Book XVI

Round is the spacious pile; and in its heart,
Set like a gem, a garden is insphered,
More deck’d by nature and enrich’d by art,
Than the most beautiful that e’er appear’d
To flower in old romance; and round it, rear’d
The Stygian sprites unnumber’d galleries,
Harmonious, seen at distance, but, when near’d,
A trackless maze discordant to the eyes, —
Through all these tortuous coils their secret passage lies.

Through the chief gate they tread the marble floors,
For full a hundred grace the spacious hold;
Of fine and figured silver, here the doors
On their smooth hinges sing, of shining gold:
Awhile they pause the figures to behold
Cast on the squares; for, with extreme surprise,
They see the metal rivall’d by the mould;
Speech fails alone, but, to the trusting eyes,
The sprightly shapes e’en speak, and limb’d with life arise.

Here midst Maeonian girls the Grecian Mars
Sits, telling fond romantic tales; and he
Who storm’d black Orcus, and upheld the stars,
Now twirls the spindle with a maiden’s glee;
Young Love looks on and laughs; while Iole
In her unwarlike hands is seen to bear
His murd’rous arms with proud mock-majesty,
And on her back the lion’s hide to wear,
Too rough a vest for limbs so finely turn’d and fair!

Near heaved a sea whose azure surface changed,
As close you look’d, and into silver splash’d;
Two adverse navies in the midst were ranged
For war — blue lightnings from the armor flash’d;
In gold the bright and burning billows dash’d,
And all Leucate did on fire appear,
Ere the beaks grappled, and the falchions clash’d;
Augustus there all Rome, Antonius here,
Brought up his Eastern kings, and couch’d his Memphian spear.

You would declare the rifted Cyclades
Concurr’d, and mountains did with mountains jar,
When with their tower-like vessels those and these
Rush’d o’er the brine, and shock’d in mortal war;
Here, like the sparkles of a glancing star,
Darts fly, and fire-balls blaze; there, bloody dyes
The virgin whiteness of the waters mar:
While neither wins, lo where, with heavy eyes,
O’er the vex’d waves, alarm’d, th’ Egyptian beauty files!

And flies her Chief? can he relinquish here
The glorious world to which his hopes aspire?
He flies not, no, nor fears; he does not fear,
But follows her, drawn on by fond desire:
You see him, (like a man whom now the fire
Of love torments, and now, as shame prevails,
Disdain,) alternately regard, as ire
And tenderness were cast in equal scales,
Now the still dubious fight, and now her less’ning sails.

Then in the secret creeks of fruitful Nile
He in her lap appears for death to wait,
And with the pleasure of her lovely smile
Sweetens the bitter stroke of hasting fate. —
With such like arguments of various date
And issue in Love’s story, were emboss’d
The glitt’ring metals of that princely gate;
The figured tales long time the knights engross’d;
At length the charm they broke, and o’er the threshold cross’d.

As ’twixt its crooked banks Meander plays,
Curls and uncurls in its uncertain course,
Now to its spring, now to the Ocean strays,
Now meets itself returning to its source:
Such, only intertangled with a force
Yet more mysterious, of this mazy spot
The paths appear; but now they have recourse
To the clear chart, which, pointing out both what
To shun, and what pursue, resolves th’ enchanted knot.

These windings pass’d, the garden -gates unfold,
And the fair Eden meets their glad survey, —
Still waters, moving crystals, sands of gold,
Herbs, thousand flowers, rare shrubs, and mosses gray;
Sunshiny hillocks, shady vales; woods gay,
And grottoes gloomy, in one view combined,
Presented were; and what increased their play
Of pleasure at the prospect, was, to find
Nowhere the happy Art that had the whole design’d.

So natural seem’d each ornament and site,
So well was neatness mingled with neglect,
As though boon Nature for her own delight
Her mocker mock’d, till fancy’s self was check’d;
The air, if nothing else there, is th’ effect
Of magic, to the sound of whose soft flute
The blooms are born with which the trees are deck’d:
By flowers eternal lives th’ eternal fruit,
This running richly ripe, while those but greenly shoot.

Midst the same leaves and on the self-same twig
The rosy apple with th’ unripe is seen;
Hung on one bough the old and youthful fig,
The golden orange glows beside the green;
And aye, where sunniest stations intervene,
Creeps the curled vine luxuriant high o’erhead;
Here the sour grape just springs the flowers between,
Here yellowing, purpling, blushing ruby red,
Here black the clusters burst and heavenly nectar shed.

The joyful birds sing sweet in the green bowers:
Murmur the winds; and in their fall and rise,
Strike from the fruits, leaves, fountains, brooks, and flowers,
A thousand strange celestial harmonies;
When cease the birds, the zephyr loud replies;
When sing the birds, it faints amidst the trees
To whispers soft as lovers’ farewell sighs;
Thus, whether loud or low, the bird the breeze,
The breeze obeys the bird, and each with each agrees.

One bird there flew, renown’d above the rest,
With party-color’d plumes and purple bill,
That in a language like our own express’d
Her joys, but with such sweetness, sense, and skill,
As did the hearer with amazement fill;
So far her fellows she outsang, that they
Worshipp’d the wonder; ev’ry one grew still
At her rich voice, and listen’d to the lay:
Dumb were the woods, — the winds and whispers died away.

“Ah see,” thus she sang, “the rose spread to the morning
Her red virgin leaves, the coy pride of all plants!
Yet half open, half shut midst the moss she was born in,
The less shows her beauty, the more she enchants;
Lo, soon after, her sweet naked bosom more cheaply
She shows! lo, soon after she sickens and fades,
Nor seems the same flower late desired so deeply
By thousands of lovers, and thousands of maids!

“So fleets with the day’s passing footsteps of fleetness
The flower and the verdure of life’s smiling scene:
Nor, though April returns with its sunshine and sweetness,
Again will it ever look blooming or green;
Then gather the rose in its fresh morning beauty,
The rose of a day too soon dimm’d from above;
While, beloved, we may love, let — to love, be our duty,
Now, now, while ’tis youth, pluck the roses of love!”

She ceased; and, as approving all they heard,
That tender tune the choirs of birds renew;
The turtles bill’d, and ev’ry brute and bird
In happy pairs to unseen glooms withdrew.
It seem’d that the hard oak, the grieving yew,
The chaste sad laurel, and the whole green grove, —
It seem’d each fruit that blush’d, each bud that blew,
The earth, air, sea, and rosy heavens above,
All felt divine desire, and sigh’d out sweetest love.

Midst melody so tender, midst delights
So passing sweet, and midst such tempting snares,
Cautious, serene, and serious go the knights,
And steel their souls to the loose Lydian airs.
Lo, betwixt leaves and leaves, at unawares
Advancing slow, they see, or seem to see, —
They see most surely, crown of all their cares!
The lover and his darling lady; he
In the fair lady’s lap, on herbs and violets she.

Her veil, flung open, shows her breast; in curls
Her wild hair woos the summer wind; she dies
Of the sweet passion, and the heat that pearls,
Yet more her ardent aspect beautifies:
A fiery smile within her humid eyes,
Trembling and tender, sparkles like a streak
Of sunshine in blue fountains; as she sighs,
She o’er him hangs; he on her white breast sleek
Pillowing his head reclines, cheek blushing turn’d to cheek.

His hungry eyeballs, fix’d upon her face,
For her dear beauty pine themselves away;
She bows her head, and in a fond embrace,
Sweet kisses snatches, betwixt war and play,
Now of his just touch’d eyes, in wilder prey
Now of his coral lips; therewith he heaves
Sighs deep as though his spirit wing’d its way
To transmigrate in her: amidst the leaves,
This amorous dalliance all each watchful knight perceives.

A polish’d glass, whose sheen the stars excell’d,
Strange arms! hung pendent at Rinaldo’s thigh;
He rose, and to the fair the crystal held,
Her chosen page in each love-mystery:
Both — she with smiling, he with glowing eye,
Mark but one scene of all the scenes they view;
Her angel form and aspect they descry,
She in the glass, he, fond enthusiast! through
A sweeter medium far, — her eyes of heavenly blue.

She in herself, he glories but in her;
He proud of bondage, of her empire she;
“And why,” he murmurs, “so to this recur?
Turn, my beloved, turn thine eyes on me, —
Those smiling eyes, that no less blessed be,
Than blessed make; ah, know’st thou not, that best
They in mine eyeballs must thy beauty see?
And know’st thou not thy graces are express’d
Less clear in this gay glass than in my faithful breast!

“Though me thou scorn, thou might’st at least consent
To mark thine own most interesting face;
Those looks, else unrepaid, must rest content
With joy, if on themselves themselves they place;
So rare an image can no crystal trace,
No glass a perfect Eden can comprise
In its small round; to see aright thy grace
Thou must consult the mirror of the skies;
Heaven is thy glass, the stars reflect thy sparkling eyes.”

Armida smiled at this, yet not the less
Kept to her toilet, gath’ring up behind
Her hair, restricting each resplendent tress
That in loose tangles wanton’d in the wind;
The less she curled in rings, and with them twined
Flowers that, like lazuli in gold, impress’d
A deeper charm on the beholder’s mind;
Then to the native lilies of her breast
She join’d the foreign rose, and smooth’d her veil and vest.

Not Juno’s bird such beauty spreads to show
In her eyed plumes so ravishingly bright,
Nor Iris such, when her celestial bow —
Spans the dark cloud with gold and purple light;
But rich beyond all richness shines to sight
The glorious cest which ’tis her wont to wear
At all times, e’en though naked, and at night;
A local shape she gave to things of air,
And in it blended all of lovely, sweet, and rare:-.

Tender disdains, repulses mild, feign’d fears,
Kind looks, sweet reconcilements, blissful stings,
Smiles, little love-words, sighs, delicious tears,
Hopes, turtle kisses, music, marriage rings;
Embraces dear, and all ambrosial things
She fused, commingled slowly in the chaste
Bright fire, attemper’d in cool Lydian springs,
And fashion’d thus this talisman of Taste,
Which, in itself a charm, clasps round her charming waist.

At length, their courtship o’er, she farewell took,
Gave him a kiss, sigh’d, smiled, and went her way;
For o’er the pages of her magic book,
Murm’ring her charms, she spent some hours each day.
He, by a kind of charm compell’d to stay,
Remain’d; for not one moment from these groves
Her jealous fear allow’d his steps to stray:
Alone mid bees, birds, fountains, flowers, alcoves,
And grots, save when with her, the hermit lover roves.

But when the soft and silent shade recalls
The ready lovers to their stolen delights,
Under one roof within the palace walls
They meet, and happy pass harmonious nights.
Now when Armida for severer rites
Had left her hermit love, her pleasant play,
And variegated garden, the two knights,
From the green bushes where conceal’d they lay,
Rush’d forth in radiant arms whose light enrich’d the day.

As the fierce steed, from busy war withdrawn
Awhile to riot in voluptuous ease,
Midst his loved mares loose wantons o’er the lawn,
If chance he hears once more upon the breeze
The spirit-stirring trumpet sound, or sees
The flash of armor, thither, far or near,
He bounds, he neighs, he prances o’er the leas,
Burning to whirl to war the charioteer,
Clash with the rattling car, and knap the sparkling spear.

So fared Rinaldo, when the sudden rays
Of their bright armor on his eyeballs beat;
At once these lightnings set his soul ablaze.
His ardor mounts to all its ancient heat;
Their vivid beam his sparkling eyes repeat,
Drown’d though he was, and drunken with the wine
Of siren wantonness: on footsteps fleet,
Ubald meanwhile to where he lay supine
Came, and the diamond shield turn’d to him, pure and fine.

Upon the lucid glass his eyes he roll’d,
And all his delicacy saw; his dress,
Breathing rich odors, how it gleam’d with gold!
How trimly curl’d was each lascivious tress!
And with what lady-like luxuriousness
His ornamented sword address’d his side!
So wrapp’d with flowers it swung, that none could guess
If ’twas a wounding weapon, or applied
As a fantastic toy, voluptuous eyes to pride.

As one by heavy sleep in bondage held,
Comes to himself when the long dream takes flight,
So woke the youth when he himself beheld,
Nor could endure the satire of the sight:
Down fell his looks; and instantly, in spite
Of recollected pride, the color came
Across his face; — in this embarrass’d plight,
A thousand times he wish’d himself in flame,
Ocean, in earth, th’ abyss, to shun the glowing shame.

Then spake Ubaldo; “Hearken and give ear!
Asia and Europe to the battle crowd;
Whoever counts or faith or glory dear,
Stands to the strife for Christ against Mahmoud.
Thee, son of Berthold, thee alone, the vow’d
To honor and renown, loose idlesse charms
To a small angle of the world, more proud
To play the lover in a lady’s arms,
Than champion deathless deeds, — thee only naught alarms!

“What sleep, what lethargy, what base delights
Have melted down thy manhood, quench’d thy zeal?
Up! up! thee Godfrey, thee the camp invites;
For thee bright Vict’ry stays her chariot wheel.
Come, fated warrior, set the final seal
To our emprise! thy coming all expect;
Let the false Saracens confounded feel
That sword from which no armor can protect;
Haste, and in total death destroy the impious sect!”

He ceased; the noble Infant for a space
Stood stupified, attempting no defence;
But soon as bashfulness to scorn gave place,
Scorn, the fine champion of indignant sense,
Then, with a yet diviner eloquence,
Another redness than of shame rush’d o’er
His cheeks, almost atoning his offence;
The rich embroider’d ornaments he wore,
Away with hasty hand indignantly he tore.

Begone he would, and through the intricate
Labyrinth of galleries from the garden fled;
Meanwhile Armida, by the regal gate
Starts to behold her savage keeper dead.
At first a vague suspicion, a blind dread,
Then a quick feeling of the fatal truth
Instinctive flash’d across her mind; her head
She turn’d, and saw (too cruel sight!) the youth
Haste from her bless’d abode, without concern or ruth.

“Oh cruel! leav’st thou then Armida spurn’d?”
She would have said, but choking sorrow drown’d
The issuing cry, and the faint words return’d,
With bitter echo in her heart to sound:
Poor wretch! her happiness its term has found;
A power and wisdom above hers constrain
The youth to hurry from th’ enchanted ground
With so much speed; she sees it, and in vain
Tries all her wonted arts, the recreant to retain.

All dreadful strains that e’er Thessalian lips
Spoke to lost spirits, every potent spell
That could arrest the planets, or eclipse,
And call up demons disenchain’d from hell,
She knew, she tried, yet could not now compel
One gibb’ring ghost to answer to her cry;
Thus she gave o’er her incantations fell,
And would essay if stronger sorcery
Dwelt in pale Beauty’s tear and supplicating eye.

Careless of honor, off she ran, she flew;
Where are her vaunts, ah, where her triumphs now!
She who the total sway of Love o’erthrew,
And judgment gave but by her bending brow;
And like her pride was her disdain! O how,
Loving their love, did she her slaves despise!
Herself alone could she at all allow
To pleasure her, nor aught in man could prize,
Beyond th’ effect produced by her two radiant eyes.

Left and neglected now, she follows swift
Him who forsakes her in his careless scorn;
And summons all her tears up, the poor gift
Of her rejected beauty to adorn:
Headlong she runs, uncheck’d by brier or thorn;
O’er rugged Alpine rocks and glaciers hoar
Her tender feet adventure to be torn;
Loud cries, as messengers, she sends before,
Which reach not him, till he has reach’d the winding shore.

Madly she cries; “O cruel fugitive!
That bear’st with thee my dearer half away,
Either take this, or that restore, or give
Death to them both together; stay, O stay!
Let my last words to thee at least find way,
I say not kisses; these sweet gifts from thee
Some worthier favorite may receive, — delay
Thy flight, unkind! what dost thou fear from me?
Thou canst as well refuse, when thou hast ceased to flee.

“Signior,” said then Ubaldo, “to refuse
Her wish, would be unkindness too severe:
Most sweetly bathed in sorrow’s briny dews,
Arm’d with fond prayers and beauty she draws near;
Thy tempted virtue will shine forth more clear,
If, list’ning to the siren, thou remain
Proof to her winning voice and starting tear;
So Reason shall resume her peaceful reign
O’er sense, and thus refined, her native light regain.”

At this he stay’d until she reach’d the shore;
Pale she came up, faint, breathless, all in tears,
And mournful past expression; but the more
She mourns, her beauty more divine appears:
Eager she eyes him; but mistrustful fears,
Disdain, amazement, or excess of wo
Keeps her quite mute; Rinaldo volunteers
No look, no glance at her, at least in show,
But stands with bashful eyes at stealth unclosing slow.

As skilful singers, ere they strain on high
Their voice in the loud song’s symphonious flow,
Prepare the mind for the full harmony,
By sweetest preludes, warbled soft and low:
Thus she, who had not, e’en in deepest wo,
Wholly lost memory of her fraudful art,
First breathed a symphony of sighs forth, so
By just degrees to predispose the heart,
To which her words the print of pity would impart.

Then thus; “Expect not I shall fondly bow,
Cruel! to thee, as loves to lovers should;
Such once we were, — if such no longer now,
If e’en the thought of thine impassion’d mood
Move thy displeasure, as I judge, be woo’d,
At least, my mournful plea to entertain,
As foemen the proud prayers of foes subdued;
My suit is such, as thou with little pain
Mayst grant, and yet keep all thy harshness and disdain.

‘If me thou hate, and in it tak’st delight,
Hate on, I come not to disturb thy joy;
Just it may seem, just be it, for with spite
Thy sect, thyself I labor’d to destroy!
What fierce expedients did I not employ,
A Pagan born, to sap your power! nay, more,
Thee did I hate, thee chase, and thee decoy
To the strange borders of an unknown shore,
Far from the din of arms, where only sea-waves roar.

“And, which seems most to move thy grief and shame,
Add with how much of tender, kind, and sweet,
Thy frozen heart I fondled into flame,
An impious fondness, sure, a vile deceit!
To let my virgin fruit be pluck’d and eat;
My blooms be spoil’d; my tamelessness subdued,
And cast my beauties at the tyrant’s feet!
Those youthful charms for which a thousand sued,
To a mere stranger given, unhoped, unwish’d, unwoo’d!

“Yes! number them amongst my sins, and let
These many crimes against thee hasten more
Thy prompt departure; heed not, but forget
This thy fair mansion, so beloved before!
Go, pass the seas; fight, glut thyself with gore;
Quick to the task! I bid thee o’er the brine;
Destroy our faith — ’twill be but what you swore;
What say I? ours? ah no! not mine! not mine!
I, cruel idol! seek alone thy reverenced shrine!

“Let me but follow thee! ’tis all I crave;
This mightst thou grant, though I had proved unkind;
Seldom the conq’ror parts without his slave,
The robber rarely leaves his prey behind:
Me with thy other hapless prisoners bind
For exhibition; to each other aim
At praiseful acts, let this, I pray, be join’d, —
That all may point the finger, and exclaim,
There the proud scorner goes, now scorn’d with equal shame!’

“A bondslave spurn’d, why longer do I keep
My locks unshorn, by thee now render’d vile?
Cut them clean off! the ground they shall not sweep,
To mock the misery of my servile style.
Thee will I follow from this hated isle;
Thee, when most fervent glows the fight, pursue
Through hostile crowds; I shall not want the while
Spirit or strength a thousand things to do, —
Bear darts, guide steeds, and strain myself the bending yew.

“Either thy shield or shield-bearer, which best
May please thee, I in thy defence will be;
Nor spare my person, — through this throat and breast
The sword shall pass, before it injures thee:
The foe will scarce have so much cruelty
As to strike then, but will perhaps direct
Their darts elsewhere, not to endanger me;
And smother their fierce vengeance, in respect
Of these poor charms, to which thou dost such strange neglect.

“Wretch! do I still presume, still place my worth
In these scorn’d charms, which nothing can obtain!”
More would she say, but bitter tears gush forth,
Like springs from Alpine rocks, or falling rain:
She sought to grasp his hand; she sought to strain,
In suppliant attitude, his robes; but no —
Himself he curb’d, his tenderness restrain’d,
And started back; love found no entrance, though,
The swelling tears rose high, and stood prepared to flow.

Love enter’d not, to fan within his breast
The ancient flame which reason had congeal’d;
But Pity enter’d in its place at least,
Love’s chaste companion, ever prone to yield;
And touch’d him so, that scarcely he conceal’d,
Scarce, with much pain, the yearning tears repress’d;
Yet, though she loudly to his heart appeal’d,
The fond emotion he within compress’d,
And when he could, the fair thus tranquilly address’d.

“I feel for thee, Armida! if my powers
Were such, how gladly would I cure the pain
Of the ill-starr’d warm passion that devours
Thy soul, — I have no hatred, no disdain;
No wish for vengeance moves me; peace I fain
Would give thee; wrongs I know not of, much less
Thee as a slave or foe would I retain;
True, thou hast err’d; and now all tenderness,
Now all dislike, hast loved and hated to excess:

“But these are frailties shared by all, and them
Thy native laws, thy sex, and youth excuse;
I too have sinn’d, nor thee can I condemn,
If thou to pardon me dost not refuse.
Midst the dear images I ne’er can lose,
Thine shall be dearest still; on thee, sweet maid,
In joy and wo ’twill be my bliss to muse;
Thy champion still — thou still shalt be obey’d,
Far as with honor suits, and our divine crusade.

“Let now our mutual faults and follies cease,
And with our faults our shame too have an end;
And in this lonely island sleep in peace
Their sad sweet memories, let them here descend
As to the silent grave; where’er I wend,
This only act of mine let no one trace,
None whisper to the wind; nor thou, dear friend,
Do, I implore thee, aught that would debase
Thy name, thy worth, thy charms, or shame thy princely race!

“Farewell! I go; thy wishes must be vain,
Fate grants them not; Armida, thou art wise!
Or go some happier way, or here remain,
And calm the thoughts that to such wildness rise.”
She, while the pensive warrior thus replies,
Restless, disturb’d, could scarce her passion stay;
Long time she roll’d on him her angry eyes,
Nor knew in what fierce terms her scorn to say;
At length the storm broke loose, and these mad words found way.

“Thee no Sophia bore, no Azzo gave
Blood for thy being! thy fierce parents were
The icy Caucasus, the mad sea-wave,
Some Indian tiger or Hyrcanian bear!
Why should I longer fawn? did the man e’er
Show but one sign of warm humanity?
Changed he his color at my sharp despair?
Did he but dash one tear-drop from his eye?
Or breathe for all my pangs a single suffering sigh?

“What things shall I pass over, what repeat?
He swears he’s mine, yet with the whirlwind flies;
Good, merciful, kind victor! to forget,
And pardon your fond foe’s indignities.
Hear how he counsels! hark but to his wise
And modest words! this coy Xenocrates,
Hear how he talks of love! O Gods! O skies!
And can you suffer holy men like these,
To burn your towers and towns, and act what sins they please?

“Begone, false wretch, with all that peace of mind
Thy treason leaves to me! begone, I say!
Soon shall my ghost, a haunting shade behind,
From which thou canst not tear thyself away,
Dog all thy thoughts by night, thy steps by day;
With snakes and torches, a new Fury, I,
Much as I loved thee, so much will dismay;
And if it be thy fate the strife to try,
Scaped from the roaring waves and tempests of the sky, —

“There, midst the dead and dying, thou shalt fall,
And pay for all my wrongs, false chevalier!
Oft on Armida’s name distracted call,
In thy last groans, which soon I hope to hear!’
But there the mourner’s spirit fail’d, nor clear
Were the last accents; her sweet color flies,
She faints, she falls, her speaking lips adhere,
An icy sweat on her cold forehead lies,
Droops her dejected head, and close her radiant eyes.

Thine eyes are closed, Armida; the stern powers
Of fate deny all solace to thy wo;
Look up, poor girl, and see what bitter showers
Stream from the eyes of thine imagined foe!
Couldst thou but hear his sighs, couldst thou but know
The pain he feels, it must thy love renew,
And in thy bitter cup fresh sweetness throw;
All that he can, he gives to thee, still true,
And takes (thou think’st it not) a last — a fond adieu.

What should he do? leave on the naked sands
The Lady thus, betwixt alive and dead?
Pity forbids, and courtesy withstands,
But hard necessity compels, — ’tis sped;
One farewell kiss, — he parts; the grot they tread,
And launch from land; mild blow the western gales
Midst the rich tresses of the pilot’s head;
Fast o’er green ocean glide the golden sails;
To land he looks, till land his grieving vision fails.

Waked from her trance, Armida, with a start,
Look’d round her, — all was silence; all was shade;
“And is he gone?” she said, “and had he heart
To leave me thus, nor for a moment stay’d,
In doubt of life or death, a little aid
To lend? nor for one moment linger’d o’er,
To watch the pale, mute ruin he had made?
And do I love him still, and on this shore
With folded arms still sit, still unrevenged deplore?

“Why weep I longer? other arms and arts
Command I not? I will the wretch pursue;
Nor shall the deep o’er which his bark departs,
Nor heaven’s high vault secure him from his due!
I will o’ertake him; cleave his heart in two;
And hang his sever’d head upon a spot,
Where all like traitors may the monster view;
Versed as he is in guile, I will outplot
His brain, — alas, I rave! I talk I know not what!

“Then, wretched girl! thou shouldst have
’d thy hate,
When he lay safely curling in thy chain;
That had been something worth! now all too late
Come thy hot wrath, and thy incensed disdain!
But, if my beauty and ingenious brain
Can nothing here, not fruitless shall this strong
And passionate desire of mine remain;
O my scorn’d charms! yours, yours was all the wrong,
To you shall the dear task of vengeance now belong.

“These charms of mine shall be the fix’d reward
Of him who slays the man! your swords prepare,
O my famed lovers! though the task seem hard,
Yet great and glorious is the deed you dare:
I, who in independent state shall wear
The crown of rich Damascus, will be nigh,
In guerdon of the victim; if this rare
Reward appear too poor, revenge to buy,
Nature! I thank thee not for charms ill praised so high.

‘False, fatal gifts! I spurn you back; I scorn
The hated kingdom which I have to give;
I hate my life, the hour when I was born,
Alone in hope of sweet revenge I live!”
In broken words, enraged, thus does she grieve,
Thus rave; then turns with a distracted pace
From the lone shore, the moments to retrieve;
Showing what fury in her heart found place,
By her dishevell’d hair, fierce eyes, and crims’ning face.

Reach’d her abode, with foaming lips she call’d
Three hundred ghosts from Tartarus the dun;
Black clouds the tranquil face of heaven appall’d,
Pale in a moment grew th’ eternal sun;
The whirlwinds bluster’d on the hills, air spun,
Hell bellow’d at her feet; then might you hear
Through the enchanted halls the damned run,
Unchain’d and raging, now far-off, now near, —
Shrieks, hissings, yells, drear groans, and whisp’rings yet more drear.

A raven shade, more dark than darkest night,
Cloak’d all the hill, enliven’d by no ray,
Save now and then dull flashes of blue light,
That made the following gloom yet more dismay:
Slowly at length the blackness clear’d away;
The round pale sun shone out, but nothing clear;
Gloomy the earth, the air was aught but gay,
Nor of the palace did one trace appear,
Nor would you venture now, e’en to exclaim, ’twas here.

As when the clouds at summer eve have drawn
In air huge towers and temples, they remain
Till wind or sunshine comes, and straight they’re gone,
Like a dream figured in the sick man’s brain:
So melt th’ enchanted towers, with all their train
Of rich delights, and leave but for the eye
The hoary face of nature, — the still main,
Brown hills, and frowning woods. Her chariot nigh
She as is usual mounts, and fast away doth fly.

The clouds she cleaves, and round her doth enrol
Thunders and tempests, lightnings, wave, and wind;
The regions subject to the southern pole,
And all their unknown natives left behind,
Calpe she cross’d; nor, in her fretful mind,
Stoop’d to the Spaniard, or the Moor, but o’er,
The Midland Sea her winged car inclined;
Nor to the right, nor to the left hand bore,
Till in mid air she reach’d the known Assyrian shore.

Not now to fair Damascus does she post,
But shuns the aspect of her once dear land,
And guides her chariot to the Dead-Sea coast,
Where the strong-holds of the Enchantress stand.
Alighting here, she from her duteous band
Of damsels and of pages hides her face,
And, wand’ring lonely on the sea-beat strand,
Fluctuates from scheme to scheme in doubtful case,
But soon all shame to rage and wish’d revenge gives place.

“Yes. hence I will,” she cried, “before his swarms
Th’ Egyptian king shall move in Sion’s aid;
Each art react, remuster all my charms,
To ev’ry uncouth thing my sex degrade,
That may assist my purpose; — undismay’d,
Handle the brand and bow, become the flame
Of the most potent, and direct his blade;
Let me but have the just revenge I claim,
Farewell, vain self-respect! farewell fond maiden shame!

“And for the faults I shall hereby commit,
Let my sage guardian blame himself, not me;
He first to thoughts and offices unfit
Set my frail sex and daring spirit free;
He made me first a gadding damsel, he
Spurr’d on my ardor, loosed me from the rein
Of timorous awe and shame-faced modesty;
His be the guilt of all then that may stain, —
All I have done through love, or may do through disdain.”

Thus fix’d, she gather’d in, on Arab steeds,
Damsels, and knights, and servitors in haste;
And in their sumptuous arms and woman’s weeds,
Display’d at once her fortune and fine taste.
Forward she set; and, journeying the wild waste,
Took nor repose by night, nor rest by day,
Till her keen eye along th’ horizon traced
Th’ Egyptian hosts, that in their mail’d array.
Wide o’er the sunbright sands of antique Gaza lay.