Book XX

The sun was risen, the dial’s circling shade
Had the tenth hour of morn already pass’d,
When, as the Pagans on their tower
’d
The plains, a gloom th’ horizon overcast,
Dark as the cloud which at gray evening fast
Involves the silent world: and now they knew
It was indeed the Egyptian camp, at last
Come to their aid; such clouds of dust upflew,
And shut the heavens, and hills, and valleys from their view.

Then from the citadel to heaven they raise
A gen’ral shout, a hoarse discordant cry,
Like that of cranes, when now from wintry Thrace
The must’ring swarms their busy pinions ply,
And through the clouds to a serener sky
In clangor scud before the freezing gale;
The long-wish’d succor lifts their ardor high,
So that already from their marble pale
Prompt is each hand to shoot, each glorying tongue to rail.

The Franks, conjecturing whence this sudden glow
Of joy and fury had its impulse, hied
To a commanding station, whence the foe
In all his pomp of numbers was descried;
A gen’rous ardor fires their hearts; they chide
The ling’ring hours, the war-cry they resound;
While the flush’d youth below, on ev’ry side,
With martial murmurs hem the Captain round;
And, “Bid, O bid,” they cry, “the tuneful trumpet sound.”

But till the morrow he denies their prayer,
And wisely tempers their audacious heat;
No flying skirmish will he wage, nor care
For an engagement short of full defeat.
“Anon, brave youths!” he answer’d, “but ’tis meet
That with one day of respite you requite
Your recent labors; rest you, I entreat;
Perhaps this truce may in our foes excite
A rash contempt of us, presumptuous in their might.”

All stood prepared, and through the long, long night,
Expectant pined for morn’s returning ray;
Ne’er did the blue sky show so clear and bright,
As in the dawning of that noted day;
Aurora smiled, and seem’d in her array
Of purple radiance with the sun to vie;
Her amethystine crown she shakes away,
All becomes gold; and, without film, the sky
On great and godlike deeds opes slow its glorious Eye.

Soon as he saw the golden morning spring,
Godfrey led forth his marshall’d hosts: behind,
Care of the tower in which the Syrian king
Was coop’d, to Raymond’s prowess was assign’d;
Who with his own Provencal knights combined
The num’rous band of Christians lute enroll’d
In their deliv’rers’ ranks, at Emmaus join’d;
Nor these alone were left to guard the hold,
But a renown’d brigade of Gascons brave and bold.

From the Chiefs spirits, of his men admired,
The total host on victory presumes:
Heaven sends him grace; wherewith, like one inspired,
A nobler air and grandeur he assumes:
His face the rosy light of youth relumes,
Where imaged honor shines like dews in spring;
Glows his rich hauberk, dance his soldier plumes,
And, as his eye smiles, as his limbs take wing,
He in the sunshine looks like some celestial thing.

But far he had not march’d, ere in advance
The whole Egyptian army he descried;
He straight secured a hill which ’twas his chance
To find outspread on his sinister side,
And rear; this seized, upon the champaign, wide
In front, but narrow in the wings, his ranks
He spreads abroad; the foot, well fortified,
He forms his centre, and the centre flanks
With light-horse wings, composed of Flemings and of Franks.

In the left wing, to which the shelving hill,
Held by his guardian chivalry, declined,
He the two Roberts placed, to Baldwin’s skill
And wise command the centre he assign’d;
Himself the right wing held, where unconfined
The plains stretch’d out upon the beams of noon;
For there th’ Egyptian, if he felt inclined,
Might, by th’ advancing of his armed moon,
Hope with most sure success t’ enclose the whole platoon.

Here his own noble Lorrainers he fix’d,
With many a choice and many a well-arm’d knight;
And with his archer-horsemen intermix’d
Footmen well used amid their ranks to fight.
Last, of th’ Adventurers, men of noble might,
And the cull’d flower of ev’ry Christian land,
He forms a squadron, station’d to the right
Somewhat apart, and to Ruialdo’s hand
Commits the sacred charge of this illustrious band.

To whom the Duke: “On thy courageous mind
The final issues of the field depend;
Keep thou thy squadron close conceal’d, behind
These spreading wings that to such length extend;
And when the Egyptian troops draw nigh to blend
In stubborn fight, assail them; give not ground,
But render vain the object they intend;
Which is, if I mistake not, to wheel round,
And turn the wings; be bold, and evermore renown’d!”

Then on his steed he like the lightning flew
From horse to foot, from ranging band to band,
Flung up his visor, gave his face to view, —
Lighten his eyes, and waves his armed hand;
He cheers the doubtful; with sublime demand
Confirms the ardent; to the bold recites
The vaunts they made, the wondrous feats they plann’d;
With praise of valor past the brave delights;
And these with views of gold, with honor those incite.

At length he paused, where in a gallant line
Are ranged his best and noblest chevaliers;
And from a spot which favors the design,
Begins a speech which fires each soul that hears.
As when the frigid winter melts to tears,
From Alpine peaks, fed with dissolving snows,
The swift, smooth torrent sparklingly careers,
So full, so fluent, as His fancy glows,
From his persuasive lips the sounding period flows.

“O my brave knights, of chivalry the flower!
My scourge, my tamers of the Orient! lo,
The final day; behold at length the hour
For which so warmly you were wont to glow!
Not without cause does Heaven its rebels show
Drawn to one centre; not without high cause
Guides them to us; is not your ev’ry foe
Brought here, like stags into the lion’s paws,
That you may end at once ten thousand mortal wars?

“In one, unnumber’d vict’ries will be wrought
Nor shall the risk nor the fatigue be more;
Take not, O take not then a single thought
On the vast swarms that cloud the landscape o’er;
For, with themselves at discord, they deplore
Their ill conjunction; in their ranks e’en art
Confounds itself; and those who fight will gore
Themselves, or form by far the smaller part,”
Thousands will want the room, and thousands more the heart!

“Half the vast swarms you view, are naked slaves;
Men void of strength or skill, in helpless plight;
Call’d from the couch or field, from chains or caves,
And dragg’d to battle in their own despite:
E’en now, in terror of the coming fight,
Their drawn swords quiver, shake their shields; I see
The ensigns tremble in their hands! those light
Uncertain sounds are no seal’d signs to me, —
Fear guides their wav’ring march; Death sounds their Lillallie!

“That Chief, who, robed in green and purple weed,
Ranges their bands, and seems so fierce to view,
The Moor and Arab in his chains may lead,
But never can resist such knights as you;
What, although wise, though prudent, will he do,
When his disorder’d troops in battle close?
Ill known he is, or only known to few;
Nor well his warriors, none by name he knows;
What can he do, brave souls, when thick the tumult grows?

“But I am Captain of a chosen host,
We fight at once and conquer, side by side;
You serve from choice, and I the knowledge boast
Of each one’s country, lineage, lands, and bride.
What noble sword can strike, what javelin glide,
That is to me unknown? yea, at a glance,
As the shaft passes, can I not decide
Whether the same of Ireland were or France,
And whose the sinewy arm that made the bowstring dance?

“’Tis no great thing I ask; let me but find
Each one considerate of His old renown;
Use but your wonted zeal, and keep in mind
Your honor, mine, and His who bore the crown
Of thorns on his pale forehead; go, strike down
His scornful foes, and. on their cancell’d creed
Stablish your conquest of the sacred town.’
Enough, why argue? in your eyes I read
Victory already won, — the Sepulchre is freed!”

At the conclusion of this speech, a tire
Was seen to fall of clear and golden light,
Like a descending star or gliding fire
Shook from the blue skirts of a summer night,
Save that ’twas far more beautiful and bright, —
A shower as from the sun’s most lucid spring,
Wove to a garland glorious to the sight,
Which round his temples pass’d its golden ring;
And thus, as some divined, mark’d out their future king.

Perchance, if tongue of mortal may aspire
To mortal sight Heaven’s secrets to dispread,
A guardian Angel from the blissful choir,
With radiant wings involved his sacred head.
While Godfrey thus his troops exhorting led,
And in these terms provoked their martial pride,
Th’ Egyptian Chief was not less active, fed
With equal hopes of victory, to ride
Amid his marshalled men, and cheer their souls untried.

He led abroad his sumless squadrons, soon
As his keen eye discern’d th’ advancing Franks;
And lined, in form of an extensive moon,
With foot his centre, and with horse his flanks;
Himself the right commands, the left with thanks
The gen’rous Altamore receives; between,
The central foot proud Muleasses ranks;
And in the midst, with anger in her mien,
Shines, like a glorious star, the beauteous Damascene.

With Tisaphernes and th’ Immortal band,
Frowns on the right the savage King of Ind;
But on the left wing where the plains expand
In scope, for swift manoeuvres well design’d,
The Persian kings has Altamore combined,
With those of Libya and the two whose sway
Is o’er the burning sands where scarce a wind
Breaks the hot noon; and there, in grim array,
The slings, and bearded shafts, and twanging cross-bows play.

Thus Emireno ranks his troops; with speed
Gallops from wing to wing, from van to rear;
Speaks by interpreters or not, as need
Requires; with praises mixes threats severe,
Pains with rewards, and with loud chiding, cheer;
To some he shouts; “Why now, my darlings! why
Your downcast faces? what is there to fear?
What can these do against your thousands? fie!
Our shouts, our very shades will make the cravens fly!”

To some; “O yes! with that revengeful face
Come, and like vultures your lost spoils regain!”
To some, sad fancies clear as truth portrays,
And prints th’ imagined picture on the brain:
Paints their lamenting country; paints the pain
Of their sad families; the moving pleas
They use; the hands they wring; the robes they strain;
“Think,” he exclaims, “that on her bended knees
Your country speaks through me! ah, think her accents.

“Guard well my laws; let not my blood descend
To bathe my mosques, or stain their golden spires;
The tombs and ashes of my dead, defend,
Save my chaste maids from their accursed desires.
Sad for their bygone youth, to you my sires
Show each his hoary and unshielded head;
To you my women, mindful of your fires,
Bare their imploring breasts, with tears o’erspread,
Each mother points her babe, each wife her bridal bed!”

And to the rest; “Lo, Asia makes you here
The champions of her honor! claims from you
Upon these few base robbers a severe
And bitter vengeance, but most justly due!”
Thus he with various arguments anew
In various tongues each various nation charms
To the near war; but farewell words! adieu.
Delay! the stirring trumpet sounds alarms;
Small grows the parting space; they grasp their angry arms.

O, ’twas a brave, a grand, and wondrous sight,
Ere front to front the marshall’d hosts combined,
To mark how nobly in their ranks each knight
Burn’d to move on, and for the signal pined!
How the loose flags flew billowing on the wind;
How on ten thousand heads the feathers danced;
How robes, impresses, gems, and arms refined,
Of all rich colors, gold and steel, advanced
Before the flouted Sun, smiled, sparkled, flash’d, and.

Like a tall forest of dark pines depress’d
Both armies show, so thick the spears abound;
Drawn are the bows, the lances laid in rest,
Vibrate the darts, the glowing slings whirl round:
Each warring horse is on the wing to bound
Through the snuff’d battle; to the greeting gales
Spreads his broad nostrils, paws the echoing ground,
His lord’s raised fury whets and countervails,
Foams, prances, snorts, and neighs, and fire and smoke.

Horror itself in that fair scene looks gay,
And joy springs up e’en in the midst of fear;
Nor less the trumpet’s organ-tones convey
Both bliss and terror to the gazer’s ear.
But the Frank hosts, though less by far, appear
More brisk at heart and eager at the sight;
Their every trumpet with a note more clear
And ardent, sounds its prelude to the fight,
And their coat-armor glows with a diviner light.

The Christian trumpets first defiance sound,
The Pagan gongs take up the tuneful gage;
Kneel the rapt Franks, and kiss the sacred ground
With adoration and a holy rage;
Then forward spring to war: the spacious stage
’Twixt the two hosts decreases — disappears
Beneath their rushing charge; they meet — engage —
Shock the four wings; each gallant footman hears
The clang, — they bound abroad, and van with van coheres!

What Christian dealt the first auspicious wound!
Who could that guerdon of renown attain?
’Twas thou, Gildippe! thou, who to the ground
Smot’st the stout king of Ormus, great Hircane;
So vast a glory did high Heaven ordain
To woman’s hands! brave as he was in show,
She pierced his breast and broke the spear in twain;
Transfix’d he fell, and, falling, heard the foe
Raise a triumphant shout, and praise the glorious blow.

Her lance thus snapp’d, she with her manly hand
Drew her good sword and on the Persians flew;
With frequent strokes, of their most serried band
Pierced the thick gloom, and let the sunlight through;
She cut forlorn Zopiro sheer in two,
E’en where th’ adorning baldrick clasps the waist;
Then the fell savage grim Alarco slew,
Cleaving the porch of language and of taste;
Who from his charger fell, and spurn’d the sands he graced.

A blow fell’d Artaxerxes, and a thrust
Argeo, — the one lay stunn’d, the other slain;
Then, smiting Ismael’s wrist, she to the dust
Cast, his left hand, which dropp’d the bridle rein;
The sword glanced hissing on the ears and mane
Of his proud-spirited and ardent bay, —
Which, startled by the sound, or stung with pain,
Check’d by no curb, rear’d, turn’d, and plunged away
Through the whole Persian line, in dreadful disarray.

All these and numbers more, now lost to song,
She slew, or wounded; their disorder’d squares
The Persians close, and charge her in a throng,
Eager to win the precious arms she wears;
But now her faithful lord, who half despairs
For her endanger’d safety, light as wind
Flies to her succor, and his falchion bares;
And the bless’d pair, together thus combined,
In their united swords united vigor find.

Arts of defence their gen’rous souls are seen
To use, unpractised and unheard of yet;
He shelters her, she him; and in this keen
Dispute of love, themselves they quite forget;
The ardent heroine, though herself beset,
Beats off the weapons that her lord molest;
He to the spears which her dear person threat,
Is quick to raise his shield, and would be bless’d
No less, if need require, t’ oppose his naked breast.

Each to the other thus his cares transferr’d.
And each the other’s wrongs revenged; his blade
Slew the presumptuous Artabane, whose word
The trembling isle of Boecan obey’d;
And lifeless stretch’d the haughty renegade,
Alvante, who with hand audacious strove
To smite his darling: she the debt repaid;
For at her lord as Arimantes drove,
His brows from eye to eye th’ indignant heroine clove.

Such deeds they did, but greater was the wrack
Wrought by Prince Altamore; where’er he plied
His fearful sword, or spurr’d to the attack
His haughty steed, he slew or beat aside
Both horse and foot; thrice bless’d was he who died
At the first stroke, nor groan’d beneath the tread
Of his fierce steed; for whom the homicide
Beat down, the cruel creature in his stead
Tore with its gnashing teeth, or proudly trampled dead.

By the strong Prince’s battle-axe were slain
Brunello sinewy and Ardonio great;
Of that the helm and head he clove in twain,
So that each shoulder dropp’d beneath its weight,
Ere fell the corse; but ’twas Ardonio’s fate
Through the quick spleen to be transfix’d, where rise
The nerves whose strings with mirth the heart dilate;
So that (a strange and horrid sight!) he lies
Jocund with mortal pain, and loudly laughing dies.

Nor these alone from each delightful tie
Of life and love his murdering weapon tore,
But good Rosmondo and Gentonio, Guy
And Guasco, all lie weltering in their gore.
Who can relate what numbers Altamore
Beat down, what numbers bade the world farewell,
Crush’d by his charger on the sandy floor;
The names of all the slaughter’d who can tell,
How the brave warrior smote, or how th’ assaulted fell!

There lives not one who with the warrior now
Will break a spear, or meet him face to face;
Alone Gildippe braves him to his brow,
Nor in the battle to his arm gives place.
Never did Amazon, in stormy Thrace,
When red with blood the swift Thermodon ran,
Brandish her pole-axe or her shield embrace
Dauntless as she, when, issuant from the van,
She rush’d to check the pride of this tremendous man.

She smote him where with gold and rich aumaile
Gay on the helm flamed his barbaric crown;
And, shiv’ring it to atoms, made him veil
His haughty head, and bow benignly down;
Well judged the monarch that no mean renown
Graced the bold arm that with such reckless might
Enforced its will, and, knitting to a frown
His swarthy brows, rush’d forward to requite
Shame with incensed disdain, and with revenge despite.

And in an instant on her basnet served
The gentle Lady with a stroke so sore,
As to deprive her of all sense; unnerved,
Entranced she sunk, — but her fond lord upbore,
And, were it their good Genius that watch’d o’er
Their forfeit lives, or magnanimity
In him, the check sufficed — he struck no more;
Like the mild lion, that with gen’rous eye
Upon his prostrate foe just glares, and passes by.

Meanwhile Ormondo, to whose impious hands
The purposed treason was consign’d, slipp’d in
With his false mates amid the Christian hands,
Eager to perpetrate th’ unfinish’d sin;
Like midnight wolves, that smoothing their fierce grin
To a meek innocence, assume the guise
Of shepherds’ dogs, the wattled sheepfolds win
Through the dusk mist, and there, with sparkling eyes,
Prowl round, then dubious tails upcurl’d betwixt their thighs.

Mute they advance, and now with closed ventayle
The bloody Pagan draws to Godfrey’s side;
But when, considerate of Vafrino’s tale,
Their forged devices, white and gold, he spied;
“Lo, the mask’d villains! lo, my friends,” he cried,
“The wretch that creeps with such a stealthy tread
In Frank disguisements near us! round their guide
See how his ruffians make to me!” this said,
He on the traitor rush’d, and cloved his helmed head.

For the confronted felon, quite amazed,
Nor struck, nor fenced, nor offer’d to be gone;
But e’en as though the Gorgon on him gazed,
Sate like an ancient warrior froze to stone:
On them all swords were drawn, all darts were thrown,
And to its last inevitable cane
Each quiver emptied was on them alone;
Thus fell, thus died Ormondo and his train,
To such small pieces cleft, their corpses scarce remain.

Godfrey, when once he saw himself imbrued
In Pagan blood, no longer stood at bay,
But quickly flew to where the Persian hew’d
Through the thick squadrons his triumphant way;
So that his knights now fled in disarray,
Swift as the sands in Libya’s drifting waste,
Before the stormy South; their sore dismay
He check’d with shouts, rebuked their flying haste,
And, staying those that fled, assail’d the Prince who chased.

The two stem Chiefs a battle here began,
Such as was never in poetic page
Emblazed, the while on foot good Baldwin ran
With Muleasses elsewhere to engage;
Nor with less fervor, nor with less wild rage
Mix the bold horsemen on the left, where green
The sloping hills scoop out a spacious stage;
In person there, his two brave knights between,
Fights the barbaric Chief, high-minded Emirene.

With him the Norman Robert joins, — they fight
With equal valor; but the Fleming’s mail
The grim Adrastus bores and shatters quite,
And with sharp sabre cleaves his barr’d ventayle.
No certain foe has Tisapherne t’ assail,
That in close battle can be term’d his peer;
But on he scours, as with the driving gale,
Where most impassive the wedged ranks appear,
And all is hideous death before his wing’d career.

Thus fought they long, and still their hope and cheer
In equal balance hung with doubt and dread;
With shatter’d mails, split shields, the shiver’d spear
And cloven helm, was all the field o’erspread;
In bosoms gash’d or bowels gored, the red
Revenging sword lies buried deep, or bright
In thousand fragments glitters round the dead;
Some lie supine, some grovelling, and in spite
Seem still the hated earth ferociously to bite.

Beside his lord the charger lies outspread;
The comrade lifeless by His comrade lies;
Foe beside foe; the living on the dead;
And on the vanquish’d oft the victor dies:
No silent lull is there, nor formal cries,
But a hoarse, indistinct, unceasing sound, —
Roarings of fury, threats of anger, sighs
Of languid Sorrow, wailing o’er his wound,
And groans and rising shrieks in faint low moanings drown’d.

The arms which lately wore so bright an air,
Discolor’d now, and dull, and frightful show;
The steel has lost its sheen, the gold its glare,
Each sparkling color takes the tint of wo:
Past is the pomp, the glory, and the glow
Of cimeter, and sash, and dancing plume;
Turban and gem alike are trampled low,
And dust lies thick upon the blood whoso bloom
Outvied in dire display the purple of the loom.

The Moors, the Ethiops, and the Arabs then,
To the dull discord of the atabal,
Spread out their dusky skirts of moving men,
And on the dexter wing revolving fall;
Already with their bows and slings they gall
The army from afar, when, like the din
Of earthquake and of thunder, at the call
Of young Rinaldo, his bold knights begin
With shouts their rushing march, and hem th’ assailants in.

The first he met was Asimire, who led
The Moors of Meroe, an illustrious name;
Rinaldo smote him where the swarthy head
Towers on the neck, and shore it from the frame;
And when this taste of vict’ry and of fame
Had whet his angry appetite, the youth
So nobly bore him in the bloody game,
That to relate his deeds would be in sooth
To give mute wonder wing, and wed romance to truth.

More deaths than blows he deals, yet momently
His falchion smites; and as the angry snake
Seems in its single tongue to vibrate three,
With such a fearful swiftness does it shake,
So in dismay these charged barbarians take
The single sword which furiously the knight
Whirls round, for three; its rapid motions make
The first illusion to the trusting sight,
And awe the portent seals in superstitious fright.

Down, down to Tophet, fast the Negro kings
And Ethiopic tyrants bleeding go:
Each gallant comrade in his footstep springs,
Upon the rest, — with rival zeal they glow:
The Pagan multitudes to earth they mow
With terrible contempt; and these prepare
No vain defence, but die without a blow;
A massacre it is, no conflict, where
They yield up here their swords, present their bosoms there.

Yet long they stand not to receive their wounds
In noble parts, but scour away — away;
Fear spurs them on, despair their ranks confounds,
Lost is all art, relax’d their fair array;
But the flush’d hero still pursues his prey,
Strikes down their standards, breaks their strong cross- bows,
Till spent in utter rout their powers decay;
He then returns, for on defenceless foes
His fiery soul relents, his zeal less fiercely glows.

As the strong wind tenfold its rage augments
When hills or sturdy woods its blasts oppose,
But o’er the ample plain at once relents,
And in soft murmurs more serenely blows, —
As on the rock the dashing ocean throws
Its rough, its roaring billows, and boils high,
But in the open main more gently flows,
Rinaldo so, thus unopposed, lays by
Much of his noble rage, and calms his angry eye.

Then, on the backs of this defenceless force
Scorning to spend his gen’rous wrath in vain,
He to the infantry directs his course,
Late flank’d by Asimire and Artabane,
Arab and dusky African; now plain
It stood and naked, for the tribes that well
Might have defenced it, were dispersed or slain,
Crosswise he came, and on then flank, in selle,
With all his men-at-arms in sworded fury fell.

He snapp’d their bristling spears, the ranks they form
He clove in twain, and in their pierced array —
Plunged, beating down their troops; the windy storm
Whirls the reap’d harvests with less ease away.
On ev’ry side around him does he lay
A bloody pavement, pebbled thick with lance,
Shield, and lopp’d limb; along whose broad highway,
The following horse, for Palestine and France,
Uncurb’d, with batt’ring hoofs in gorgeous phrensy prance.

The Hero came where his forlorn Armide
In warlike pomp stood in her golden car,
Girt by a noble band, who for the meed
Of her sweet smile escort her through the war;
He by his armor known while yet afar,
Was view’d by her with eyes which from desire
And passion trembled like a sparkling star;
He changed but slightly; she, ’twixt love and ire,
From red to deadly pale, from frost to flushing fire.

The Knight declined the chariot of the dame,
And like a man that would elsewhere bestow
His thoughts, pass’d on; but her sworn knights for shame
Let not their rival scape without a blow;
One drew his crooked sabre, one couch’d low
His lance, his arbalist another bent;
Herself an arrow planted in her bow,
Scorn strung her hand, and nerved her fierce intent,
But love the mood appeased, nor yet the shaft was sent.

Love against anger rose, and their dispute
Proved that her flame still glow’d, though hid from view;
Three times her arms she stretch’d abroad to shoot,
Three times took aim, and thrice her aim withdrew;
Disdain at length prevail’d: again the yew
She with an eager and unshrinking arm
Bent, and the bowstring twang’d; the shaft outflew, —
Out flew the shaft, but with the shaft this charm
She the next moment breathed: “God grant it do no harm!”

She would have bade the -weapon turn again,
And smite the heart whose sternness she resents;
O, well indeed she must have loved him, when
In hate’s last pass her soul so soon relents!
But straight again her fondness she repents,
Straight to her stormy heart fresh furies rise;
Thus she the shaft now joys in, now laments,
She will, she will not it should smite, and eyes
With a tumultuous heart the arrow as it flies.

Not quite in vain was it discharged; the reed
Smote the young knight’s hard coat of mail, too hard,
In fact, for female weapons to succeed, —
The steel, instead of piercing it, was jarred
Itself to shivers, nor the silver marr’d;
He turn’d away, — she thought in scorn, and ground
Her teeth with anger at his disregard;
Ofttimes she shot, but still no entrance found
Her shafts, and while she shot love dealt her wound on wound.

“What! is he then impassive, that he mocks
All hostile force!” she murmurs; “must he mail
His limbs in adamant like that which locks
His haughty spirit in its stubborn scale?
Against his heart nor glancing eyes prevail,
Nor weapon’d knight, arm’d proof from top to toe;
While I, alas! at all points foil’d, bewail,
Arm’d or unarm’d, alike or friend or foe,
My thousand arts despised, and droop my pennons low i!

“Now what new art, what charm shall I essay;
In what new form can I myself present?
Wretch that I am, there is no hope! my day
Of rule is o’er, and all my forces spent!
My knights, where are they? ’tis too evident
All power, all arms are weak to his; in vain
The spear is levell’d, and the crossbow bent:”
Thus she repined; for now throughout the plain.
She saw her champions pierced, beat down, dispersed, or slain.

Alone, she felt defenceless, stood in fear
To be enthrall’d or slain; nor can the aid
Of Dian or Minerva’s arms — the spear
Or formidable bow, her heart persuade;
But as the delicate white swan, dismay’d,
O’er which the eagle with fierce pounce impends,
Crouches to earth, and her broad wings display’d
Folds in mute terror, — to the storm she bends;
Just such her motions seem, just such wild looks she sends.

But brave Prince Altamore, whose might till now
Had held in check Gildippe, had upheld
The Persian flag when it began to bow,
And by his single arm the Franks repell’d,
When in distress his Goddess he beheld,
Rush’d, or flew rather from the near attack
To her; though honor at the step rebell’d,
Him neither honor nor his host kept back;
So she but rescued be, the world may go to wrack!

Round her ill-guarded car he planted spears,
And hew’d an area with his falchion bright;
But meanwhile Godfrey and Rinaldo fierce
With dreadful slaughter put his troops to flight;
The hapless chief beheld their desp’rate plight,
And bore himself far better at the ken
As a fond lover than a warrior knight;
He placed in safety the fair Queen, and then
Return’d untimely back to aid his vanquish’d men.

It was too late! those troops, like hunted deer,
Were gone beyond recall; no hope remain’d:
But on the left, the Christians with like fear
Fled from the Infidels, whose swords they stain’d;
One princely Robert scarce the ranks regain’d,
Wounded severely in the breast and face;
And one by grim Adrastus was constrain’d
To yield his sword; an almost equal pace
Both warring hosts thus kept in glory and disgrace.

A moment Godfrey takes to reunite
His straggling files, and then without delay
Renews the charge; and thus in stubborn fight
Wings shock with wings in terrible array,
Victor with victor; from their late assay
Tinged comes each soldier to the strife, in sheen
Of spoils from foes torn vauntingly away;
Victory and honor from all parts convene;
And Mars and dubious Fate unsmiling stand between.

While thus in furious rivalry of power
The Franks and Pagans stubbornly engage,
The fiery Soldan mounts the lofty tower,
And sees, though far remote, the war they wage;
As on a theatre’s illumined stage,
The sad sharp tragedy of human state
He sees, — their hot assaults of grief and rage,
The savage stabs of gladiatorial hate,
And all the thousand turns and accidents of fate.

Awhile astonish’d and amazed he stood,
At the first view; but soon, a sharp desire
To ply his sabre in that field of blood
And high achievement, set his soul on fire;
No dull delay can his revengeful ire
Indulge; already arm’d in panoply
Of proof, he snatch’d the helmet from his squire;
And, “Up, pine here no longer!” was his cry;
“This hour it fits us all to conquer or to die!”

Whether it were that providence divine
This furious spirit breathed in him, to close
That day in one bold stroke for Palestine,
His last lorn glories and her own long woes;
Or that, as Death drew near, the impulse rose,
In pure despite of his declining star,
Boldly to brave him midst a host of foes,
Rapid as rash, he bid the gates unbar,
And in his awful hand bore out unlook’d-for war.

He waits not, he, to notice if his knights
Obey the call, but rushes out alone;
Singly a thousand foes he dares, and slights
Their thousand swords, impassive in his own;
But by his spirit and audacious tone
Inspired, the rest like bacchanals pursue,
And Aladine himself, who on his throne
Was tim’rous, mean, and base, now reckless grew,
And, less from hope than rage, outrush’d, loud shouting too.

Upon the first he met th’ atrocious Turk
His dreadful strokes discharged with such disdain,
And sped so swiftly in his murd’rous work,
That dead they fall, ere you perceive them slain;
Quick from the foremost to the last in train —
Voice after voice — the panic of affright
Speeds with th’ alarming news, dispatch’d in vain;
So that the native Christians on the right,
By the loud tumult scared, at once disperse in flight.

But with far less discomfit and dismay
The Gascon chivalry maintain their ground,
Although at unawares their mail’d array
Was charged, as nearest for the falchion found;
Never did savage vulture, heaven’s wing’d hound,
Nor Alpine wolf, the wood’s ferocious lord,
With tooth or talon so acutely wound
Wild -fowl or flock, as the mad Soldan’s sword,
Strain’d in his angry grasp the Red-cross champions gored.

Hungry and ravenous, like a living thing,
It seem’d to crash their limbs and drink their blood;
With him the Pagans and their hoary king
Struck down and slaughter’d, in their desp’rate mood,
The still-confused besiegers; but the good
Count Raymond rush’d to where the Soldan slew
His faithful knights; he fled not, but withstood,
Though well again the red right-hand he knew,
Whose power his anguish’d frame had still such cause to rue.

Again he fronts him, smites him, falls again,
Struck as before above his closed ventayle;
The boist’rous charge if he could ill sustain,
His old age only bear the blame, too frail
To bide such shocks; this time too, o’er his pale
Mute form a hundred spears and sabres play,
All eager these to guard as those t’ assail;
But the grim Soldan still holds on his way,
Deeming the warrior dead or else an easy prey.

Upon the rest he falls, dismembers, maims,
Acts utter wonders on that narrow stage,
Then seeks, by lust allured to loftier aims,
A new arena for his boundless rage.
As one invited by some gentle page
To a brave banquet, from his thrifty board
Hies with delight his hunger to assuage;
So to a field with ampler victims stored,
Speeds he, on nobler food to flesh his ravenous sword.

Down through the shatter’d ramparts he descends,
And with all speed to the grand battle goes,
Leaving disdain and fury with his friends,
And doubt and fear amid his scatter’d foes;
These a dire struggle still maintain, and those
Wax bold, th’ unfinish’d vict’ry to complete;
These yet resist, but their resistance shows
Far fewer signs of triumph than defeat,
And now they quite give way in undisguised retreat.

The Gascons slowly face to face give ground,
But the faint Syrians headlong haste away;
Meanwhile the shout of triumph, the known sound
Of arms, and clamor of the wild affray,
Reach’d the near spot where wounded Tancred lay;
Weak as he was, he rose from bed, went out
Upon the roof, and saw with sore dismay
The good Count fell’d, and all his spearmen stout;
Some in forlorn retreat, and some in utter rout.

Courage, which never fails the brave, although
The body droops, droops not, but like a charm,
In lieu of blood and spirits strengthens so
His limbs, that inly fortified from harm,
He binds the ample shield upon his arm,
Nor deems the burden grievous; grasps his blade,-
His blade unsheath’d upon the first alarm,
And thus with weapons instantly array’d,
(All that a brave man needs,) no longer there he stay’d.

But issuing, loudly to the troops he calls,
“What! do you fly, and leave your lord a prey
To these barbarians? shall their mosques and halls
His arms as trophies of your guilt display?
Go then, return to Gascony, and say,
Say to his son, that from the glorious game
Where his loved father died, you ran away!”
This said, his weak and naked breast became
To thousand vig’rous knights their shelter, and their.

And with his pond’rous shield which seven bull-hides
Composed, a rough material, underlined
With strong impassive plates of steel besides,
By the pure alchemy of fire refined,
From swords, and shafts, and arms of every kind,
That like a drizzly shower around him play’d,
He guarded the good Raymond, and consign’d
To death such numbers with his brandish’d blade,
That safe the warrior lay as in a silent shade.

The brave old Earl, protected thus, respires,
Awakes, and rises in a little space;
While a deep feeling of the insult fires
His heart with anger, and with shame his face;
He darts his quick bright eyes in every place,
On every side, to spy the man whose might
Had on his crest inflicted such disgrace;
But not perceiving him, he turns with spite
Upon his following troops, the outrage to requite.

Back to revenge alike their Chief’s attaint
The flying Gascons the next instant pour;
And now the late so daring crew turns fai at,
And boldness reigns where all was fear before;
He yields who smote, he slays who late forbore
To smite; he flies, who lately led the chase;
Well now did Raymond act the matador,
And with a right good earnestness efface,
By full twice fifty deaths, his own most brief disgrace.

While striving thus to clear his shamed renown
Upon the most distinguish’d crests, he spies
Amidst his fighting chivalry, the crown
Of all their strength, and at the Tyrant flies;
On his helm’d head his battle-axe he plies
With a strong arm; nor from his strokes refrain’d,
Till with a horrid symphony of sighs
And angry groans the monarch fell, constrain’d,
And, dying, bit the ground o’er which he lately reign’d.

Their Chiefs thus absent one, and one destroy’d,
Divided fates the sad survivors sway;
Some to distraction by despair annoy’d,
Like madd’ning lions, or wild bulls at bay,
A moment fight, then throw their lives away
On the sword’s point; while some bewilder’d run
Back to the tower; but with their flying prey
The victors enter too, opposed by none,
And raise their loud huzzas, — the last strong tower i won!

Won is the tower, and on the lofty stairs,
Or in the very gates the Moslem fall;
But Raymond in his grasp ascending bears
The Red-cross flag and plants it on the wall
In sight of either host, a sign to all
Of vict’ry, billowing to the charmed wind;
But this glad token of the country’s thrall
The Soldan mark’d not, — his tempestuous mind.
Had left th’ assaulted tower and tumult far behind.

He treads the moist vermilion field, which grows
With blood and carnage momently more red;
So that it seems the Court where Death bestows
His banner’d spoils, and stalks with haughty tread,
Numb’ring his victims; as he turns his head,
He sees a warhorse which without its knight
From the thick press with dangling bridle fled;
On this he lays his ardent hand, leaps light
Into the vacant seat, and spurs it to the fight.

Glorious and potent is the aid, but short,
Which to the faint, sad Saracen he gives;
A bright, brief thunderbolt — that, swift as thought,
Unlook’d-for flashes as the cloud it cleaves,
But of its momentary transit leaves
Eternal furrows plough’d in marble stone;
Twice fifty warriors he of life bereaves,
But two in Memory’s picturing glass alone
Has Time’s admiring hand to weeping Pity shown.

O Edward! O Gildippe! your harsh fate
And noble prowess (if my Tuscan rhymes
May be so happy) will I consecrate
To the fond praises of all lands and climes;
That so the world, with all its storied crimes,
Your faith, your love, your virtue may revere,
And cite as models for the best of times;
And that some eyes, to love and feeling dear,
May grace, in solemn verse, your story with a tear.

The gen’rous Lady, nobly barb’d and mail’d,
Rush’d where such throngs beneath his sabre died;
And with two mighty blows the Turk assail’d,
One clove his buckler, and one plough’d his side;
The ruffian knew her by her vests, and cried;
“Lo, the white harlot! now by bless’d Mahound,
It had for thee been better to have plied
The needle still in England, unrenown’d,
Than thus with sword and slave to flaunt on foreign ground!”

He said; and, fill’d with all a demon’s ire,
At the brave dame a sweeping blow address’d,
Which struck — how could it dare? — her bright attire,
Shatter’d her mail, and pierced the beauteous breast
Which Love meant only for a tenderer guest;
She drops the reins, and, fainting with the weight
Of pain, seems sinking to her last long rest;
Poor Edward sees, and if he comes too late
For her defence, alas, ’tis not his fault, but fate!

What should he do? within his breast at strife
Were rage and pity, with distracting smart
Urging him, this to aid his drooping wife,
And that to stab the murderer to the heart;
While Love, lamenting Love, with both took part,
Nor would that this or that should plead in vain;
Love taught him modes beyond the reach of art, —
With his left hand would he his dear sustain,
And with the right discharge his vengeance and disdain.

But power was wanting to his will; too weak,
Alas, were they, against so strong a foe!
He neither his fair love could aid, nor wreak
On the fell homicide the wrath which wo
Brought to his heart; ere he could strike a blow,
His guardian arm the savage Infidel
Smote off, and, forced thus harshly to forego
His fond embrace, with her he droop’d, he fell,
And falling press’d the form he loved through life so well.

As the tall elm to whose sustaining stem
With all her tendrils clings the bridal vine,
If storms uproot or axe to death condemn,
Drags with itself to ground his darling bine, —
Shatt’ring himself the garlands that enshrine
His mossy boughs, and crushing as he lies
Her pleasant grapes to over-early wine,
He seems to mourn his own sad sacrifice
Lees than the faithful plant’s that round his ruins dies.

So falls the knight; and grieves for her alone
“Whom Heaven ordains to be forever his;
Fain would they speak, if only to bemoan
Each other’s pangs, but death denies them this;
They commune but with sighs, yet still ’tis bliss
To view each other as in times gone by;
Long as they can they gaze, embrace and kiss:
At once their pulses cease, at once they die,
And hand in hand to God their pious spirits fly.

Fame, spreading quick her pinions for the flight,
Tells with her thousand tongues the tale to all;
Not from vague rumor only, but a knight
Of special trust Rinaldo learns their fall;
At once love, pity, grief, and duty call
On his resentment for revenge, he flies
To his proud foe; but here, to whet his gall,
The grim Adrastus crosses him, and cries,
While with his brandish’d blade the hero he defies. —

“Ho! by sure tokens thou the man must be
For whose presented sword I burn and pine;
All day by title have I called on thee,
And look’d mid thousand shields in vain for thine;
Now will I pay my vows, now at the shrine
Of the sweet saint for whose regards I die,
Offer thy heart up; come! for Palestine,
Our valor, yea, our fury let us try;
Thou art Armida’s foe, her sworn avenger I!”

This said, with two tremendous blows he sign’d
His throat and temples gemm’d with gold aumaile;
The helmet he clove not, (too well refined,)
But to the pommel made the hero veil
His plumes; ah then, nor steel nor snaky scale
Helps the huge king; Rinaldo wounds him so,
He needs no further leech: wail, Indra, wail
For thy gigantic son! a single blow
Stills his insulting tongue, and lays his proud hopes low.

With horror, awe, amazement, and affright,
Cold wax’d the hearts of the surrounding crew;
E’en Solyman, who saw the wondrous sight,
Changed in his cheer, and inly trembled too:
And pale his ruby cheek, and nerveless grew
His arm, while, prescient of his coming doom,
He knows not what to think or what to do,
A thing in him unusual; but for whom
Do the stern Fates reverse the issues of their loom?

As when in his brief sleep distressful dreams
Afflict the sick man or the madman’s brain,
He strives all eagerly to move, and seems
With more than giant force his limbs to strain,
While not a muscle aids his will; in vain
Are all the mighty efforts he can use;
Still as the dead his hands and feet remain;
He would shout out or scream at what he views;
But not a shout, or scream, or syllable ensues.

So would the Soldan rush the knight to meet,
And musters all his forces for the fight,
But feels not in himself his wonted heat,
Scarce knows himself in his diminish’d might;
What sparks of ardor his desires excite,
A secret terror chills: yet still desire,
Pride, love of glory, anguish, and despite,
And busy mem’ry in his heart conspire,
So that he neither thinks to fly nor to retire.

While unresolved he stands, the knight arrives,
It seems to him with an Immortal’s pace,
And with a wrath, a grandeur, that deprives
All mortal wrath and grandeur of their grace;
Small while he fights: yet, dying, no disgrace
Stains his long glory; to the last his eye
Glows with the mem’ry of his state and race;
He shunn’d no strokes, he heaved no groan or sigh,
Nor did a single thing but what was great and high.

When now the Turk, who in that long crusade
Oft like Antaeus fell, to rise again
Each time more fierce and strong, at length had play’d
His final part, and slumber’d with the slain;
Fortune, who fluctuates like th’ unstable main,
Hearing the rumor, durst no longer hold
The vict’ry in suspense, but o’er the plain
Stay’d her swift wheel, her errant course controll’d,
And under Godfrey’s flag her influences enroll’d.

Soon with the rest the kingly squadron flies,
The nerve and flower of all the East, whose name
Was once th’ Immortal! mortal now, it lies
Gored with a slaughter fatal to its fame;
But Emireno, seized with gen’rous shame,
Cuts short the standard-bearer’s flight, and loud
With indignation sharply makes exclaim;
“Art thou not he whom from a countless crowd
I chose to bear the flag that ne’er in battle bow’d?

“Stop! ’twas not given thee thus to bear away
From Saracen and Frank, from sword and spear;
Canst thou then, craven, see thy chief a prey
To the stern foe, and leave him lonely here?
What seek’st thou? safety? change thy mad career,
The road thou takest leads to death! be true
To the borne Crescent, and renounce thy fear;
He fights who wishes here to live; come, woo
Honor with me, thy prince; her path is safety’s too!”

Blushing the knight obey’d; with far more stern
And sharp rebuke the others he address’d;
These threats, these blows, that terror makes to turn,
The chief’s sharp sabre glittering at his breast;
And rallying thus his bravest and his best,
Fresh wings he forms, and, as the trumpets sound,
Still with fair hopes; his heart above the rest
Bold Tisaphernes cheers, who, though hemm’d round,
Fights like a lion yet, nor yields an inch of ground.

Wonders that day good Tisaphernes wrought —
The Normans in his wrath he overthrew;
Scourged the stout Flemings, and, as still he fought,
Young Gernier, Gerard, and De Rosei slew;
And when by deeds of so divine a hue
He to the measure of eternal fame
His brief existence had prolong’d, he flew
At the sublimest risk of all the game,
Like one to whose concern life laid no further claim.

He spied Rinaldo, and though now His shield
Had changed its tincture to a tricolor,
Though the pearl eagle in its sapphire field
With ruby beak and wings was seen to soar,
Known was the proud emblazonry it bore;
“And lo!” he cried, “the dragon of the fight!
Heaven nerve my arm to do the deed I swore;
Let but my blade Armida’s wrongs requite;
Thine, good Mahmoud, shall be the trophies of the knight!”

Thus pray’d the Persian, but his prayers were vain,
Mahmoud heard not upon his couch of fire;
But as a lion, bristling up his mane,
With lashing tail provokes his native ire,
So on the whetstone of his wild desire
His scorn he sharpens, whets his eager zeal,
And, mustering all his strength up for the dire
Assault, coil’d safe behind his shield, his steel
He lifts — and bounds the barb beneath his angry heel.

Rinaldo saw him with his sabre raised,
And rush’d to meet him in as swift career;
Far fell the near assailants back, and gazed
On the stern scene, with mingled awe and fear.
Such was the might and fame of either peer,
Such strokes resounded when their weapons cross’d,
That each his own strong cause for grief or cheer,
And the whole host of passions that engross’d.
His soul — at once forgot, in breathless wonder lost.

That struck alone; this struck, and wounded, bless’d
With greater strength and arms more sure and sound;
With cloven shield, pierced helm, and shatter’d crest,
The Persian’s noble blood distains the ground:
The fair Enchantress sees her champion’s wound,
Sees his pierced armor, his half-helmless head,
And, worse, his failing prowess; gazing round,
She finds the rest dishearten’d, slain, or fled,
And her own safety hang on fortune’s slend’rest thread.

Late girt by thousand warriors in the strife,
She now stands lonely in her rubied wain;
Desp’rate of victory as revenge, her life
She holds in hate, she dreads the victor’s chain,
And straight, ’twixt terror, fury, and disdain,
Her chariot quitting, on a palfrey near
Springs, and takes instant flight, — her only train
Scorn and unconquer’d love, that in her rear
Hang like two eager hounds behind a hunted deer.

So in sharp battle fled alone of yore
Scared Cleopatra, leaving to the blade
Of fortunate Augustus, midst the roar
Of waves and weapons, her fond knight betray’d:
And e’en as he, by tenderness o’ersway’d,
False to himself and to the world he woo’d,
Follow’d her solitary sails display’d,
So the fond Persian would have fain pursued
His pearl of beauty too, but this the foe withstood.

To the sad Pagan, when his love was lost,
Day seem’d to darken and the sunshine fled,
And to the knight who thus his wishes cross’d,
He turn’d enraged, and smote his helmed head;
More lightly falls to fabricate the red
And writhen thunderbolts, at Jove’s behest,
Bronte’s vast hammer; well the weapon sped, —
Its pond’rous stroke alighting on his crest,
Made the knight’s head bow down benignly to his breast.

But soon recovering, in his seat erect
Rinaldo rose, and with his whirling sword
Clove the fine hauberk, ’twixt the ribs direct
Plunged the sharp steel, which in its wrath explored
So deep a passage to the heart it gored,
That far beyond life’s citadel it went;
Entering the breast, the Pagan’s back it bored, —
The steel drawn forth, supplied a double vent,
Through which the noble soul took straight its wing’d ascent.

The conqueror paused to contemplate where next
He should his falchion ply, where render aid, —
His foes in all their movements were perplex’d,
Their colors struck, and scarce a spear display’d:
Here then his terrible career he stay’d,
Curb’d in his courser, to the sheath resign’d
His sword, his martial ecstasy all ay ’d,
And, calming every passion, call’d to mind
Armida’s helpless plight and destinies unkind.

Her flight he well observed; mild pity now
Call’d for his courtesy and gracious cheer,
And the remembrance of his parting vow
To stand her firm and faithful chevalier,
Came o’er his mind, with feelings sweet and dear;
So that he follow’d where the dinted ground
Betray’d her goaded palfrey’s swift career:
She the meanwhile a dreary glen had found,
Fit place for secret deaths, with cypress compass’d round.

Well pleased she was at heart, that chance should guide
Her wand’ring steps to so retired a place;
Here she alighted then, and cast aside
Her bow, her arrows, and their golden case:
“There lie,” she murmur’d, “in your deep disgrace,
Unhappy arms! that from the war return
With scarce a spot your mistress to aggrace;
There buried lie, there rust amidst the fern,
Since to avenge my wrongs you’ve shown such small concern!

“Ah! midst so many weapons could not one
At least return with hostile crimson blest?
If other hearts to you seem marble, shun,
Spare not your points to pierce a woman’s breast:
In this mine own, stripp’d naked for the test,
Achieve your triumphs, and your fame restore;
Tender it Is, Heaven knows, to wounds impress’d
By Love’s sharp arrows, Love — who evermore
Strikes wheresoe’er he aims, and hurts the sufferer sore.

“Show yourselves sharp on me and strong; (your past
Degeneracy I pardon;) O poor heart!
Into what straits of fortune art thou cast,
When these alone can peace to thee impart;
But since no other solace to my smart
Remains, none other passport to repose,
Go to! the wounds of this consenting dart
Shall cure the wounds of love, — a few brief throes,
And death shall bring the balm that sooths all earthly woes!

“Bless’d, if in dying I bear not with me
This my long plague to pester Hell’s foul host;
Hence, Love! come only, dear Disdain, and be
Th’ eternal partner of my injured ghost!
Or, rising with it from the Stygian coast,
To the false wretch that did me such despite,
In such a whirlwind of resentment post,
With such grim shapes, that all his dreams by night
May be one ceaseless round of agonized affright!”

She ceased; and, fix’d in her intention, drew
The best and sharpest arrow from her case;
Rinaldo reach’d the wood, and caught a view
Of her mad gesture and disorder’d pace;
Saw her last act, and with how wild a grace
She to the fatal stroke her soul address’d;
Already death’s pale hue o’erspread her face,
When, just in time her purpose to arrest,
The knight stepp’d in behind, and saved her beauteous breast.

Armida turn’d; and saw, to her surprise,
The knight, for unperceived was his advance;
Shrieking, she snatch’d away her angry eyes
From his loved face, and sunk in Passion’s trance:
She swoon’d, she sank, like a sweet flower by chance
Snapp’d half in two, that, with its bells abased,
Droops on its stem; he with distracted glance
Upheld her, falling, round her charming waist
Threw his sustaining arm, her clasping zone unbraced;

And o’er her snowy breast and face deprived
Of life’s warm hues, fond tears of pity shed; —
As by the summer morning’s dew revived,
The fading rose resumes its native red,
So she, recovering, raised her drooping head
And cheek, revived by this celestial rain;
Thrice her unclosing eyes sought his, thrice fled
The bitter-sweet enchantment, nor again
Would she look up, but blush’d ’twixt wrath and warm disdain.

And with her languid hand would have repell’d
The nervous arm by which she was sustain’d;
Oft she essay’d, but he the faster held,
The more she strove, the more she was enchain’d:
Yielding herself at length, like one constrain’d,
To that dear bond, for still perchance ’twas dear,
Despite the scorn she show’d, the hate she feign’d,
She sighing thus broke forth, while tear on tear
Gush’d from the downcast eyes she did not, would not rear.

“O! ever, parting and returning, ever
Cruel alike! what dark devices guide
Thy movements now? ’tis strange thou shouldst endeavor
To save the life whose strings thou dost divide;
Thou seek to save me! to what scorn beside
Am I reserved? what modes of misery
Am I to suffer next? no! no! thy pride
And traitorous purpose well we know; but I
Am weak indeed, if e’er I want the power to die.

“Thy honors truly must be incomplete,
If unsaluted; there must be display’d,
Chain’d to thy car, or suppliant at thy feet,
A dame, now seized by force, as first betray’d!
This be thy noblest boast: time was, I pray’d
To thee for peace and life, now sweet would fate
Prove to my grief, — but ne’er, false renegade,
Kneel I to thee for it! there’s not a state
Which, if it were thy gift, I should not hold in hate!

“Of myself, traitor! hope I to unloose,
Some way or other, this most wretched frame
From thy fierce tyranny; and if the noose,
Dagger, and drug, and precipice, and flame
Fail thy chain’d slave, by means as sure my aim,
Thank Heaven, I yet can compass, and defeat
No less thy malice than thy guile; for shame!
Cease thy base flatteries; cease thy false deceit;
How yet he strives with hope my sorrowing soul to cheat.’

Thus she laments; and with the floods of tears
Which love and scorn distil from her fair eyes,
A sympathizing part his sorrow bears,
Where some chaste sparks of love and pity rise:
And with a voice sweet as the west wind’s sighs,
He to her troubled heart speaks peace; “I crave
Thy grace, Armida! calm thyself,” he cries;
“Not to be scorn’d, but crown’d, thy life I save;
No foe, but still, yes still, thy champion, yea, thy slave!

“Mark in my eyes, if you my words alone
Distrust, the fervor of my soul: I swear
Again to seat thee on thy father’s throne,
And make thy comfort my peculiar care;
And O, would Heaven, auspicious to my prayer,
Chase from thy mind with its celestial flame
Those mists of Pagan darkness which impair
Its inward grace and beauty, not a dame
In the whole East should match thy glory, power, and fame!”

Thus does he sooth, thus sue to her; and so
Tempers his suit with tears, his tears with sighs,
That, like a virgin wreath of mountain snow
When zephyr breathes or sunshine warms the skies.
Her haughty scorn, that wore so stern a guise,
And all her cherish’d anger melt away,
And milder wishes in their room arise:
“Behold,” she says, “thy handmaid; I obey:
Thy lips my future life, thy will my fortune sway!”

This while, th’ Egyptian Captain in the strife
Sees his imperial standard fall to ground,
Sees too stout Rimedon deprived of life,
Dispatch’d by Godfrey in a single wound;
And all his men, discomfited around,
Dead, or in flight across the boundless plain;
He in this last sharp act will not be found
Recreant like them, but seeks (nor seeks in vain)
Some noble hand by which he may be nobly slain.

Spurring his steed, he against Godfrey rode,
No worthier foe he knew could be descried;
And wheresoe’er he pass’d or came to, show’d
The last brave tokens of despairing pride:
But ere he reach’d his foe, aloud he cried;
“Lo, Chief! I come to spend my final hour
And hopes with thee; but yet it shall be tried
If, overpower’d, I too cannot o’erpower,
And on my conqu’ror fall, as falls a thunder’d tower!”

This said, they each at each indignant dash’d;
With lifted swords at once they meet, they smite;
Broken the shield, the vantbrace cleft, and gash’d
Is the left shoulder of the Christian knight:
He, on his part, discharged with matchless might
On the left cheek a blow that prostrate laid
The Pagan chief; and in bewilder’d plight
As to regain the saddle he essay’d,
Through the abdomen thrust, his life-blood bathed tht blade.

Prince Emirene thus dead, but few remain
Of all that countless host; as he pursued
The vanquish’d, Godfrey saw, and check’d his rein,
How Altamore on foot, in blood embrued,
With half a sword, and half a helm on, stood,
Breasting a hundred bristling spears, that pour’d
Round the doom’d Prince, whose prowess still they rued;
“Cease, cease,” he cried, “Sir Knights! and thou, brave lord,
Yield, (’tis Duke Godfrey speaks,) yield up thy useless sword!”

He, who had never till that hour abased
To any act like this his lofty soul,
When now he heard the name which heaven had graced
With such renown from Nubia to the pole,
Yielding his arms, replied; “To thy control
(For thou deserv’st the homage) I my knee
Submit; then midst thy other spoils enrol
The name of Altamoro, who will be
Neither in fame nor wealth a prize unworthy thee.

“The gold and gems of kingdoms shall my kind
And faithful lady grant for my release:”
“Heaven has endow’d me with a nobler mind,”
Godfrey replied, “than to desire increase
Of earthly treasure; still retain in peace
All that from Ind or Persia swells thy store,
Bocharian mantle, and Tartarian fleece;
I set no price on life; on Asia’s shore
I war in Europe’s right, not trade in Asian ore!”

This said, he gives him to his guards to tend,
And after those that fled pursues amain;
These to the rampired camp their lives commend,
Yet thence small respite to their fate obtain;
Soon is it won; the trench is choked with slain,
From gay pavilion to pavilion glide
Streams of warm blood, with whose vermilion stain
Each sumptuous trophy of barbaric pride —
Plumes, corslets, turbans, helms, and shields are deeply dyed.

Thus conquer’d Godfrey; and as yet there glowed
A flush of glory in the fulgent West,
To the freed City, the once loved abode
Of Christ, the pious Chief and armies press’d:
Arm’d as he was, and in his sanguine vest,
With all his knights in solemn cavalcade,
He reach’d the Temple; there, supremely bless’d,
Hung up his arms, his banner’d spoils display’d,
And at the sacred Tomb his vow’d devotions paid.