grudge not thyself the bliss; live then, Sir Knight,
Know that I love thee, far as Love can bow
For aught of earthly mould a Child of Light!”
As thus she spoke, her glowing eyes shone bright
With an immortal’s fervor, — rosy red,
She in the mild irradiance shut from sight
Her face, like a sweet flower, her fans outspread,
And in his drooping soul celestial comfort shed.

Sooth’d he awoke, and to the hands discreet
Of skill’d practitioners his wounds resign’d;
The while his friends interr’d, with spices sweet,
The limbs late vital with so great a mind:
And if the tomb to which they were consign’d
Was not of pure Pentelican, nor graced
With sculptures plann’d by architects refined,
The stone was choice, and wrought with all the taste
The urgent time allow’d, in form antiquely chaste.

There by bright lamps that in long order shine,
With many a dirge, her bones in earth they lay;
And on the smooth trunk of a leafless pine
Her arms, hung round with cypress and with bay,
In trophy to her fame aloft display;
And thither did the Prince his footsteps turn
All languid as he was, at break of day,
With awe and melancholy calm concern,
Unseen her grave to view, and clasp her reverenced urn.

When reach’d the tomb, his spirit’s dolorous jail,
Prescribed by Heaven’s inscrutable decree,
Long on the pile, mute, motionless and pale,
His hollow eyes in absent revery
He fix’d: at length to his relief a sea
Of tears gush’d forth; and, gath’ring voice, he said,
His accents prefaced with a sigh; “O ye
So loved, so honor’d tablets of the dead,
In which my soul abides, o’er which my tears are shed! —

“Not of unliving dust are ye the shrine,
But Love’s quick ashes, canonized by wo;
From you I catch his wonted fires divine,
Less sweet, less grateful, but as warm they glow;
Take the sad sighs and kisses I bestow,
Bathed in the fondest tears that ever bless’d
The grave of luckless beauty; take, and O
Convey each sigh breathed forth, each kiss impress’d,
To the beloved remains that in your bosom rest!

“For if to her fair spoils that fairest Saint
E’er gives a glance, thy pity and my love
Will not offend; since, neither can the taint
Of scorn or hatred reach the blest above;
She who forgave my crime, can ne’er reprove
My zeal, — this hope alone my tears can dry;
It was, she knows, my hand alone that drove
The murd’ring sword; nor can it irk that I,
Who lived adoring her, adoringly should die.

“And die adoring her I shall; blest day,
Whenever it arrives! but far more blest,
If as now round thy polish’d sides I stray,
I then be taken to thy sacred breast!
Ah! let our blending souls together rest
In heaven, our ashes in the self same tomb:
If I by death be of the bliss possess’d
Which life denied me, — might I but presume
This, this to hope indeed, delightful were my doom!”

Meanwhile in Salem, of Clorinda’s fall
At first confused and floating whispers rise;
Till, ascertain’d and soon divulged, through all
Th’ astonish’d City the loud rumor flies,
Mingled with tears, and shrieks, and women’s cries;
As though the town itself, the sacred town,
Were now by storm become the victor’s prize;
And in the rage of flying flames went down
Their temples, spires, abodes, and towers of old renown.

But every eye was on Arsetes turn’d,
Who stood, a piteous spectacle of care;
He not as others his dear mistress mourn’d;
His eyeballs, stony with supreme despair,
Shed not a tear; but fiercely did he tear
His face, his bosom, and with ashes strow’d
The hoary honors of his silver hair:
As thus he drew th’ attention of the crowd,
Midst them Argantes came, and thus harangued aloud:

“Much did I wish, when conscious that the gate
Was closed against th’ incomparable maid,
To follow straight, — I ran to share her fate,
Protect her life, or be beside her laid;
What did I not? what said I not? I pray’d,
Adjured the King, by all that was most dear,
T’ unbar the gates: he, of the Franks afraid,
Denied my suit, though tender’d with a tear;
And, men of Syria! he has sole dominion here.

“Ah! had I then gone forth, or safe from strife
I the brave heroine had brought off, or closed
Where she has made earth purple, my sad life
In memorable decease, a glorious ghost!
But what could I do more? the starry host,
And counsels both of Gods and men were set
In adverse influence, to my wish opposed;
Cold in her grave the Virgin lies; but yet,
There are some mournful dues which I will ne’er forget.

“Hear, all Jerusalem, my vow! Heaven, hear!
And, if I fail my promise to fulfil,
Blast me with fire! deep, deep revenge I swear,
On the base Frank that did Clorinda kill!
Never from battle shall my sword lie still,
However fully flesh’d upon the foe;
Ne’er be dissevered from my side, until
I stab cursed Tancred to the heart, and throw
His ruffian carcass out, to feed the hound and crow!”

The warrior ceased; and to his fierce harangue
From the sooth’d crowds applauding shouts succeed;
Hush’d their sore weeping, lost is every pang,
In the mere fancy of th’ expected deed.
O blind, presumptuous vow! far different seed
Than flow’ring hope imagines, to his scythe
Time will devote; thyself, thyself shalt bleed,
In equal battle bleed, and dying writhe
Beneath his sword o’er whom thou now exultest blithe i!