Book XIX

Now prudence, death, or fear, each Pagan knight
Has ravish’d from the walls; alone his mace
Argantes plies upon the battled height,
And obstinately still disputes the place;
Still with a cheerful and intrepid face
Fights on secure against the chivalry
That hems him in; and, dreading the disgrace,
Far more than death, of being forced to fly,
Sooner than seem to yield stands all resolved to die.

But beyond all importunate to quell
The Pagan, Tancred presses through the crowd;
The knight Argantes recognised right well
By his known arms, keen strokes, and bearing proud,
For him who fought with him before, and vow’d
Return on the sixth morning, nor the vow
Fulfill’d, made captive; whence he shouts aloud;
“Prince! is it thus you keep your faith? and now
Return you thus to war, redeem’d one scarce knows how I?

“Late you return, and not alone, yet I
Shun not the battle, nor the issues fear;
Although, to all appearance, you draw nigh
Not as a knight, but as an engineer:
But make a shield of your Italians here,
New forms of war, strange arms invent in aid,
They shall not serve you now, false chevalier,
Foul slaught’rer of fair ladies, to evade
The death already due to my defrauded blade!”

The good Lord Tancred answer’d with a smile
Of some disdain, in terms of like proud glee;
“All late as is my slow return, — erewhile,
’Twill seem, I fancy, much too soon for thee;
For thou shalt wish, on how devout a knee,
Some Alp or ocean spread its wide barrier
Of space betwixt us; then too shalt thou see,
By fatal proof, if cowardice or fear
Has made indeed my sword so long a stranger here.

“But step aside, O thou whose haughty arm
Big giants only and tough knights chastise;
Thee to a field apart from these alarms
The mighty slaught’rer of fair dames defies!”
This said, he to his followers turns, and cries;
“Back from the warrior! brave him not a blow!
Nay, vassals, never grudge your Chief his prize;
For mine he is more than a common foe,
Mine, both by challenge now, and promise long ago!”

“Come down, alone or follow’d, to the feud,
E’en as you will,” the Saracen replied;
“To the throng’d field or to the lonely wood,
Whate’er the odds, I stir not from your side!”
Thus ending parle, the challenged and defied
In open concord from the walls descend,
By mortal fight their quarrel to decide;
Hate made them one, and, e’en as friend would friend,
Each did the other’s life, from pure despite, defend.

Great is the thirst of praise, great the desire
Which Tancred has to slay a foe so grand;
Nor would his blood, he fancies, slake his ire,
If but a drop were shed by other’s hand:
He guards the Pagan with his shield; and, “Stand!
Strike not!” he cries to all he meets; and so,
Safe from the rage of each encountering band,
From falchion, dagger, spear, and bended bow,
Through thousand angry friends he brings his careless foe.

The busy roar of war, th’ invaded town,
And void pavilions far they leave behind,
Following a footpath, that o’er dale and down
In many a secret coil and tangle twined;
At length a small secluded vale they find,
Deep in the heart of woody hills embay’d,
As it for sylvan sport had been design’d,
Or Roman circus by proconsul made
For Gladiatorial show, — shut in by silent shade.

Here then they paused; and, full of anxious thought,
Argantes turn’d, th’ afflicted town to view;
Tancred, perceiving that the knight had brought
With him no shield, his own to distance threw;
And said, “What gloom does thus thy soul subdue?
Think’st thou the destined hour to terminate
Thy life at length is come? if this thou rue,
With pensive mind prophetic of thy fate,
Thy fear is useless all, thy foresight comes too late!”

“I think,” said he, (and sigh’d,) “on that lorn town,
The pomp of realms, about to pass away,
That queen of Syria, hoary in renown,
Whose fatal ruin I have fail’d to stay;
I think how insignificant a prey
To my disdain and vengeance is the due
Which on thy head Heaven destines me to-day!”
He ceased; and each to each with caution drew,
For well each armed knight his rival’s prowess knew.

Tancred is light of limb in hand and foot,
Swift as the wind that o’er the valley scours;
Monstrous in girth, like some terrific brute,
And taller by the head Argantes towers;
Tancred now wheels, now traverses, now cowers,
Like the coil’d snake in act at will to glide
Home to his victim, or with fiercer powers
Shoot out; still parrying stroke with stroke, he tried.
All points of skill to turn th’ assailing sword aside.

But spacious and erect, Argantes shows
Like skill, in diff’rent posture; as he can,
Straight to his mark with stretch’d-out arm he goes,
And seeks t’ encounter not the steel, but man;
That tries each moment some new point or plan,
This never fails an instant to present
His sabre at the face; and, swift of scan,
With threat’ning blade stands ready to prevent
The stol’n advance, quick pass, and treach’rous feign’d intent.

E’en thus two gallant ships, when not a gale
Stirs the smooth surface of the silent main,
One famed for size, and one for speed of sail,
With force unequal, equal fight maintain;
This bears down lightly, goes and comes again,
Wheels round from prow to poop, and still the eye
Mocks, while the other doth unmoved remain,
And ever as the nimbler one draws nigh,
Threats with its vast machines wild ruin from on high.

While to rush in the wily Latin strives,
Shunning the point that glitter’d at his breast,
The blade Argantes brandishes, and drives
Full at the face, which Tancred would arrest;
But the fell Pagan, as he forward press’d,
Strongly, and swift as flies a Parthian shaft,
Coil’d his strong wrist aslant, — the sword digress’d,
And plough’d his side; whereat he gayly laugh’d,
And cried; “By blest Mahound, the craftsman’s foil’d in craft!”

Prince Tancred bit his lips ’twixt scorn and shame,
Laid by all points of skill, and on his foe
Burns for revenge with such an eager aim, —
Vict’ry appears defeat, achieved so slow;
The boast he answers by his sword, and lo!
Where the barred vizor opens to the sight,
Dares a fierce thrust; the formidable blow
Argantes breaks, and, in the last despite
Of risk, at half-sword’s length stepp’d in th’ audacious knight.

With his left hand the Pagan’s strong right arm
He seized, and with his right his falchion plied;
With many a deadly gash of deepest harm
Piercing at will the undefended side.
“To his triumphant tutor,” loud he cried,
“This happy answer the foil’d sciolist
Yields in reply!” with passion, pain, and pride,
Argantes groan’d, and writhing, strove to twist
From the Italian’s grasp, in vain, the prison’d wrist.

His sword suspended by its chain at length
He left, and griped his rival round the waist;
The same did Tancred, and with all their strength
Each grappling crush’d the other, breast to breast:
Not with more force divine Alcides press’d
Upheaved Antaeus on the Libyan sands; —
In this their long and muscular caress
Of hate, they knit tenacious knots and bands,
Flinging in various forms their brawny arms and hands.

Pressing, compress’d, whirl’d round, they wrestled, till
Both overpower’d, together press’d the ground;
Argantes, whether by good chance or skill,
His better arm in perfect freedom found;
But the more dexterous hand to strike and wound
Tancred had undermost, and thus restrain’d,
Himself from the fierce arm that clasp’d him round,
Strong with the sense of risk, he disenchain’d,
And lightly leaping up, firm footing straight regain’d.

Far slowlier rose th’ unwieldy Saracine,
And ere he rose received a cleaving blow;
But as in blust’ring winds the mountain pine
Rears, the next moment that its head stoops low,
Its leafy forehead to the clouds, e’en so
When most oppressed, his valor rises higher;
And now again ferocious thrusts they throw,
Fierce strokes exchange; and, in their sightless ire,
The fight, with less of skill, grows momently more dire.

From Tancred’s wounds large drops of purple came,
But from the Pagan’s flow’d a perfect flood;
And now his fury, like a wasting flame
Unfed with fuel, faints from loss of blood;
Tancred, who saw his foe, in strength subdued,
Slowly and slowlier wave his weary blade,
To noblest pity calm’d his own fell mood,
The angry passions of his soul allay’d,
Stepp’d a few paces back, and thus mild speaking, said:

“Yield thee, brave man! and recognise in me,
Or in strong Fate, thy victor; live, Sir Knight!
No spoil, no triumph do I seek o’er thee,
Nor to my arms reserve a victor’s right!”
To this the Pagan, with a frown like Night,
More fierce than ever, kindling into flame
The slumb’ring furies of his soul, in spite
Replied; “Dost thou, dost thou th’ advantage claim,
And dost thou dare to tempt Argantes to his shame!

“Use thy scorn’d fortune; I will yet chastise,
Presumptuous fool! the phrensy of that phrase!”
As a spent taper musters ere it dies
Its flames, to perish in the splendid blaze,
So, cherishing with rage the blood that plays
Thus feebly in his veins, he would supply
Strength to the spirit which so fast decays;
And his last hour of life, which now drew nigh,
Crown with a glorious end, and like a hero die.

To his left hand its fellow he applied,
And with them both impell’d his heavy blade;
Down it descended, — meeting, struck aside
The prince’s sword, nor there its fury stay’d;
But, glancing from the shoulder, did invade
All his left side in its oblique career,
And many wounds at the same moment made;
If Tancred quail’d not at the stroke severe,
’Twas that his heart was form’d incapable of fear.

His blow the Paynim doubled, but he spent
On the void air his desperate energy,
As Tancred, conscious of his fierce intent,
The stroke prevented, slipping nimbly by.
By thine own weight o’erbalanced dost thou lie
On earth, Argantes, nor couldst shun the fall;
Thyself hast thou o’erthrown, — O fatal die,
Well cast! thrice happy, that none else can call
Himself thy conqu’ror now, or triumph in thy thrall.

His gaping wounds the fall made yet more wide,
And from their lips fresh purple torrents broke;
Raised by his hand upon one knee, he tried
On new defence the battle to provoke.
“Yield,” cried the courteous prince, “and live!” stroke
He struck or menaced, as he made th’ appeal;
The sullen Pagan not an accent spoke,
But at swift stealth shot out his treacherous steel,
And with a shout of joy exulting pierced his heel.

Then rose the rage of Tancred, and he said;
“Villain! dost thou my mercy thus deride!”
Then plunged, and plunged again his fatal blade,
Where a free pass the aventayle supplied.
Thus died Argantes: as he lived, he died,
Dying, he menaced death; no lamentation
Broke from his lips, but fix’d, unbending pride,
Ferocious hate, and scorn of all salvation,
Spoke in his latest words and last gesticulation.

His sword then sheathing, to his guardian Saint
Prince Tancred paid his solemn thanks sincere;
But from the strife enfeebled, worn and faint,
His bloody meed has cost the victor dear;
So that he seriously began to fear
His limbs would scarcely serve him to retrace
His homeward path; yet to the pine-tree near,
Which kept the entrance of that shady place,
He step by step moved on, with slow unsteady pace.

Not far can the weak knight his steps command,
The more he hastes, more tired, the less his speed;
Whence lie at length sits down, and on his hand,
His hand, that trembles like a shaking reed,
Propp’d on his elbow, leans his head; fast bleed
His wounds, the scene spins round, his giddy brain
Grows dull, and night seems in her sable weed
To wrap the day; at length he swoons with pain,
And undistinguish’d lies the slayer from the slain.

While the two lords pursue their lonely fight,
So fierce and bloody made by private hate,
The angry victors in the city smite
The guilty people wide from gate to gate:
Press’d, on all sides they rush, to shun their fate;
Oh who can fully picture in his page
The honors of the sack I what tongue relate
In fitting terms the agony — the rage —
The dreadful scenes that pass’d on such a spacious stage!

Each place is choked with carnage, fill’-d with death;
In intertangled heaps the slaughter’d lie;
The falling rests upon the fallen; beneath
Th’ unburied dead the buried living die;
Here with dishevell’d locks mad mothers fly,
Straining their infants to their breasts; and there
The savage spoiler, drunk with victory
And rifled treasure, by her golden hair
Drags off the shrieking maid to his voluptuous lair.

But through the streets which near the western hills,
Where he beholds the solemn Temple stand,
All moist and horrid with the blood he spills,
Rinaldo, rushing, drives the Paynim band;
The cruel falchion in his red right-hand
O’er their plumed heads in bickering circles waves;
Its strokes nor shield nor helmet can withstand;
He bleeds who vainly turns, he dies who braves;
It is the want of arms, not armor here which saves.

On steel alone his noble steel descends,
Th’ unarm’d he scorns to hurt; the arm’d, the strong
Who dare him not, and whom no mail defends,
By frowns and dreadful shouts he drives along.
O who can tell, nor do his valor wrong,
What prodigies he wrought; how wide he spread,
How menaced, spared, spurr’d on the trembling throng;
How with unequal risk, but equal dread,
Arm’d and unarm’d alike his face affrighted fled! —

Already with the crowd their bravest men,
A numerous party, had the Temple gain’d;
Which, burnt and oft rebuilt as it had been,
The name of its great founder still retain’d.
Of cedar, gold, and marbles richly stain’d,
The glorious tribute of a thousand shores,
King Solomon had framed it: it remain’d,
If with less splendid roofs and plainer floors,
Strong with embattled towers, firm walls, and brazen doors.

Reaching this fortress, in whose spacious heart
The multitude were fled, Rinaldo found
The portals closed, and every single part
Of the high battlements with lances crown’d,
And threat’ning mangonels: he roll’d around
His flashing eyes, and twice the strong retreat
Scann’d from its topmost turret to the ground,
Some narrow pass to spy, and twice in heat
Circled the spacious pile on swift, impatient feet.

As the destroying wolf at midnight prowls,
With eager hungry jaws and eyes of fire,
Round the penn’d fold, and disappointed growls
With fierce instinctive hate and native ire;
So goes Rinaldo, wild with the desire
To penetrate the fabric he surveys;
In vain — it stands impassive and entire;
In the grand Court at length his steps he stays,
And they th’ assault expect with fix’d, despairing gaza.

By chance, for some rare use reserved, there lay
A long and tapering beam the hero nigh;
The tightest argosy in Genoa’s bay
Has not a mast more stately, stout, and high;
On this the noble Infant cast his eye,
And with that hand to which all weights were light,
Poising the formidable lance on high,
To his friends’ wonder and his foes’ affright,
Hurl’d it against the gates, with unexampled might.

Nor brass nor marble stone could stand before
The sudden force of that tremendous blow;
The sounding hinges from the rock it tore,
Broke the strong locks, and laid the portals low;
Nor batt’ring engine, nor balista-bow,
Nor fulmining petard, death’s thunderball,
Could have done more: in, like a deluge, flow
Through the void pass vast numbers, at the call
Of the triumphant youth, th’ inspiring soul of all.

Their dreadful slaughter black and mournful made
That lofty pile, once consecrate to God;
O heavenly justice! sharp, if long delay’d,
On wicked nations falls thy chast’ning rod:
Under thy secret influence, at thy nod,
Rage woke in hearts by nature soft and mild;
Till the grim Frank alone on corses trod,
And the revilers, in their turn reviled,
Wash’d with their blood the fane their sins had late defiled.

But Solyman meanwhile to the strong tower
Which yet the name of David bore, was sped,
And with tha gather’d remnant of his power,
Block’d up each street that to the fortress led;
And thither too the feeble Tyrant fled,
Whom when the Soldan saw, he thus bespoke:
“Come, famous Prince! and shield thy noble head
On the tower’d summit of this lofty rock,
Where thou the worst assaults of battle still mayst mock.

“Here from the rage of hostile swords, thy crown,
Thy life, and kingdom mayst thou yet defend;”
“Woe’s me!” he answer’d, “wo is me! my Town
Barbaric hands from the foundations rend;
My race is run, — my rule is at an end, —
I lived, I reign’d; I live and reign no more;
For all that now is left me, O my friend,
Is to exclaim, ‘We were!! — all, all is o’er!
Our final hour’s at hand; pale Death is at the door!”

“Where then,-’ the angry Soldan made exclaim,
“Where is thine old heroic courage flown?
Ill-fortune take our kingdoms! are not fame,
Worth, pride, and kingly grandeur yet our own!
These with us stay, though those he overthrown:
But rest within thy weary limbs, and court
Refreshment; there are those will guard thy throne:’
Thus saying, he at once unclosed the port,
And led the hoary king within th’ embattled fort.

His iron mace he grasps with both his hands,
Girds fast the trusty sabre to his thigh,
And in th’ attempted pass intrepid stands,
The whole Frank people singly to defy;
Quick, mortal blows fall horrid from on high,
The rash they daunt, th’ heroic they abase;
Whom they kill not, they stun at least, — all fly
At length, and vacant leave th’ invested place,
Where’er he cares to move with his gigantic mace. —

But lo! well sheath’d in brigandine of brass,
Arrived, and follow’d by a hundred knights,
Earl Raymond rushes to the dang’rous pass,
And the tremendous weapon sternly slights;
He at the Soldan first, but vainly smites,
Vainly his sword descends; but not in vain
The furious Saracen his stroke requites;
Struck on the temples, with bewilder’d brain
And quiv’ring arms he lies, extended on the plain. —

And now the vanquish’d reassume the fire
Which fear had banish’d from their hearts of late,
And the Frank victors, beaten back, retire,
Or slaughter’d fall within the portal-gate:
But the Arch-Genius of the fierce debate,
Seeing the earl, betwixt alive and dead,
Lie with the slaughter’d at his feet, elate,
Call’d to his Saracens behind, and said;
’Drag in this captive knight; what now have ye to dread?”

Forward they rush’d to execute the deed,
But found the task both dang’rous and severe;
For to the rescue, with like eager speed,
All Raymond’s people flock, with sword and spear.
There pious duty fights, brute fury here,
In no mean cause, and with no mean intent;
The life — the freedom of so brave a peer
Hang on their blades; to seize him these are bent, —
Those bleed, th’ affront at once t’ avenge and to prevent.

Yet had the stubborn Turk at length prevail’d,
Such eager thirst for vengeance he display’d,
For ’gainst his thund’ring weapon naught avail’d
The sevenfold shield, fine helm, or temper’d blade, —
But from each side a new and powerful aid
Was suddenly perceived approaching near,
The well-contested fortress to invade;
And both at once, from adverse points, appear —
The sovereign Captain there, the young Rinaldo here.

Then as a shepherd, when the whirlwind’s blast
Comes sweeping on, with lightning, hail, and rain,
Seeing the skies with thousand clouds o’ercast,
His fleecy charge drives from the open plain;
And looks around, solicitous to gain
The shelter’d valley or o’erarching rock,
Where Heaven’s hot wrath they may unhurt sustain;
With crook and cry he forward speeds the flock,
And last avoids himself the storm’s immediate shock: —

Just so the Pagan Prince, when he descried
Th’ inevitable tempest, heard the blast
That startled heaven, and saw, on either side,
The field with groves of lances overcast,
Sent back his men, well guarded by his vast
Encircling shield and adamantine mace,
Into the tower, himself retiring last;
Last he retires, but with that haughty pace,
Which shows he neither yields in fear nor in disgrace.

’Twas task enough for him the tower to gain;
Scarce were the portals barr’d, th’ escape made good,
Than both the doors and bars were rent in twain,
And on the threshold young Rinaldo stood;
Nor linger’d there; desire to see subdued
The knight in deeds of arms unmatch’d, disdain,
And his own oath impell’d him to the feud;
Rememb’ring well his promise to the Dane,
Of keen revenge on him who had Prince Sweno slain.

And then, e’en then had his unconquer’d hand
Essay’d the stubborn citadel, nor there
Had the Turk found perchance his dauntless stand
Of much avail — the victor’s blade was bare, —
But falling twilight now obscured the air,
And loud and long the warning trumpet blew,
Sounding retreat; within the spacious square
Godfrey abode, and round his forces drew,
Prompt with the morning sun the struggle to renew.

“Lo!” he exclaim’d, with transport on his brow,
“The God of Sabaoth has our armies bless’d;
The tug of war is o’er; but little now
Remains, my friends, your glory to arrest,
Naught to dismay; this tower which we invest,
The last sad refuge of the Paynim, ere
To-morrow ends, we from their hands shall wrest;
Meanwhile let pity urge you with all care
To tend your comrades’ wounds, and sooth the pains they bear.

“Go, care for those who at a price so dear
Have of these kingdoms purchased thus the sway!
This more befits the Christian chevalier,
Than base desire of vengeance, or of prey.
Too much, ah, too much cruelty this day
Hath witness’d! too much lust of treasure still —
I speak it to your shame — do some display!
But at your peril plunder more, or kill;
Heralds! your trumpets sound, and publish forth my will.

This said, he went where, from his swoon awoke,
Groan’d in his pain the faint Provençal Chief:
Nor with less boldness to his soldiers spoke
The dauntless Turk, and thus disguised his grief;
“Heaven, O my friends, will yet a bright relief
Bring to our gloom! be firm; in fortune’s spite,
Your flower of hope yet shows a verdant leaf;
For under all this glare of false affright,
Our harm has been but small, our loss exceeding light.

“The City is not seized: the Christian Lords
Have gain’d the ramparts, beat the vulgar down,
But in the person of your king, your swords,
And shields, you yet comprise the glorious Town.
Safe stands your Monarch, safe you see his crown,
Safe his best knights, while round this noble host
Strong walls arise; vain trophy of renown,
Let the gay Franks th’ abandon’d suburbs boast,
To them th’ ambitious game may yet at last be lost.

“May be? it must! for, flatter’d into pride
By their so prosp’rous fortune, all their mind
Will but to ceaseless riot, homicide,
And most intemp’rate dalliance be inclined.
In this wild tumult, drunk with blood, and blind
To all but beauty, they must needs appear
But as a rolling wave before the wind,
If the Egyptian host, which now is near,
Come with the clouds of night, and take them in the reat.

“We with our engines may meanwhile annoy
Each street that leads to yon accursed tomb;
The loftiest structures o’er our foes destroy,
And thus our lordship in the town resume.”
With these bold words he dissipates their gloom;
Exiles their fear, exiles their wild amaze,
And plants both hope and courage in their room:
While these events were passing, midst a blaze
Of arms and gorgeous tents, unawed Vafrino strays.

The lark was warbling sweet her evening song,
When through the shadows of declining day
Vafrino left th’ encampment; all night long
He travell’d on his dark and lonely way;
High Ascalon he pass’d, ere morning gray
O’er the dim landscape shed its grateful light,
And when the sun with culminating ray
Had reach’d its hot meridian, to the right
The vast, the boundless camp burst proudly on his sight.

Millions of tents, o’erwaved with flags unfurl’d,
Green, purple, gold, and crimson, he espies;
And hears such strange wild tongues, and such a world
Of savage sounds from barbarous metals rise,
Trumpet, and horn, and gong, with camels’ cries,
Roarings of elephants, and neighings clear
Of shrill-voiced coursers, climbing to the skies,
That to himself he says, with soul sincere,
All Asia, Libya, all are sure transported here!”

He first th’ encampment and its strength surveys,
The circling rampart, its extent, and height,
Then seeks no more obscure and winding ways,
But boldly issues to the public sight;
And with an air most unconcern’d and light
Enters the regal gates direct, and now
Asks, and now answers questions, with a sleight
But to be equall’d by the frank bold brow
Which makes his answers good, and greets it cares not how.

Through the long crowded streets, the tents and squares,
Now here, now there, solicitous he turns;
The horses, armors, chiefs, the name each bears,
Their arts and customs he observes and learns;
Nor satisfied with this, his spirit burns,
And partly manages to know the bent
Of their most secret projects and concerns,
So well he speeds beneath his fair ostent,
As e’en to win access to the imperial tent.

Here, looking round, he mark’d a rent, through which
The voice within found egress, and whereby
The Viceroy’s private cabinet, a rich
Recess, was obvious to the curious eye;
So that whoever chose thereto t’ apply
His ear without, might gather whatsoe’er
Transpired within; at this the matchless spy
Planted himself, as with assiduous care
The tent’s defective seam adroitly to repair.

The Chief bareheaded stood, in arms, and wore
A vest of Tyrian purple; in the rear
Two pages his bright shield and helmet bore; —
Thoughtful he stood, and, leaning on his spear,
Gave heed to one who with a look severe,
Tall in his stature, sinewy in his frame,
High points discuss’d: Vafrino was all ear;
And, surely fancying that he heard the name
Of Bouillon’s lord, yet more inquisitive became.

He heard the Chieftain question; “Art thou then
So sure of Godfrey’s death?” “So sure,” said he,
“I take my oath by Allah, ne’er again
But as a matador thy face to see;
I will outstrip all those who are with me
Sworn to the deed; nor ask I other bliss,
Than to hang up in trophy, by decree
Of our great prince, in his metropolis,
The man’s rich arms, subscribed with some such verse as this: —

“‘These arms in war from the Frank Chief, the curse
And scourge of Asia, brave Ormondo tore,
When him he slew; the fame whereof, this verse
And trophied marble laud for evermore!’
“Of this,” the armed Leader said, “no more;
Think not the king will leave unglorified
A deed which both the Egypts must adore;
Thy wish, besure, he will fulfil with pride,
And grace thy conqu’ring brows with priceless gems beside.

“Now then the counterfeited arms prepare,
For the great day of fight approaches fast:”
“They are all ready,” he replied, and there
Both ended parle, and from the chamber pass’d —
Suspense and doubt Vafrino’s mind o’ercast;
Long as he weigh’d the seeming aim and end,
Of their discourse, the project to the last
Remain’d obscure, — he could not comprehend,
What by this feint of arms the traitors could intend.

Thence he departed, nor the livelong night
His eyes to slumber or repose resign’d;
But when that mighty camp at morning light
Unfurled its thousand banners to the wind,
He in their march the hostile squadrons join’d,
Like the train’d hound sequacious of its scent;
With them he halted when the day declined,
And, as before, stalk’d slow from tent to tent,
Eager to gather more of this disguised intent.

On a rich throne mid knights and damsels gay,
Searching around, Armida he descries;
Forlorn she sits, and inly seems to weigh
Some deep sad thought, for as she sits she sighs.
On her white hand in melancholy guise
She leans her rosy cheek, and so would fain
Hide the love-darting radiance of her eyes;
Weeps she or no he knows not, but ’tis plain
The stars in heaven are dim, and lower, presaging rain.

In front of her Adrastus sits, nor heeds
Aught but her charms, — he moves not, scarce respires,
So steadfastly he hangs on her, and feeds
His pining hopes and unappeased desires.
But Tisaphernes now the dame admires,
Now eyes the savage, whom in soul he spurns
From her dear sight; the while with changeful fires
His visage dark and radiant shows by turns,
As Love’s mild watchlight shines, or Wrath’s rut beacon burns.

Then Altamore he views, where more apart
He stands, enclosed amidst her virgins bright;
He lets not loose his glances, but with art
Rules his fond fancy and his wishful sight:
His left eye marks her hand, her face, his right
Glides down voluptuous on a sweeter quest,
And secretly slips in, to its delight,
Where the too careless and indulgent vest
Reveals, at ev’ry swell, the beauty of her breast.

At length Armida raised her eyes, and straight
Her brow clear’d up; and through the clouds of grief
With which her pensive features gloom’d of late,
Flash’d a sweet smile in beautiful relief.
“Prince,” she said, turning” to the Indian Chief,
“Thy vaunts have power my sorrows to assuage;
For they confirm me in the fond belief
That I shall have quick vengeance: sweet is rage,
When willing Hope takes up Revenge’s daring gage.’

“For Allah’s sake, serene,” the Indian said,
“Thy mournful aspect, and thy griefs control;
For soon indeed Rinaldo’s hated head
I in glad vengeance at thy feet will roll;
Or, if it more thy sorrow should console,
In chains conduct him to whatever jail
May please thee most; I swear it on my soul.”
His rival, hearing thus the ruffian rail,
Deign’d not a word himself, but gnaw’d his bitter nail.

She, turning then on Tisapherne a smile,
Said; “What say’st thou, and how dost thou decide?
“I, who am backward in this vaunting style,”
The noble Prince in irony replied,
“Will follow this grim champion with a stride
Less stately, and at distance:” his sharp sneer
Stung the fierce savage to the quick, who cried;
“And fit it is that he whose arm must fear
To match the king of Inde’s, should linger far arear!”

The Persian, nettled at the word, toss’d high
The haughty plumes upon his head, and said;
“O, were I master of my will, had I
But free permission to unsheath my blade,
Which was the ling’rer should be soon display’d!
Nor thee, nor thy big vaunts, ferocious brute!
But Heaven and unconsenting Love I dread:”
He ceased; Adrastus rush’d to the dispute;
But then Armida rose, and twixt them placed her foot.

“Why will you thus retract the oaths,” said she,
“Which you so oft have given? respect my woes;
Both are my champions; let that title be
The bond your fatal discords to compose:
He that is wroth, is wroth with me; who throws
Scorn on his comrade, spares not to provoke
My just displeasure; to your cost be foes!”
Thus she exclaim’d; and thus, beneath a yoke
Stronger than steel, their hot, rebellious spirits broke.

Vafrine was there; and, treasuring in his mind
All he heard mention’d, from the tent retired;
Some deep dark plot he clearly saw design’d,
Some plot, that was not thus to have transpired;
But this was all; he busily inquired
The naked fact, but fruitlessly; defeat
And difficulty but the more inspired
The anxious wish his mission to complete;
Fix’d or to learn the truth, or there his death to meet.

A thousand tricks and”subtleties of brain,
A thousand unimagined means he tried,
To worm the secret out, but still in vain, —
The plan was still unknown, the arms unspied.
Fortune at length, when wit alone could guide
His steps no farther, lent her gracious aid,
And the dark knot of all his doubts untied;
So that all points of the dire project laid
Against good Bouillon’s life, before him were display’d.

Thither he turn’d again, where still among
Her armed lovers sat the Syrian queen,
Judging the truth would soonest find a tongue,
Where such a crowd of visitors convene.
Here now he greets a damsel with the mien
Of one in all polite enchantments versed,
As though the lady he before had seen,
And but renew’d some friendship that had erst
Twixt them subsisted long; and frankly he conversed.

“Fain would I too,” he sportively began,
“Become the champion of some charming maid,
And, in fulfilment of the purposed plan,
The blood of Bouillon or Rinaldo shed;
Ask then some boon, my Beauty, that may wed
My soul to your sweet service; what you please,
Or stout earl’s heart or barb’rous baron’s head:”
Thus he commenced, intending by degrees
To slip from gay to grave, and learn the chief’s decree.

But as he spake, he smiled; and in a way
So natural and unfeign’d, that to his side
Another damsel, who had mark’d the play
Of his expressive face, drew near, and cried;
“Nay! for thy falchion choose no other bride
Than my commands, for on its aid my heart
Is set; nor think such love misplaced, — beside
By old consent my knight indeed thou art,
And e’en as such, we two must have some talk apart.”

Withdrawn, she spoke: “I know thee well, Vafrine!
Me too thou needs must know;” the subtle Spy
Felt his heart fail him, but with lively mien
Her glance return’d, and smiling made reply;
“Nay, gracious lady! ne’er before have I,
That I remember, seen your face, although
Its beauty asks the gaze of every eye
Fitly to praise it; this alone I know,
My name is much unlike the one which you bestow.

“My mother bore me on Biserta’s plains,
Her name Lesbina, mine is Almanzore:”
Quick she replied; “All that to thee pertains
I long have known, dissemble it no more;
Hold not thyself so secret, I implore;
I am thy friend, and for thy good would dare
No little risk, — Erminia I, of yore
A Queen’s bless’d daughter and a King’s rich heir,
Then good Prince Tancred’s thrall, and subject to thy.

“Two blessed months thy captive I remain’d,
A reverenced nun in a delightful cell,
And in all courteous modes was entertain’d, —
The same, the same I am; behold me well!”
The squire fail’d not, when on her beauty fell
His closer gaze, to recognise the fair:
“All fears,” she added, “from thy mind expel;
Fear not for me, thy life shall be my care;
By the bright sun in heaven, by heaven itself I swear!

“Nay, when thou partest, take me back, my friend,
To my dear prison — (pardon me the phrase;)
For here in bitter liberty I spend
Whole restless nights and melancholy days;
And if perchance thou’rt ling’ring here to gaze
Upon our camp, and with ingenious brain
Pry through our plans, great cause hast thou to praise
Thy happy stars; for I will things explain,
Which else thy utmost skill had fail’d to ascertain.

Thus she: but, thoughtful of Armida’s snares,
He silent stood, considering in his mind,
‘Woman’s a false and chatt’ring thing, — she swears,
And will and will not, just as sits the wind;
Simple’s the man, and credulous, and blind,
Who trusts a word she says;’ at length he cried,
After long thought, “If thou’rt indeed inclined
To go, so be it; I will be thy guide;
Leave we the rest to wait a more convenient tide.”

And now the gongs and trumpets sound to. horse.
And through the host an apt confusion reigns;
Vafrino leaves her tent, while she perforce
Rejoins her friends, awhile with them remains,
And in gay talk their idlesse entertains
With jocund praises of her new-made knight;
Then steals off slyly; mounts her palfrey; gains
The place prescribed, and with Vafrino light
O’er the wide champaign takes her unregarded flight.

When they had reach’d the desert, and in air
Beheld the distant towers of Gaza fade,
Vafrino begg’d the virgin to declare
What secret plot was against Godfrey laid:
She then the whole conspiracy display’d,
The treach’rous web unwinding, fold by fold;
“Eight warriors are there of the court,” she said,
“In this insidious bond of guilt enroll’d,
Of whom the most renown’d is Ormond, base as bold.

“These, whether moved by hatred or disdain,
Have thus conspired, and ’tis their shrewd design,
When in pitch’d battle, or to lose or gain
These Asian realms, the two great armies join,
To bear upon their coats the Red-cross sign,
And arm’d like Franks commingle in the fight;
And as ’tis known the guards of Godfrey shine
In or and argent, they themselves will dight
In the like foreign vests, emblazoning gold and white

“But all will wear some token on the crest,
Whereby their friends may know them for allies;
And when both armies lay their spears in rest,
And the war thickens and the tumults rise,
They will your Chief track out, and in the guise
Of guards with amicable zeal crowd round,
To pierce his bosom; if they strike, he dies;
For know, their swords with poison have been ground,
That death may be dealt out in every separate wound.

“And as their Chieftain learn’d from public fame
That none with surer skill could signify
Your arms and dress, he fix’d on me to frame
Their feign’d array, and forced me to comply.
This is the cause I leave the camp; I fly
Th’ imperious biddings which that Asp of Nile
Might further give; his trains of treachery
My heart abhors, nor ever shall such guile
Or mask’d deceit again my virgin heart defile.

“This is the cause, nor this alone,” — and here
She ceased, and, coloring to a rosy red,
Cast down her eyes, nor could Vafrino hear
Well the last words, which much she wish’d unsaid.
Solicitous to know what thoughts could shed
Such deep confusion o’er her cheek, he press’d
The virgin home, — “Of little faith!” he said,
“Why the true causes hide from one whose breast
Is, as thou know’st, of trust? blush not, but speak the rest.”

Her bosom heaved with a tumultuous swell,
And from her lips the trembling accents came
Abrupt and prefaced by a sigh; “Farewell
Ill-timed reserve and unavailing shame!
It is in vain — I am no more the same —
In vain conceal’d and close you strive to hide
Love’s glowing fires beneath your specious flame!
Due were such scruples ere I stepp’d aside;
But now a wand’ring maid, farewell th’ imperfect pride.

“My loss,” she added, “on that night of grief,
When my poor country yielded to her foes,
Surpass’d th’ appearance; not that then my chief
Misfortune happen’d, but from thence it rose.
My sceptre lost, my realms subdued, were woes
Easy to bear, resign’d with little cost;
But with my high estate, my heart’s repose
Was also gone; ah me! what folly cross’d
My brain? then sense was wreck’d, and peace for ever lost!

“Thou know’st, Vafrine, with what a trembling awe,
Seeing such slaughter and foul spoil, I sped
To thy kind lord and mine, when first I saw
Arm’d in my halls the warrior fix his tread;
Thou know’st with what an agony of dread
His knees I grasp’d, and of his conqu’ring glaive
Pray’d strong protection: ‘Mercy, Prince,’ I said,
‘I pray not for my life, but save, oh save
My virgin flower unstain’d! ’tis all I come to crave.’

“He waited not to hear my finish’d plea,
But took my hand in his, and said, ‘Arise!
Fear not, fair maiden! I myself will be
Thy sure defence: cloud not those charming eyes!’
Ah, then I felt, with a divine surprise,
I know not what strange sweetness seize my frame!
Which by degrees, in gratitude’s disguise,
Securely creeping through my soul, became,
Ere well I wist, a wound, a sickness, and a flame.

“He visited me oft, he saw me grieve,
And with mild accents would my woes allay;
‘Thy perfect liberty,’ he said, receive;
Take back thy treasures, and be cheer’d, I pray.’
Ah, this was cruelty, not kindness! gay
I could not be, when while he drew the dart,
He rudely snatch’d me from myself away;
These he restored to me, the cheaper part,
But in restoring play’d the tyrant o’er my heart.

“Love’s hard to hide; with thee I oft apart
Ask’d of my lord in garden, hall, and grove;
Thou the strong workings of my mind and heart
Perceiving, saidst, ‘Erminia, thou’rt in love!’
This I denied — can maids do less? and strove
To dissipate th’ idea; but my sighs
Too well sufficed the assertion to disprove;
And while my tongue was mute, perchance my eyes
Shone with th’ impassion’d warmth I studied to disguise.

“Unhappy silence! had I then but sought
The fitting medicine for my wounds, I ne’er
Had loosed my wishes on a fancy fraught
With no relief, nor fled I know not where.
I left him, hiding in my breast with care
The flame I nursed; — what tongue my pangs can paint!
For death alone I look’d; till with despair
Love in my succor strove, and in th’ attaint,
Loosed me from ev’ry tie of feminine restraint.

“So that to seek my lord I went, that he
Might cure the ling’ring sickness he had made;
But on my moonbright way, I chanced to be,
By villains, ambush’d in the greenwood shade,
Chased and assaulted; scarce could I evade
Their savage grasp, so hotly they pursued;
To a lone cell at length my palfrey stray ’d,
And there I dwelt in genial solitude,
A simple shepherd-girl, a tenant of the wood.

“But when that fond desire which sore dismay
Had for awhile suppress’d, revived again,
Daring the same adventure, on my way
The same misfortune met with me as then;
Nor could I now escape; for in the glen
The lurking freebooters were close at hand;
Thus was I chased and quickly seized, — the men
Were, I soon gather’d, an Egyptian band,
Who straight for Gaza made, swift journeying o’er the.

“They took me to their Chief, whose ear my prayer
And mournful story so completely gain’d,
That he mine honor did respect, and there
With kind Armida have I since remain’d.
Thus oft have I been harshly entertain’d;
Thus oft have I escaped; ah see, Vafrine,
What scenes I have pass’d through, what ills sustain’d!
Yet free, yet captured oft as I have been,
Still my first chains I wear, preserved through every scene.

“Ah, let not him who round my soul entwined
The chains from which no power can set me free,
Let him not say, ‘Go, vagrant maid, and find
Some other home, thou shalt not stay with me,’ —
But kind and dear may my reception be!
‘Take back,’ Vafrino! to thy master say,
‘This trembling dove, and treat her tenderly!’
Thus spake the Princess; and thus, night and day,
They side by side rode on, and talk’d the time away.

The beaten road Vafrino left erewhile,
Seeking a shorter or securer way;
They reach’d at length, what time with farewell smile
The sun hung hov’ring o’er the landscape gray,
Near to the town, a vale of pine and bay;
Sprinkled with crimson was the green; and nigh,
Grovelling in blood, a lifeless warrior lay
Across the path; though dead, his Gorgon eye
Yet seem’d to menace death, upstaring on the sky.

The fashion of his arms and foreign mien
Spoke him a Pagan; on Vafrino sped,
And somewhat farther on the encircled green,
As to the right he chanced to turn his head,
Perceived a second: “This,” he inly said,
“Must surely be a Christian, by the grain
Of his dark vest;” he sees the Cross of Red,
Leaps from his steed, the face discovers plain,
And, “O my God!” he cried, “here lies Prince Tancred slain.”

The pitying Princess had paused to gaze
On the grim form of the Circassian peer,
When that sad voice of anguish and amaze
Came like an arrow on her heart and ear;
At Tancred’s name, she spurr’d like one whom fear
Or wine had render’d mad, her palfrey fleet;
And when she saw indeed the form so dear,
Pale, and wrapp’d round as with the winding-sheet
Of death, she stepp’d not, no, she darted from her seat!

And, with a bursting groan, a stormy shower
Of tears, low bending o?er th’ unconscious knight,
“Fortune,” she cried, “in what ill-omened hour
Bring’st thou me here? O dire, O fatal sight!
Long wish’d, long sought for, is it in this plight
I find and view thee, oh my love! laced o’er
With wounds, and all unable to requite
With one kind look the bitter plaints I pour?
No sooner found again, than lost for evermore!

“Ah! never did I dream that to these eyes
Thou couldst be aught, love, but a pleasing care!
Would they were dark, no more this blank disguise
Of thy dear face to mark, which ill they dare.
Where is its once expressive smile? ah where
The mildness beaming from the eye? the cheek’s
Divine carnations, and the brow that bare
Itself so bravely? — not a feature speaks, —
Gone! beyond reach, alas, of groans, or tears, or shrieks!

“But, though thus pale and dim, thou charm’st me stilly;
Fair soul! if yet thou light’st this seeming clay,
Yet hear’st my plaints, forgive my daring will
And too rash ardor the fond theft which they
Tempt me to take, — forgive me if I lay
To thine my virgin lips, and one cold kiss
Steal from the dull caresses of decay!
Warmer I look’d for, but ’twill be some bliss
To seize in death’s despite, and die rememb’ring this.

“Receive my soul, which flutters to be free,
And thither guide it where thine own is fled!”
Groaning she spoke, and weeping seem’d to be
Apace dissolving with the tears she shed.
Bathed by this quick’ning balm, as from the dead,
The knight revived, and open’d for a space
His languid lips, — dark slumber still o’erspread
His heavy eyes, but as she kiss’d his face,
One blending sigh from him repaid her bless’d embrace.

A gleam of hope, at his reviving breath,
Cheer’d the sad maid: “Look up, dear love,” she cried,
“On the last melancholy rites of death
Which I with pious tears and sighs provide!
Look on me, Tancred, a funereal bride,
Fain in companionship with thee to take
The long dark path and perish at thy side!
Fly not, fly not so soon, for pity’s sake,
’Tis the last boon I ask, the last request I make.”

Tancred his eyes unclosed, and closed again,
Heavy and dim; and she renew’d her plaint;
“This,” said Vafrine, “sooths not the hero’s pain,
First cure the wounded, then bewail th’ attaint.”
He strips him of his arms; Erminia, faint
And trembling, aids him as she can, applies
Her skilful hand, like a ministrant saint,
To search his wounds, and with experienced eyes,
Symptoms of hopeful show, rejoicingly descries.

By loss of blood and faintness she perceives
The trance is caused, and by the chill night wind,
But in this lonely wilderness of leaves
Naught save her veil occurs, his wounds to bind:
But Love romantic bandages can find,
And dictate arts of pity strange and sweet, —
For with her radiant tresses, disentwined,
She stanch’d the flowing blood, (divine conceit!)
And swathed the grisly wounds that so acutely beat.-.

Severing the tresses with his sword; for ill
Her thin short veil th’ occasion could suffice;
Nor sage nor crocus, dittany nor dill
Found she at hand; but charms of equal price
She knew, she used, and from his weary eyes
That deadly sleep already shakes away;
Lightly he lifts them, and with glad surprise
Beholds his servant, and, in strange array,
The maid who o’er him hangs with such benign dismay.

“How com’st thou here, Vafrino?” soft he said,
“And thou, my kind physician! who art thou?”
She wept, she blush’d, rejoicing, rosy-red,
She sigh’d, she smiled, she felt she wist not how.
“Thou shalt know all, prince,” she replied, “but now
(Thus thy physician bids) be still and rest;
Health shall return to thy bewilder’d brow,
Prepare the guerdon that shall make me bless’d;”
And then his head she placed upon her beauteous breast.

Vafrino mused how he might best, ere night,
Remove the warrior from the bosky glen,
When lo! a band of soldiers came in sight,
Whom soon he noted for Lord Tancred’s men;
They on the tower were fighting round him, when
He met the fierce Circassian, blade to blade,
And in appeal of battle dared him; then
Bade not to follow, they the prince obey’d,
But anxious sought him now, so long the hero stay’d.

Numbers beside pursued the search, but these
Alone had the good chance their wish to gain;
Their arms they join, whereon with perfect ease
To all, the wounded hero they sustain:
“Shall then Argantes,” said the knight, “remain,
Brave as he was, the prey of wild birds? no!
Leave not the hero; bear him from the plain;
His gallant relics shall not feed the crow,
Nor want such praise or tomb as Tancred can bestow.

“I war not with the pale dumb corse, — he died
Bold as a lion on the hunter’s spear;
Funereal rites ’tis fit that we provide,
The last poor honors that can serve him here.”
He said; his troops construct a simple bier,
And thus in solemn march behind him bear
His slaughter’d foe; Vafrino in the rear,
His station takes beside th’ enamor’d fair,
And tends her o’er the downs with all a page’s care.

“Not home,” said Tancred, “to my wonted tent,
But bear, O bear me to the sacred Town!
That if cut short by human accident,
I there may lay my feverish being down:
Haply a spot of such revered renown
Where died the Lamb of God, may make my way
To heaven more easy; and ’twill be the crown
Of all my toils, with life’s declining ray,
Low at his worshipp’d shrine my pilgrim vows to pay!’

He said, and thither was he borne, and laid
On a soft bed, and in a calm repose
Was soon entranced; Vafrino for the maid
A near apartment close and secret chose;
And, leaving her to cheer her amorous woes
With kindling hope’s serene perspective, went
Where Godfrey sojourn’d, unforbid by those
Who there kept guard, though then in crowded tent
On the next stroke of war his dubious thoughts were bent.

Beside the bed, whence Raymond scarce uprears
His yet enfeebled frame, the Duke was found;
By a brave garland of his noble peers,
And of. his wisest counsellors compass’d round:
The Squire his tale begins, and a profound
Regard is mark’d on each beholder’s mien;
None interrupts him: “Sire,” he says, “renown’d
Through the wide world! at thy desire I’ve been
Amidst th’ Egyptian tents, and all their forces seen.

“But fancy not that of the mighty host
The countless swarms can be by me ared;
I saw the hills, and plains, and valleys lost,
E’en as I look’d, beneath their dark’ning tread;
I saw, where’er they came, where’er they spread,
Rich earth despoil’d of all her grass and grain,
And the flood shrink in its exhausted bed;
Not Jordan’s stream, nor Syria’s wide champaign
Can e’er, methinks, suffice, such myriads to sustain.

“But of their horse and of their foot by far
The greater part are merely useless shows;
Troops that no signals use nor arts of war,
But at a distance fight with slings and bows;
Yet are there some choice warriors who compose
The Persian host, well mail’d, with sword in hand.
And helmets on their heads; but chiefly those
Illustrious myrmidons my praise demand,
Who guard th’ imperial flag, the king’s Immortal Band.

“Immortal call’d, for when a soldier’s lost,
Its number not diminishes; the knight
Next in renown fills up the vacant post,
As though succeeding to his comrade’s right;
The Captain, Emireno named, for might
In deeds of arms and wisdom in divan,
Has but few peers; his orders are, despite
Thy utmost phlegm, by all the arts he can,
Into a general fight to force thee or trepan.

“Nor can the army its approach retard
Beyond the second day, for ’tis on fire
To act, — look well, Rinaldo, then to guard
Thy head, ’gainst which so many knights conspire:
The most renown’d have whet their swords in ire,
And pledged their honor on the dreadful deed;
While, yet the more to raise incensed desire,
Herself Armida promises in meed
Of him who or by guile or prowess shall succeed.

“Chief of the warriors who have sworn thy death
Is Altamore, the king of Samarcand;
Adrastus too, whose realms are by the breath
Of young Aurora at her rising fann’d;
As big and bold a giant as e’er spann’d
A sword in battle; so unlike his kind,
His reins a monstrous elephant command;
And Tisapherne, to whom, of milder mind,
The sov’reign palm of worth and prowess is assign’d.

This heard, Rinaldo’s soul was all ablaze,
His eyes with gen’rous indignation fill,
He burns to rush amidst his foes, he lays
Hand on his sword, nor stands a moment still.
“This,” said Vafrine, “is one impending ill,
But their chief plot, the crowning stroke of all,
Remains to be disclosed; their utmost skill
In arms, their guile, their hatred, and their gall,
Will be employ’d to work thine own determined fall.”

He then proceeded, part by part, t’ unveil
The latent risk, the meditated fraud,
The poison’d arms, devices, shirts of mail,
The vaunt, the promise, and design’d reward.
Much was inquired, much answer’d; all applaud
The spy’s quick genius and accomplish’d vow:
Silence ensued; until the chief, unawed
By the near danger, raised his tranquil brow,
And to count Raymond said, “What counsel offerest thou?”

“Not as was fix’d,” he said, “at rise of sun
To press our foes, but, more to their chagrin,
The tower so strictly to besiege, that none
May at his pleasure or pass out or in;
Meanwhile refresh our forces, which begin
To need the respite; strengthen’d thus with rest,
The last great battle we may hope to win;
But judge thyself at leisure if ’twere best,
Boldly, or here at bay the battle to contest.”

“But, above all things, of thyself besure
Take every care, as ’tis through thee, they own,
Our armies conquer; who can else secure
The field, and Europe o’er the East enthrone?
And that the traitors may be clearly known,
Change the devices of thy guardian band;
So shall the villains for their crime atone,
Caught in the very scheme themselves have plann’d,
And thou be still preserved, our armies to command.”

“As is thy wont,” the pious Chief replied,
“Thy kind regard and wisdom dost thou show;
But what thou leav’st unfix’d, I now decide —
We will march forth against the haughty foe.
Shall armies, recent from the overthrow
Of the proud East, from tower or rampart fight,
When too by such foul guile insulted? No!
Our well-proved swords the traitors shall requite
Both in the open field and all-beholding light!

“Neither the rumor of our conquer’d spoils
Shall they sustain; nor, when in frowns reveal’d,
The victor’s aspect, or his arms; our toils
Are crown’d; and in their fall our empire’s seal’d:
The tower, their last lorn confidence, shall yield,
Or, unrelieved of any, be possess’d,
When the first engine to its walls is wheel’d!”
Here ceased the high-soul’d Chief, for down the west
The glitt’ring stars declined, and call’d them to their rest.