Book XIII

Scarce was the vast, tower-tempesting machine
To ashes sunk, than, further to secure
The City respited from storm, Ismene
New artifices plann’d, by rites impure,
And added spells tremendous, to ensure
The army’s ruin, and prevent the fall
Of fresh materials from the groves obscure:
That so, no second store of engines tall
Might Sion’s gates bombard, or rend her sacred wall.

Near the encampment of the Christians, grows,
Mid solitary valleys, old and vast,
A forest, thick with mossy trees, whose boughs
A solemn horror far in compass cast:
There, when the golden sun at noon rides past
In clearest glory, a discolour’d light,
Malignant, such as falls from skies o’ercast,
When night with day, or day disputes with night,
Streams through its hoary glades, and daunts th’ uncertain sight.

But when the sun departs, immediate clouds,
And horror, black as hell, the place invade;
Darkness — which blinds the vision, and which crowds
The heart with fears; for pasture or for shade,
There never goatherd drives his goats, dismay’d,
Herdsman his herds; there never shepherds sound
Their lively reeds; nor in its nodding glade
Enter faint pilgrims, but, with awe profound,
Point as they pass, and shun far-off th’ unlucky ground.

Here at deep midnight, borne on clouds and storms,
Foul witches gather to their blasted green,
Each with her mate, and take the frightful forms
Of dragon, pard, or bearded goat obscene;
A council loathsome, infamous, unclean;
That oft with false presentments and delights,
Allure from goodness: hither they convene,
To hold in pomp, by Hecate’s pale lights,
Their impious marriage feasts and bacchanalian rites.

So goes belief; and from its haunted bowers
Nor bough nor twig the natives ever rent;
But these the Franks, since for their rams and towers
None others served, invade with one consent.
Here now the Sorcerer came, malevolent,
At next dead noon of night, — the hour that best
Suits his black science: not a whisper went
Through the wild woods, when, wrapp’d in coal-black vest,
His magic rounds he traced, his mystic signs impress’d.

One naked foot he in the charmed ring
Set, murm’ring mighty rhymes; nor fail’d to turn
Thrice to the clime whence first the sunbeams spring,
Thrice to the region gaped where last they burn;
Thrice shook the wand that from the dreary urn
Calls buried phantoms, to walk forth again
Incorporate; three times, gloomily and stern,
Stamp’d with his foot unshod: then spake he; then,
Ran these tremendous words through each rebellowing glen.

“Hear! hear, O ye, whom from the stars of yore
God’s flashing thunders smote to deepest hell!
Hear, ye that walk the clouds! hear, ye that pour
The storms abroad, and in the whirlwinds yell!
And you, dark elves of fog, of fire, and fell,
Demons, and ghosts, and demogorgons dire!
Hear, all ye devils that in Avernus dwell,
Grim torturers of the damn’d! and Thou, their sire,
King of lost kings, that rul’st the shadowy world of fire!

“Guard well these groves: elm, cedar, ivy, oak,
I give you told and chronicled aright;
As souls of men in bodies, I invoke
You so to haunt their branches, every sprite;
Chase back with fury, or at least affright
Th’ insulting Christians, soon as they assay
To reach and fell them!” many an impious rite,
Fell charm, and dreary spell the Wizard gray
Join’d, which ’twere sin to hear, and blasphemy to say.

At these fell words each bright star that adorns
The blue of midnight, quench’d its fires divine;
The moon, disturb’d, drew in her golden horns,
“Cloak’d in black clouds, nor after dared to shine:
Incensed he turns, with aspect more -malign,
And stamping shouts; “Not yet do ye appear,
Charged spirits? each to his appointed shrine!
Why this delay? perchance ye wait to hear
Voices more potent yet, and curses more severe!

“I have not yet forgot, from long disuse,
My cruel arts of more effectual fame;
This tongue, I know, can, blooded o’er, break loose
With perfect ease from its control, and frame
That so tremendous sound, that mighty Name,
Which heard, e’en Pluto must start up dismay’d,
And hither hurry from his throne of flame;
Which! oh, which if — “more yet he would have said,
But that he inly knew the summons was obey’d.

Infinite spirits numberless come down;
All that through air on Hell’s drear errands flee, —
Ghosts of th’ abyss, and elves from forests brown,
From cave, mine, fountain, fire, and roaring sea:
Slow, and still trembling at the late decree
Prohibiting from battle, comes and grieves
The universal swarm; but, bound to be
Seals of th’ enchantment, each his charge receives,
“Shrined in the mossy trunks, gray boughs, or flutt’ring.

Straight to the King the Sorcerer, when aware
That the protecting charm was now complete,
Hied and exclaim’d; “Leave every doubt and care;
Thy heart refresh, and of enjoyment treat!
Henceforth in safety stands thy regal seat;
For never shall the Franks have power or heart
Their engines to renew, — so brave a feat
Have I perform’d;” thus glorying, part by part
He the success narrates of his mysterious art: —

Then thus continue: “With my spell the stars
Themselves are charm’d, to my no less delight;
Know, that in heavenly Leo raging Mars
Must with the splendid sun ere while unite
In blest conjunction, and with fever smite
The hostile armies; naught shall cool the glow, —
Winds, airs, nor rains by day, nor dews by night;
Since all the Influences in heaven foreshow
A time of burning heat, — pain, wailing, want, and wo.

“Drought more intolerable than e’er distress’d
Ind, or adust Zahara! us the heat
Will little harm, within a town so blest
With cool delights — fresh shades, and fountains sweet:
But most the sunbeams on our foes will beat;
Who, stretch’d on sands insufferable as they,
Denied refreshment, hopeless of retreat,
Will to th’ Egyptians fall an easy prey,
First smit by Heaven, then swept like locusts clean away.

“Thou, sitting still, shalt conquer; ’twere not wise
To tempt of Fortune then the doubtful smile;
But if the rash Circassian, who decries
All, even hon’rable repose, revile,
And importune thee in his usual style,
Find thou the means his wilfulness to rein;
Since Heaven’s kind Sov’reign shall to thee erewhile
Send peace, and to thy foes, consumed with pain,
The sword which, smiting once, need never smite again.”

Sooth’d by this speech, the King recovers heart,
And the whole force of Godfrey inly mocks;
He had already well repair’d in part
The walls late shatter’d by the ram’s rude shocks;
The rest with iron cramps and mortised blocks
He now secures; nor yet his cares relax;
Round him the total population flocks, —
Freeman, liege, slave, — on all he lays the tax
Of hard, unceasing toil; and warm their labors wax.

Meantime the pious Prince resolved no more
To storm by force of arms the strengthen’d town,
Till rams and towers yet mightier than before,
Should with more sure success his prospects crown;
He therefore sent his soldiers to cut down
Fresh timber for the work: at morning light
They go; in mist the silent forests frown, —
But scarce their sable skirts appear in sight,
Than awe arrests then steps, and fills their souls with fright.

As boys on ivied towers and haunted rooms
At fall of twilight dare not cast an eye,
Fancy a ghost in every thing that glooms,
And, hair on end, from the grim fancy fly:
So when beyond the hills these men descry
The hoar wood nodding to the wind’s light wings,
Alarm’d, they turn and flee; unconscious why,
Unless that fear before their senses brings
Goblins, chimeras, ouphes, and all unholy things.

Back they return, sad, timid, trembling, pale,
Their words confused and various as their fears;
That not a soldier entertains their tale,
But turns to mirth the monstrous things he hears.
Indulgent Godfrey of his cavaliers
Sends a choice troop, in shining arms array’d,
Who, faced with boldness, strengthening with their spears
The men from harm, might their faint souls persuade
To do his late commands, and pierce the tangled shade.

Approaching where, in blackest seats
’d
Of savage shade, the wicked fiends fulfil
The wizard’s charge, the gloomy forest lower’d
In sight, — they tremble, and their blood runs chill;
Yet onward they proceed, concealing ill
Their vile dismay beneath a lively face;
In sinuous windings they descend the hill;
And have so far advanced, that little space
Separates; their footsteps now from off th’ enchanted place.

Sudden a sound comes from the wood, as when
Earth yawns, towers tremble, steadfast mountains quake,
South winds repine in Autumn’s yellow glen,
And murmuring billows on the shingles break:
The lion’s roar, the hissings of the snake,
The night-wolf’s howls are heard, the bears low moans:
Trumpets and thunders, whisp’rings that awake
Hideous alarms, and melancholy groans —
All speak in that one sound, though under various tones.

The cheeks of all grew pale as death: their fear
A thousand guilty signs declared too plain;
Nor discipline could nerve, nor reason cheer, —
They neither could advance, nor durst remain;
Weak were their efforts, their protection vain
Against the secret influence that confused
Their pride, their courage, and their self-disdain;
At length they fled: their boldest, introduced
To Godfrey’s presence, spoke, and thus their flight excused:

“Signior! not one of us can longer vaunt
The power or will those guarded woods to fell:
Spirits I swear possess each moving plant;
There grisly Pluto has transferr’d all hell.
The heart that fearless ventures where they dwell,
Must be of diamond, diamond to the core;
But none save madmen, scornful of the spell
That guards the entrance, would the depths explore,
So loud the savage grove rebellows to their roar.”

Thus went his tale. Among the curious crowd
That gather’d round, by chance Alcasto stood,
Who both at death and danger laugh’d aloud,
Rash, stupid, stern, and obstinate of mood;
Not the wild lion roaring o’er his brood,
Nor aught that seems tremendous to mankind,
Ghost, dragon, murd’rer, wizard of the wood,
Lightning, nor earthquake could appal his mind,
Nor aught that haunts the flood, or walks the roaring wind.

He toss’d his haughty head, and smiling cried;
“Thither whence this man shrinks let me repair;
I will invade the peopled wood with pride,
Despite its hollow sounds and shapes of air:
No grinning goblin shall my spirit scare,
Nor roar of boughs around, nor scream o’erhead
Of savage birds; most freely will I dare
Its frightful glooms and tangled paths to tread,
Though through the throat of hell descending to the dead.”

He waved his armed hand, and with a proud
Contempt stalk’d off; the wood was soon in view;
Soon the strange roar was heard, rebellowing loud,
The timbrels rang, the dreary trumpets blew:
Yet not a step th’ audacious man withdrew;
Secure and scornful as at first, he sought
An open glade of pine and spreading yew;
The charmed soil he trod, — when, swift as thought,
Upsprang a guardian fire, and with th’ intruder fought.

Wide and aloft the smoking fires extend,
And, in the form of high embattled walls,
Gird the green wood and from his blade defend,
That not the slend’rest branch or sapling falls;
The loftier flames roll into gorgeous halls
Fantastically tower’d, and fortified
With warlike engines darting sulph’rous balls,
To guard this new Gehenna; while, more wide,
Rocks climb’d the clouds, with gold and burning crimson dyed.

O, what strange monsters, arm’d, in guard appear
On the tall battlements! a hideous row!
Glare with their Gorgon eyes, and frequent rear
Their clashing arms, with many a menaced blow!
At length he fled; and though his flight was slow
As the grim lion’s when in distant chase
Held by the hunter, still he fled the foe;
Sad fear — till then a thing unknown, found place
Within his boist’rous heart, and paled his daring face.

Nor was he conscious that he fled, e’en yet;
But when to distance he had gone, disdain —
A wild amazement, anguishing regret,
And deep repentance stung his fretful brain:
Crimsoning ’twixt shame and grief, he passed the plain;
Turn’d from the crowd his devious steps aside;
And, stealing to his tent, essay’d in vain
From human eyes his downcast face to hide —
That face, so late the seat of all -despising pride.

To Godfrey call’d, he lingers, makes delays,
And tries to shun the summons, all he can;
Forced, he at length arrives, but nothing says,
Or wildly babbles like a sleeping man:
Well in his falt’ring speech, and face now wan,
Now flush’d with shame unusual, Godfrey saw
Flight and defeat; and “How,” he thus began,
“Is this? or is it witchcraft strikes this awe,
Or Nature’s high portents, transcending Nature’s law?

“But if there yet be one whose noble breast
To pierce the grove with brave ambition beats,
Free let him try th’ adventure, and at least
Bring news more certain from its dark retreats.”
Thus spake the Duke: and thrice those savage seats
Were tried, successive days, at his desire,
By chiefs most famed for high romantic feats;
Yet forced, yet fain was each one to retire,
Scared by the sounds, the sights, the monsters, and the fire.

This chanced while Tancred paid the last sad rite
To his loved lady: weak he was, and pale;
His eyes still sicken’d at the cheerful light,
His steps were feeble, and his members frail;
Ill could he bear the weight of helm or mail;
Yet now, since all his wish’d assistance claim,
Nor toil deters him, nor can danger quail;
Warm to his heart fresh life with courage came,
New strung his sinewy joints, and fortified his frame.

He, silent, calm, collecting all his soul,
Fearless, yet heedful, sought the forest vast;
And the drear aspect of the wood, the roll
Of thunder, clouds, the earthquake and the blast,
Firmly sustain’d, amazed, but not aghast; —
His heart a little moment beat more high,
But sank as soon; and forward still he pass’d;
When, sudden, in the sylvan region nigh,
The fiery city rose, whose turrets touch’d the sky.

Back stepp’d the Prince, and made a moment’s pause,
Inly debating: “What will arms serve here?
In the devouring flames and monsters’ jaws
Shall I leap headlong then? yet wherefore fear!
Ne’er will the brave man count his life too dear,
When public good the sacrifice demands;
But neither will he draw too rashly near
The scene where Ruin with a hundred hands
Deals death; and surely such, is this which here expands.

Yet, if I fly, what will our armies say?
What other forest can they hope to fell?
Will Godfrey cease th’ adventure to essay?
And shall another break th’ unholy spell?
This fire, although the simile of hell,
May be in fact less fierce, by fiends prepared
To daunt, not harm; — whichever way, ’tis well;
Let the worst come!” this said, with blade unbared,
He through th’ eruption leap’d, — O, risk divinely dared!

He felt no raging heat, no fervent glow,
His arms undimm’d, unscorch’d his naked face;
If real flame, or glitt’ring fairy show,
He knew not rightly, in so short a space;
For, soon as touch’d, the visionary blaze —
Turrets, domes, towers, and apparitions drear,
Melted in mist, blue mist, that in their place
Brought glooms and clouds; the wind and tempest near
Hail’d, thunder’d, howl’d, — dispersed, and heaven again shone clear.

Amazed, but still intrepid, Tancred stood;
And, when the echoing storm at distance died,
Trod with slow steps secure th’ unhallow’d wood,
And all its hoary scenes and secrets eyed;
No farther signs or prodigies he spied;
Nor elf before, nor goblin glared behind;
Naught gave prevention, access naught denied,
Save the gray trees, that, thickly intertwined,
His steps entangled oft, and oft his sight confined.

He reach’d at length a fair and spacious plot,
Shaped like a circus; in whose centre waved
One single tree — a cypress, that upshot
Like a green pyramid to heaven, and braved
The winds with beauty; sweetest flow’rets paved
The mossy floor: the prospect he perused;
Advanced, and saw on the smooth rind engraved,
Symbols like those mysterious Egypt used,
Long ere her graphic art young Greece had introduced.

Mid these dark types, some Syriac words appear’d,
A tongue to him familiar, — thus they ran;
“O thou, who in these aisles of death hast dared
To place thy glorying foot, audacious man!
Ah! if thou be not under pity’s ban,
Cruel as bold, disquiet not, nor tread
This secret seat; but, if thy spirit can,
Pardon the hapless souls to darkness wed;
Why shouldst thou come to fight, — the living with the dead!

Thus spake th’ inscription: while in pensive mood
He sought their mystic sense, he heard behind,
Amidst the leaves of the enchanted wood
And weeping boughs above, the serious wind
Frame a low melancholy dirge, that pined
Sadly harmonious, sounding in his ear
Like human sighs; a sound, that in his mind
Instill’d I know not what confusedly dear
Of pity, pain divine, sweet grief, and sweeter fear.

He drew his sword at length, and with full force
Struck the tall tree; O wonderful! the wound,
As bursts a fountain from its sylvan source,
Gush’d forth with blood, and crimson’d all the ground.
Chill horror seized the knight: yet, fix’d to sound
The mystery to its depth, and desp’rate grown,
Again he struck; when, hollow and profound,
As from a vaulted grave, in piteous tone,
Murm’ring he heard within a spirit deeply moan.

“Too much already, Tancred, has thy blade
Wrong’d me!” the sad voice feebly made exclaim;
“My late so happy home didst thou invade,
And rudely drive my spirit from the frame,
In and through which it lived: why wilt thou maim
Still the poor trunk to which my doom unbless’d
Binds me? can wrath so far the heart inflame,
Cruel! that in their shrouds thou must molest
Thy foes, when Death has seal’d, and rev’rences their rest?

“I was Clorinda: nor does her sad sprite
Alone in heart of oak or cypress dwell:
But ev’ry other Frank or Pagan knight,
That before Salem in proud battle fell,
Is here by magic’s most mysterious spell
Immanacled, I know not if to say
In vital body, or funereal cell;
With sense the trunks, with life the branches play;
And thou a murd’rer art, if thou one sapling slay.

As a sick man, that in his sleep perceives
Some fiery dragon or chimera grim;
Though he suspects, or firmly e’en believes
That the whole show is but a feverish dream,
Yet strives to fly, with many a shriek and scream,
Such fright the dire and horrid semblance breeds!
So, though th’ enamor’d knight cannot but deem
False the sad voice that for his pity pleads,
He yet th’ illusion fears; and trembles, and recedes.

At once pain, pity, love, fear, grief, surprise,
Rush o’er his heart; half phrensied, and unmann’d,
Cold on his brow the dew of horror lies,
And the sword falls from his relaxing hand:
He sees in thought his murder’d lady stand,
Weeping, imploring him with groans to spare
Her suffering tree, and sheath his dreadful brand;
Nor can his harrow’d fancy longer bear
To view her gushing blood, and hear her piteous prayer.

Thus he on whose brave heart no blind alarm
Of danger or of death could e’er intrude,
Powerless and soft alone at Love’s deep charm,
A spirit false did with vain plaints delude:
Meanwhile a whirlwind, roaring from the wood,
Caught up his sword, and bore it out of ken
Through the dark grove; the warrior, thus subdued,
At length retired; and from the bosky glen
Issuing, his falchion found, and gladly grasp’d again.

Yet durst he not return, to pierce anew
Of these mysterious bowers the shadowy screen,
But as to Godfrey’s presence near he drew,
Call’d back his spirits, and composed his mien;
Then thus address’d him: “Listen! I have seen
Things passing all belief; things which to you
Will sound like fables! of the forest green
The tales you have been told — the dreary view,
And loud appalling sounds, in every point are true.

“First rose a wondrous fire, self-kindled, bright,
Rose in an instant, building high and wide
Towers, whereon, arm’d and shielded for the fight,
Whole hosts of monsters all access denied:
Yet these I pass’d, unharm’d, unterrified
Or by the brandish’d blades, or volumed train
Of the fierce flames, — they vanish’d, when defied:
Night fell, winds roar’d, rain dash’d; but straight again
Day smiled, the winds were hush’d, and sunshine chased the rain.

“Yet more! with feeling, life, and speech endued,
A human spirit in each tree is shrined;
I heard one feebly wailing in the wood,
That wild, sad voice, still, still it haunts my mind:
While, as though actual flesh the members lined
Of ev’ry hoary trunk and sapling spray,
Blood at each stroke ran trickling from the rind;
I own myself subdued, nor dare essay
Again the bark to strip, or rend one branch away.”

While thus he speaks, a tide of tossing thought
Absorbs the soul of Godfrey; what if he
In his own person the enchantment sought,
And with his sceptre made those demons flee,
Which, as he judged, by power of sorcery
Possess’d the forest! or should he provide
Elsewhere his timbers, which perchance might be,
If from a distance, with more ease supplied?
Him from this trance of thought the Hermit roused and cried:

“Forego thy daring fancy: other hands
Must from yon forest cut the charmed trees;
Lo, on the far, the solitary sands
Grates the doom’d bark, and gathers from the breeze
Her golden sails! from loose inglorious ease,
Love’s siren chains and zoneless Beauty’s bribes,
Th’ expected Knight his captive spirit frees;
And soon will come the time which Heaven prescribes
For Sion’s destined fall, despite her guardian tribes!”

He spake with voice seraphic; while his face
Shone with a light approaching to divine:
Godfrey to his prophetic words gave place,
And turn’d his thoughts, which never lie supine,
To other projects; but the radiant sign
Of Cancer now receives the sun, which foils
His schemes, and traverses each wise design;
Heat, unremitted heat the clime embroils,
And wearying, quite unfits his host for martial toils.

Th’ Elysian Pleiads quench their friendly lamps;
In heaven’s blue sphere swart planets tyrannize;
Whence streams an influence, that informs, and stamps
On air th’ impression of their baleful dies;
More and more sultry grow the noxious skies;
Yet wide and wider sickness sheds its seeds;
More mortal heats descend, and vapors rise;
To torturing day more torturing night succeeds;
And still the next, and next, superior mischief breeds.

The glimm’ring Sun ne’er issues from the deep,
But roseate mists his angry face enclose;
Ne’er sets, but tears of blood his eye-balls weep, —
Tears, of a tincture that too well foreshows
A melancholy morrow doom’d to close
With the like drops, sweat from his sanguine veins;
Threatening to rise more fierce than last he rose,
And sharp’ning thus the sufferings each sustains,
With long foretasted griefs, and dread of future pains.

Then when at noon he darts his radiance down,
In compass far as mortal eye surveys,
The fair flowers languish, the green turf turns brown.
The leaves fall yellow from their sapless sprays;
Earth gapes in chinks; th’ exhausted fountain plays
No more its music; shrunk the streams and lakes,
He subjects all things to his ardent rays;
The barren cloud, in air expanded, takes
Semblance of sheeted fire, and parts in scarlet flakes.

Heaven seems a sable furnace: not a thing
Speaks freshness to the sight; the frolicsome
Sweet Zephyr, silent, waving not a wing,
His grotto keeps; mellifluous air is dumb.
Not a bird’s flutt’ring, not an insect’s hum
Breaks the still void; or on its sultry gloom
If winds intrude, ’tis only such as come
From the hot sands, Sirocco or Simoom,
Which, blown in stifling gusts, the springs of life consume.

Nor brings the Night more comfort: on her shade
The glowing Sun his radiant impress leaves;
With comets, lightnings, and the golden braid
Of other kindling fires her veil she weaves;
Thee too, sad Earth, the niggard Moon bereaves
Of her delightful dew-drops! not as erst
In amorous song her Druid minstrel grieves;
And all the wild- wood bells and blossoms thirst
For the moist juice which late their fragrant spirits nursed.

Through these unquiet nights, sweet Sleep, exiled,
Fled from the languid lids of weeping men;
Nor would by amorous courtship be beguiled,
Or flatt’ring words, to spread his wings again:
But yet their worst of evils was the pain,
The rage of thirst; Judea’s impious king
With secret herbs, and drugs of deadlier grain
Than Styx or sable Acheron could wring
From their malignant waves, had poison’d every spring.

And Siloa’s brook, that, gliding clear and swift,
Gave affluent beverage to the Franks before,
Has now no fresh’ning virtue in its gift,
Scarce with warm waves o’erspreads its sandy floor.
Not the broad Po in May, when amplest pour
His floods, nor Ganges, which the Indian deems
A God, nor seven-mouth’d Nile, when floating o’er
Green Egypt’s boundless plains with even streams,
To their inflamed desires at all superfluous seems.

If any e’er ’twixt shady woods had seen
Cool glassy lakes in liquid silver sleep,
Quick fountains, bubbling up from mosses green,
Slide down smooth hills, brooks querulously creep
O’er lustrous stones, or Alpine torrents leap
Roaring from heaven, he paints them o’er and o’er
To his enamor’d wish, sweet, icy, deep,
And, tasting them in fancy, tortures more
A heart already fired, tormented to its core.

Warriors robust, whose frames of sturdiest mould
Not the long march through asp’rous regions rude,
Nor iron mails that aye their limbs enfold,
Nor weapons thirsting for their death, subdued, —
Tamed by the sultry heat, with sweat imbrued,
Lie both a burden to themselves, and prey;
Faint, weak, dissolved in idlest lassitude,
A secret fire lives in their veins, whose ray
Eats by degrees their flesh, and melts their bones away.

Sickens the late fierce steed; untasted, loathed,
Stands his once relish’d, once saluted corn;
The dancing mane and neck with thunder clothed,
But late superbly in the battle borne,
Droops to the ground; the pride of laurels worn
No more dilates his nostrils, swells his veins;
Glory his hatred, vict’ry seems his scorn;
His rich caparisons, embroider’d reins,
And sumptuous trophies, all — as baubles he disdains.

Sickens the faithful dog, and for his lord
And once beloved abode no longer cares;
Couchant he lies, by inward furies gnaw’d,
And, scorch’d, gapes momently for lighter airs;
But respiration, though it oft repairs
Nature’s disorders, and corrects the fire
In feverish bosoms, charm’d from healing, bears
Not now the cool refreshment they require;
So hot and stifling blow the breezes they inspire.

Thus languishes the earth; in this estate
The wretched troops lie sick’ning in their tents;
And, desp’rate grown of victory, meditate
What deadlier ills must crown these dire events:
On every side the spacious camp presents
Some dreadful scene; on every side the noise
Is heard of murmurs, weepings, and laments;
“What more hopes Godfrey?” cry they with one voice;
“Waits he till hasting death the total camp destroys?

“Ah! with what forces does he hope to be
Lord of these towers? whence now his rams and vines
Can he expect? does he alone not see
Heaven’s wrath reveal’d against our rash designs?
By thousand prodigies and thousand signs
To us its adverse spirit stands display’d;
While on our heads the sun so hotly shines,
That not the Indian, or the Ethiop laid
On burning sands, more needs refreshment, showers, and shade!

“Thinks he it then a thing of no concern,
That we, a worthless and neglected train,
Vile, useless myrmidons, to death should burn,
That he his kingly sceptre may maintain?
And seems it then so great a bliss to reign,
That man should guard it at a price so high?
That he should seek his empire to retain
With soul so greedy, when, before his eye,
Of his own subjects thus such numbers faint or die?

“Mark the said pious Prince, his insight deep,
Humane to aid, prophetic to purvey!
Our good he quite forgets, so he can keep
His hurtful honor and vain-glorious sway:
He sees both streams and fountains waste away
From us, yet for himself cool waters sweet
Brings from far Jordan; and at banquets gay,
With a few Magnates, shaded from the heat,
Mingles the fresh clear wave with costly wines from Crete!”

Thus the Franks murmur’d; but the Grecian guide.
Long weary of the war, aloud repined:
“And why should I or my brave troops,” he cried,
“Stay to be stifled by this scorching wind?
If Godfrey will be so insanely blind,
Let him and his obsequious people look
To the result! are we to be combined
In their destruction?” — no farewell he took:
But in the silent night, silent the camp forsook.

This base desertion with the morning star
Was clearly seen, and wide th’ infection spread;
Those who the pastoral voice of Ademar
Lately obey’d, the troops Clotharius led,
And other chiefs now number’d with the dead,
Freed from their oaths of duty by the Power
That of all human ties dissolves the thread,
Already treat of flight; and some, the flower
Thereof, at once depart, at midnight’s shadowy hour.

This Godfrey saw, and had been swift to take
Judgment’s just dues, but such his soul abhorred;
And, full of living faith, faith which can make
Hills move, and floods stand steadfast, he implored
In deep devotion earth’s almighty Lord,
That he his ancient mercies would reveal,
And shed the fountains of his grace abroad;
His hands he clasp’d, and, full of sacred zeal,
Thus with eyes raised to Heaven, to Heaven he made appeal.

“Father and Lord! if in a thirsty land
Thou on thy hosts e’er rain’d ambrosial dew,
E’er with thy power endued a mortal hand,
To smite the flinty rocks, till, cleft in two,
They gush’d with living streams, O now renew
On these the like sure mercies! and if we
Seem less deserving in thy holy view,
Thy grace that want supply! that all may see
They are thy warriors still, and call’d, O Lord, by thee!”

These prayers sincere, derived from a desire
Upright and humble, were not slow, but light
And swift as winged turtles, to the Sire
Of men and seraphs took their instant flight:
Th’ Eternal heard, and from his holy height,
On his faint hosts, as o’er his suffering child
A sympathizing parent, cast his sight,
In looks where pity beam’d, where mercy smiled,
And thus in gracious words, benevolent and mild:

“Till now these dear and faithful hosts of mine
Have suffer’d peril, pain, fatigue, and wo;
’Gainst them, with arms and secret arts malign,
The world around and powers of hell below
Have both conspired to work their overthrow;
Now a new series of events shall run;
Smooth to the end shall their adventure flow:
Let rains descend, return Bertoldo’s son,
And Egypt’s hosts arrive, to grace his laurels won!”

He bow’d his head: the heavens with all their hosts,
The fix’d, the wand’ring stars in their bright stations,
Shook at the sign; shook hills, and seas, and coasts,
And Orcus trembled to its deep foundations.
Instant from north to east swift coruscations
Flash’d through the skies, and with a golden sound
Rolled the clear thunder; with glad shouts the nations
Hail the bright shining, hail’d the roll profound,
And wonder, hope, and joy in every heart abound.

Lo! sudden clouds, not those exhaled from earth
By the sun’s rays, but from the heavens — that rend,
And all their secret springs unlock, take birth,
Collect, combine, and fast to earth descend:
The glooms of night, ere noon is at an end,
Surprise the day; and, spreading quickly o’er
Th’ encompass’d world, all things in shadow blend;
Then swell the winds, the rains impetuous pour,
And, o’er their banks escaped, the brooks and fountains roar.

As in the burning heats of summer, when
At length the long-wish’d rains of heaven descend,
A flight of babbling wild-ducks in the fen,
With hoarse glad cries the coming shower attend;
Spread their dry wings to the cool moisture, bend
Their gray necks back to wet the thirsty bill,
And proyne their plumes, and as the waters blend
Into a pool, hoarse-chatt’ring, clamoring still,
Rush, duck, and flounce, and dive, and quaff the wave at will;

So they with glad huzzas the showers salute,
Which Heaven, in answer to their Chief’s request,
Pours down in bounty; not a voice is mute;
This one his tresses, that one soaks his vest:
From glasses some, some from their helms with zest
Quench their deep thirst; in the fresh wave profuse
Some lave their faces, some their brows; the rest,
More prudent, vases, urns, and ewers produce,
And the mellifluous streams store up for future use.

Nor is the drooping spirit of mankind
Alone rejoiced and eased of all its pains;
But Earth, of late afflicted, scorch’d, and pined,
A like refreshment and repose obtains:
Her chinks by virtue of the falling rains
Are closed, renew’d her vegetative powers;
And the rich moisture through her inmost veins
Received, she ministers in plenteous showers,
To her reviving shrubs, and freshly-smelling flowers.

As a sick maid, when sprightly balms appease
The fever, late that scorch’d her life away,
Now disencumber’d of the long disease
That made her beauty its repast and prey,
Strengthens, revives, and flourishes as gay
As when her cheek with brightest roses bloom’d, —
So Earth, forgetful of her late decay,
The griefs and ills that had her strength consumed,
Joyful her flow’ry crowns and garlands green resumed.

The rains are o’er, the sun returning glows,
But with a sweet, benign, and temp’rate ray,
Yet full of virtual power, as at the close
Of show’ry April or the birth of May.
O faith divine! the Good and Just who pray
In thy devoted strength, can dissipate
Infectious airs, malignant heats allay,
The series of the seasons change, abate
The rage of angry stars, and vanquish Time and Fate!