Book IV

While thus in fervent toil the artisan
His warlike engines framed, of largest size,
To storm the city, the grand foe of man
Against the Christians turn’d his livid eyes;
And seeing them in glad societies,
On the new works successfully engaged,
Bit both his lips for fury, and in sighs
And bellowings, like a wounded bull enraged,
Roar’d forth his inward grief, and envy unassuaged.

Then, having rim through every mode of thought
To work them sharpest ills, he gave command
That all his angels should make swift resort
To his imperial court, a horrid band!
As though it were a trivial thing to stand
(O fool!) th’ antagonist of God, and spite
His will divine! unmindful of the hand
That, thund’ring through all space, from heaven’s blest height
Hurl’d him of yore down — down to Tartarus and Night.

Its hoarse alarm the Stygian trumpet sounded
Through the dark dwellings of the damn’d; the vast
Tartarean caverns tremblingly rebounded,
Blind air rebellowing to the dreary blast:
Hell quaked with all its millions: never cast
Th’ ethereal skies a discord so profound,
When the red lightning’s vivid flash was past;
Nor ever with such tremors reck’d the ground,
When in its pregnant womb conflicting fires were bound.

The Gods of the Abyss in various swarms
From all sides to the yawning portals throng,
Obedient to the signal — frightful forms,
Strange to the sight, unspeakable in song.
Death glares in all their eyes; some prance along
On horny hoofs, — some, formidably fair,
Whose human faces have the viper’s tongue,
And hissing snakes for ornamental hair,
Ride forth on dragon folds that lash the lurid air.

There might you near the Harpy’s clang’rous brood,
The Python’s hiss, the Hydra’s wailing yell,
Mad Scylla barking in her greedy mood,
And roaring Polypheme, the pride of hell;
Pale Gorgons, savage Sphinxes, Centaurs fell,
Geryons, Chimeras breathing flakes of fire,
Figures conceptionless, innumerable,
Multiform shapes conjoin’d in monsters dire,
To the vast halls of Dis in hideous troops aspire.

They took their station right and left around
The grisly king; he, cruel of command,
Sate in the midst of them, and sourly frown’d,
The huge, rough sceptre waving in his hand.
No Alpine crag, terrifically grand,
No rock at sea in size with him could vie;
Calpe, and Atlas soaring from the sand,
Seem’d to his stature little hills, so high
Rear’d he his horned front in that Tartarean sky.

A horrid majesty in his fierce face
Struck deeper terror, and increased his pride;
His bloodshot eyeballs were instinct with rays
That like a baleful comet, far and wide,
Their fatal splendor shed on every side;
In rough barbaric grandeur his hoar beard
Flow’d to his breast, and like the gaping tide
Of a deep whirlpool his grim mouth appear’d,
When he unclosed his jaws, with foaming gore besmear’d.

His breath was like those sulph’rous vapors born
In thunder, stench, and the live meteor’s light,
When red Vesuvius showers, by earthquakes torn,
O’er sleeping Naples in the dead of night
Funereal ashes! while he spoke, affright
Hush’d howling Cerberus, the Hydra’s shriek;
Cocytus paused in its lamenting flight;
Th’ abysses trembled; horror chill’d each cheek;
And these the words they heard the fall’n Archangel.

“Princes of Hell! but worthier far to fill
In Heaven, whence each one sprang, his diamond throne;
Ye, who with me were hurl’d from the blest hill,
Where brighter than the morning-star we shone,
To range these frightful dungeons! ye have known
The ancient jealousies and fierce disdains
That goaded us to battle; overthrown,
We are judged rebels, and besieged with pains,
While o’er his radiant hosts the happy victor reigns.

“And for th’ ethereal air, serene and pure,
The golden sun, the starry spheres, his hate
Has lock’d us in this bottomless obscure,
Forbidding bold ambition to translate
Our spirits to their first divine estate:
Then, ah the bitter thought! ’tis this which aye
Stings me to madness, — then did he create
The vile worm man, that thing of reptile clay,
To fill our vacant seats in those blue fields of day.

“Nor this sufficed: to spite us more, he gave
His only Son, his darling to the dead;
He came, he burst hell’s gates, and from the grave,
Compass’d our kingdoms with audacious tread;
The souls in torment doom’d to us, he led
Back to the skies — his richly-ransom’d throng;
And, in our teeth, hell’s conquer’d ensigns spread,
Abroad on heaven’s bright battlements uphung,
The while ten thousand saints their halleluiahs sung.

“But why renew afflictions so severe,
By numb’ring up our wrongs, already known!
When, or on what occasion did ye hear
He paused in wrath, and left his works undone?
No more o’er past indignities I run,
But present injuries and future shame —
Shall we pass these? Alas! we cannot shun
The consciousness, that now his envious aim
Is the wide nations round from darkness to reclaim.

“What! shall we pass in sloth the days and hours,
Cherish no wrath-born lightnings in our veins,
But leave his principalities and powers
To reap fresh laurels on the Asian plains?
To lead Judea in their servile chains,
And spread his worshipp’d name from clime to clime?
Sound it in other tongues, in other strains,
And on fresh columns sculpture it sublime,
To teach the future age, and mock almighty Time?

“Must then our glorious idols be o’erthrown?
Our altars change to his? our temples nod?
Gold, incense, vows, be paid to him alone,
And Baal bow before the shrine of God?
In the high Groves where erst we made abode
Must priest, nor charm, nor oracle remain?
And shall the myriad spirits who bestow’d
Tribute on us, that tribute now disdain,
And o’er dispeopled realms abandon’d Pluto reign?

“No! for our essences are yet the same,
The same our pride, our prowess, and our power,
As when with sharp steel and engirding flame,
In godlike battle we withstood the flower
Of heaven’s archangels: we in evil hour
Were foil’d, I grant; but partial chance, not skill,
Gave them the victory, — still we scorn’d to cower;
Victory was theirs, but an unconquer’d will
Nobly remain’d to us — it fires our spirits still!

“Why longer then delay! arise, take wing,
My hope, my strength, my trusty cohorts, fly;
Plagues and swift ruin on these Christians bring,
Ere reinforced by any fresh ally;
Haste! quench the spreading flame of chivalry,
Ere in its blaze Judea all unites;
Your arts exert, your strong temptations ply;
Enter at will among their armed knights,
Now practise open force, and now use secret sleights.

“Let what I will, be fate! give some to rove
In exile, some in battle to be slain;
Let some, abandon’d to a lawless love,
Make woman’s smiles and frowns their joy and pain,
And brilliant eyes their idols; let some stain
Their swords in civil strife; let some engage
In crimes against their Chief: let murder reign
With treason, rage with murder, hate with rage;
So perish all — priest, king, prince, noble, serf, and sage!”

Ere yet the Anarch closed his fierce harangue,
His rebel angels on swift wings were flown,
Glad to revisit the pure light; — a clang
Of pinions pass’d, and he was left alone.
As in their deep Eolian grottoes moan
The Spirits of the storm — as forth they sweep,
Or ere the signal of the winds is blown,
With howling sound, high carnival to keep,
And in wild uproar all embroil both land and deep; —

So the loosed Fiends o’er valley, wave, and hill,
Spreading their nimble wings, themselves dispersed;
Solicitous to frame, with demon-skill,
New-fancied snares, and urge their arts accursed:
But say, sweet Muse! of various ills, what first
Their malice wrought, and by what agents, say;
Thou know’st it; Fame the tidings has rehearsed,
But in the gloom remote of times grown gray,
Long ere it reach our ear, her weak voice melts away.

A mighty wizard in Damascus reign’d,
Prince Idraotes; who from childhood pored
O’er dark divining volumes, till he gain’d
The potent knowledge which his soul adored:
But what avail’d his whole collected hoard
Of signs and charms, if he could not foretell
The war’s uncertain issues? his search soar’d
To heaven — no star, no planet own’d the spell,
Nor would one parleying ghost divulge the truth from hell.

And yet he thought (blind human wit, how vain
And crooked are thy thoughts!) that Heaven had bless’d
The Paynim arms, and surely would ordain
Death to th’ unconquer’d armies of the West;
He judged that Egypt from their grasp would wrest
The palm of war, and from the dazzling game
Depart a winning victor, and impress’d
With this delusive hope, resolved to claim
Part in the grand award of conquest, wealth, and fame.

But as their prowess drew his high esteem,
The war’s vague chances he forbore to dare,
And long revolved how by some deep-laid scheme
The Christian princes he might best ensnare,
And by diminishing their strength, prepare
The path for Egypt; when, with rum rife,
Her hosts the conquering sword abroad should bear;
His evil angel mark’d the mental strife,
Made quick the embryo thought, and push’d it into life.

He framed the fraud, the counsel he inspired,
And made his purpose easy to pursue;
He had a niece, whose beauty was admired
Of the whole Orient, parallel ’d by few,
And to the echo vaunted; one who knew
Each fine discretion, each beguiling art
Of virgin and enchantress; her he drew
To his saloon, and thus to her apart,
In nectarous words made known the wishes of his heart.

“Dear niece! that underneath these locks of gold,
And that fair face, so young yet so divine,
Dost hide a heart, wise, masculine, and bold,
And magic skill transcendent over mine, —
I nurse a mighty project: the design
But needs thy gentle guidance to commend
My hopes to sure success; the thread I twine,
Weave thou the web, the lively colors blend;
What cautious Age begins let dauntless Beauty end.

“Go to the hostile camp; weep, tremble, sigh,
Each female charm that lures to love employ;
Let the lips aid the witchcraft of the eye,
Smiles flash through tears, and grief despond in joy:
Now shrink from notice, now with prayers annoy;
In weeping beauty o’er the wise prevail;
Go! storm th’ obdurate bosom, win the coy,
In seeming truth clothe fiction’s specious tale,
And with deep maiden shame thy bold advances veil.

“First, if thou canst, take Godfrey in the thrall
Of thy sweet looks and amiable address,
Till his soul sickens at the trumpet’s call,
And the world’s war dissolves in a caress;
But if this feat surpass thy skill, possess
His bravest nobles, and in friendship’s guise
Transport them to some boundless wilderness,
Ne’er to return:” — he opens his device,
And adds — “All means our faith — our country sanctifies!”

Armida, in her youth and beauty’s pride,
Assumed th’ adventure, and at close of day,
Eve’s vesper star her solitary guide,
Alone, untended, took her secret way.
In clustering locks and feminine array,
Arm’d but with loveliness and frolic youth,
She trusts to conquer mighty kings, and slay
Embattled hosts; meanwhile false rumors sooth
The light censorious crowd, sagacious of the truth.

Few days elapsed, ere to her wishful view
The white pavilions of the Latins rise;
The camp she reach’d — her wondrous beauty drew
The gaze and admiration of all eyes;
Not less than if some strange star in the skies,
Or blazing comet’s more resplendent tire
Appear’d; a murmur far before her flies,
And crowds press round, to listen or inquire
Who the fair pilgrim is, and sooth their eyes’ desire.

Never did Greece or Italy behold
A form to fancy and to taste so dear!
At times, the white veil dims her locks of gold,
At times, in bright relief they reappear:
So, when the stormy skies begin to clear,
Now through transparent clouds the sunshine gleams;
Now, issuing from its shrine, the gorgeous Sphere
Lights up the leaves, flowers, mountains, vales and streams,
With a diviner day — the spirit of bright beams.

New ringlets form the flowing winds amid
The native curls of her resplendent hair;
Her eye is fix’d in self-reserve, and hid
Are all Love’s treasures with a miser’s care;
The Rival Roses upon cheeks more fair
Than morning light, their mingling tints dispose;
But on her lips, from which the amorous air
Of paradise exhales, the crimson rose
Its sole and simple bloom in modest beauty throws.

Crude as the grape unmellow’d yet to wine,
Her bosom swells to sight; its virgin breasts,
Smooth, soft, and sweet, like alabaster shine,
Part bare, part hid by her invidious vests;
Their jealous fringe the greedy eye arrests,
But leaves its fond imaginations free,
To sport, like doves, in those delicious nests,
And their most shadow’d secrecies to see;
Peopling with blissful dreams the lively fantasy.

As through pure water or translucent glass,
The sunbeam darts, yet leaves the crystal sound,
So through her folded robes unruffling pass
The thoughts, to wander on forbidden ground:
There daring Fancy takes her fairy round,
Such wondrous beauties singly to admire;
Which, in a pleasing fit of transport bound,
She after paints and whispers to Desire,
And with her charming tale foments th’ excited fire.

Praised and admired Armida pass’d amid
The wishful multitudes, nor seem’d to spy,
Though well she saw, the int’rest raised, but hid
In her deep heart the smile that to her eye
Darted in prescience of the conquests nigh:
While in the mute suspense of troubled pride
She sought with look solicitous, yet shy,
For her uncertain feet an ushering guide
To the famed Captain’s tent, young Eustace press’d her.

As the wing’d insect to the lamp, so he
Flew to the splendor of her angel face,
Too much indulgent of his wish to see
Those eyes which shame and modesty abase;
And, drawn within the fascinating blaze,
Gath’ring, like kindled flax, pernicious fire
From its resplendence, stupid for a space
He stood — till the bold blood of blithe desire
Did to his faltering tongue these few wild words inspire.

“Oh Lady! if thy rank the name allow,
If shapes celestial answer to the call, —
For never thus did partial Heaven endow
With its own light a daughter of the Fall, —
Say on what errand, from what happy hall,
Seek’st thou our camp? and if indeed we greet
In thee one of the tribes angelical,
Cause us to know — that we, as were most meet,
May bend to thee unblamed, and kiss thy saintly feet”

“Nay,” she replied, “thy praises shame a worth
Too poor to warrant such a bold belief;
Thou seest before thee one of mortal birth,
Dead to all joy, and but alive to grief;
My harsh misfortunes urge me to your Chief, —
A foreign virgin in a timeless flight;
To him I speed for safety and relief,
Trusting that he will reassert my right:
So far resounds his fame, for mercy and for might.

“But, if indulgent courtesy be thine,
To pious Godfrey give me strait access!”
“Yes, lovely pilgrim,” he replied, “be mine
The task to guide thee in thy young distress:
Nor is my interest with our Chieftain less
Than what a brother may presume to vaunt;
Thy suit shall not be wanting in success;
Whate’er his sceptre or my sword can grant,
Shall in thy power be placed, to punish or supplant.”

He ceased, and brought her where, from the rude crowd
Apart, with captains and heroic peers,
Duke Godfrey sate; she reverently bow’d,
A sweet shame mantling o’er her cheek, and tears
Stifling her speech: he reassured her fears,
Chid back the blush so beautifully bright,
Till, sweeter than the music of the spheres,
Their captive senses chaining in delight,
Her siren voice broke forth, and all were mute as Night.

“Unconquer’d Prince!” she said, “whose name supreme
Flies through the world on such a radiant plume,
That kings and nations conquer’d by thee, deem
Their deed of vassalage a glorious doom, —
Well known thy valor shines, thy virtues bloom;
And while thy foes revere them and admire,
They, on their part, invite us to assume
The confidence we need, and to desire
Aid at thy hands, and aid requested to acquire.

“Thus I, though nurtured in the faith you hate,
And strive to cancel from the world’s wide page,
Hope to regain by thee my lost estate,
My sceptre, and ancestral heritage:
Others, oppress’d by foreign force, engage
The succors of their kindred; I, alas,
Defrauded of their pity at an age
Which claims it most, against my kindred, pass
And hostile arms invoke — the ghost of what I was!

“To thee I call, on thee depend, for thou
Alone canst conquer back mine ancient crown;
Nor shouldst thou be less prompt to raise the low,
Than on the proud to call destruction down;
Lovelier is Mercy’s smile than Valor’s frown,
A suppliant cherish’d than a foe undone:
And ’twere less glorious to thy just renown,
Whatever hazards in the task were run,
To lay whole realms in dust, than thus relumine one.

“But if our varying faiths — my Gentile creed —
Move thee to disregard my humble prayer,
Let my sure faith in thine indulgence plead
My cause, nor prove an illusory snare:
Lo! before universal Jove I swear, —
God over all, from whom all empire flows, —
A juster quarrel never claim’d thy care;
But listen! frauds, conspiracies, and foes,
Of these my story treats, — a tale of many woes.

“The daughter I, of Arbilan who reign’d
In fair Damascus — less by birth made great,
Than merit; Queen Cariclea he obtain’d
In marriage, and with her possess’d the state:
Her death, alas, did almost antedate
My worthless life! I issued from the womb
As she expired; the self-same hour of fate,
(Oh birth too dearly bought! oh ill-starr’d doom I)
Me to the cradle gave, my mother to the tomb.

“Five summer-suns had scarcely spent their fire,
Since Death’s pale Angel call’d her to the skies,
Than, yielding to the lot of all, my sire
Rejoin’d her sainted shade in Paradise.
He left his brother, by his last devise,
Sole regent of the kingdom and of me;
Thinking that if the natural pieties
In mortal breast had mansion, they must be
Lock’d in his kindred heart with virtue’s strictest key.

“Thus then he play’d the tutor to my youth,
And with such show of kindness, that each wind
Voiced far and near his uncorrupted truth,
Paternal love, and bounty unconfined:
Whether the guilty movements of his mind
Beneath a flatt’ring face he thought to hide,
Or that he then sincerely was inclined
To make me happy, as the destined bride
Of his ungracious son — ’twere idle to decide. —

“I grew in years, and with me grew his son;
But to no brave accomplishments, no store
Of sciences or arts could he be won,
He hated knightly deeds and princely lore:
Beneath a hideous countenance he bore
A baser soul, while pride and avarice
His heart pervaded to its inmost core;
Savage in manners, slave to drink and dice,
None but himself could be his paragon in vice.

“And now it was that my kind guardian strove
To wed me with this ill-assorted thing,
A goodly gallant for a lady’s love,
To charm as bridegroom, and to reign as king!
Rhetoric he used — he used address to bring
The ardent hopes with which his fancy swell’d
To their vow’d end, but never could he wring
From me the fatal promise, — I rebell’d,
And all his golden lures disdainfully repell’d.

“At last he left me with a gloomy face,
His elvish heart transpicuous in his look;
Too well my future story could I trace
In the dire leaves of that prophetic book!
Thenceforth each night alarming visions shook
My slumbers, — in my ears strange outcries shrill’d,
And phantoms frown’d on me; my spirit took
The ghastly impress of their forms, and thrill’d
With dread forebodings, since — how fatally fulfill’d!

“And oft my mother’s piteous ghost appear’d;
Ah! how unlike her smiling face portray’d
In picture, loving, lovely, and endear’d,
Now all illusion, and a pallid shade!
‘Fly! O my child, fly! fly!’ the figure said,
‘Instant death threatens thee, and swift as Light
Will the stroke fall; — the traitor’s toils are laid; —
The poison in its gay glass sparkles bright:’
This said, it glided by, and melted into night.

“But what, alas, avail’d it that my heart
Received this presage of the perils near,
When, unresolved to act the counsell’d part,
My sex and tender age gave way to fear!
To rove through deserts, woods, and mountains drear
In willing exile, — undefenced to go
From my paternal realm, seem’d more severe
Than to yield up the struggle to my foe,
And there to close mine eyes where first they woke in wo.

“I dreaded death; yet, (will it be believed?)
With death at hand, I durst not flee away;
I fear’d e’en lest my fear should be perceived,
And thus accelerate the fatal day:
Thus restless, thus disturb’d, without one ray
Of comfort, I dragg’d on my wretched life,
In a perpetual fever of dismay;
Like the doom’d victim, who, in thought’s last strife,
Feels, ere th’ assassin stabs, th’ anticipated knife.

“But, whether my good Genius ruled, or Fate
Preserved me yet for days of deeper gloom,
One of the noblest ministers of state,
Whose youth my sire had foster’d, sought my room;
In brief disclosing, that the hour of doom
Fix’d by the fiend, was now upon the wing:
That he himself had promised to assume
The murd’rous office, and the poison wring,
That night, in the sherbet my page was wont to bring.

“Flight, he assured me, was my sole resource
In this my crisis of despair, and pray’d
That since bereft of every other force,
I would accept his own effective aid:
His counsels, full of comfort, soon persuade
My undetermined spirit; to the wind
I gave my fears, and only now delay’d
Till eve’s gray veil the tell-tale light should blind,
To leave all that I loved and hated, far behind.

“Night fell; an ebon darkness, more obscure
Than usual, its kind shadows round us spread,
When with two fav’rite maids I pass’d secure
The guarded palace, join’d my guide, and fled:
But through the trembling tears I ceaseless shed,
Long look’d I back on the receding towers,
Insatiate with the sight; all objects fed
My sorrow; each one spoke of happier hours,
The hills, the lamp-lit mosques, and hallow’d cypress bowers.

“To them my looks, my thoughts, my sighs were given,
As on I speeded, malecontent though free;
I fared like an unanchor’d pinnace driven
From its loved port by whirlwinds far to sea:
All the long night and following day we flee,
By paths no human foot had ever press’d;
Till on the confines of my realm we see
Its last baronial seat, — there, tired, we rest,
Just as the sun’s slow orb forsook the fulgent west.

“It was the castle of the gen’rous knight,
Arontes, who had made my life his care;
But when the baffled traitor by our flight
Perceived I had escaped the mortal snare,
His rage flamed forth against us both; and ere
I could arraign him, intricate in ill,
Gathering a fresh presumption from despair,
He charged on us his own all-evil will, —
The selfsame crime which he was studious to fulfil.

“He said I had the false Arontes bribed
To mix destroying poisons in his bowl,
Impatient of the maxims he prescribed
To curb my lust, that free from all control,
I might pursue the bias of my soul,
And with voluptuous blandishments commend
My beauty to a thousand youths: — Skies! roll
Your thunders, let avenging fires descend,
Ere I thy sacred laws, blest Chastity, offend!

“That avarice and ambition, pride and pique
Urge him to shed my guiltless blood, must claim
Grief and alarm; but that the wretch should seek
To fix dishonor on my spotless name,
Goes to my heart: he, fearing now the flame
Of pop’lar rage, with smooth-tongued eloquence,
Forges a thousand falsehoods to my shame;
So that the city fluctuates in suspense
Betwixt the guilt of both, nor arms in my defence.

“Yea, though he sits on mine authentic throne,
Though my tiara sparkles on his brow,
Dominion spurs him but more keenly on,
To work me farther injury, shame, and wo:
With fire and sword he threatens to o’erthrow
Arontes in his fortress, if in chains
He yield not, and on me denounces now
Not merely war, but stripes and fearful pains,
While flows one drop of blood in my rebellious veins.

“This — under color of a lively zeal
To purge away the stains of my disgrace,
And to its ancient purity anneal
The golden sceptre which my crimes debase!
But the true motive is a wish to place
His claims beyond dispute: while I remain
Heir to the crown, he fears no plea can grace
His kingly usurpation, so is fain
To build upon my death the basis of his reign.

“And e’en such end awaits his fell desire;
He must enjoy what he is fix’d to gain,
And in my heart’s blood quench the boundless ire
Which all my tears were powerless to restrain,
If thou, alas, my suppliant prayer disdain!
To thee — a wretched girl, weak, innocent,
Orphan’d — I fly; must my sad tears in vain
Fall on thy holy robes! relent! relent!
Oh, by the knees I grasp, forbid his fierce intent!

“By these thy feet, that on the proud and strong
Triumphantly have trod; by thy right hand;
By thy past victories, a choral throng!
And by the temples of this sacred land,
Freed by the sword, or to be freed, — withstand,
Thou only canst, his merciless decree;
My crown, my life preserve, secure, command,
Merciful Sire! but vain is mercy’s plea,
If first religious right and justice move not thee.

“Beloved of Heaven! thou destined to desire
That which is just, and thy desires achieve,
Save me! my kingdom thou wilt thus acquire,
Which I in fief shall thankfully receive;
Let ten of these heroic champions leave
The camp beneath my conduct; their renown,
Spread through the city, will my cause retrieve,
Will win my faithful people to strike down
With ease the man of crime, and repossess my crown.

“Yea, more: a Noble to whose keeping falls
A secret gate, has promised me access,
At dead of night, to my paternal halls;
But some small aid he counsell’d me to press:
The least, the least thou grantest to redress
The grievances I suffer, will inflame
His hopes with surer prospects of success,
Than if from other kings whole squadrons came,
So high he ranks thy flag, so high thy simple name i!

She ceased; but still her mute imploring eye
Spoke eloquence beyond the reach of prayer:
Doubtful alike to grant as to deny,
A thousand various thoughts, absorb’d in care,
Godfrey revolved; he fear’d some Gentile snare
Couch’d in her tears, some ambuscade of art;
He knew who kept not faith with God, would dare
Break league with man; still pity pleads her part,
Pity — which never sleeps within a noble heart.

His native ruth inspires the wish that she
Deserved the grace; and policy on ruth
Succeeding, whispers it were wise to free,
And fix in rich Damascus one whose truth,
Enforced by the dependency of youth,
May much avail him, with her feudal arms,
The course of his sublime designs to smooth, —
To minister supplies against th’ alarms
Of Egypt’s muster’d tribes and tributary swarms.

While thus from wav’ring thought to thought he flies,
Revolves, and re-revolves, the eager maid
Fix’d on his downcast face her pleading eyes,
And its least workings breathlessly survey’d;
And when his answer longer was delay’d
Than she had hoped, she trembled, droop’d, and sigh’d;
Her quiv’ring lips the heart’s alarm betray’d;
Pale grew her face: at length the Prince replied,
And in these courteous words mildly her suit denied.

“If God’s own quarrel had not claim’d these swords,
Now oath-bound to his cause, thy hopes might rest
Thereon in perfect trust, — not pitying words,
But valid actions had thy wrongs redress’d;
But while his heritage is thus oppress’d
Beneath the harsh rod of a tyrant king,
How can we grant, fair Lady, thy request?
Divided hosts declining fortunes bring,
And check the flowing tide of vict’ry in its spring.

“But this I promise, — firmly may’st thou trust
The word I pledge, and live secure from fear, —
If e’er we conquer from a yoke unjust
These towers, to Heaven and piety so dear,
To pity’s voice I will incline mine ear,
Thee on thy lost throne to exalt; but now,
No pitying sympathies must interfere
To cancel what to the Most High we owe,
And for a mortal’s sake dissolve our solemn vow.”

At this the mournful Princess droop’d her head,
And stirless stood, as Niobe of yore;
Then raised her eyes, impearl’d, to heaven, and said,
While all the woman at their founts ran o’er, —
“Lost! lost! O skies! O stars! what evils more
Do ye prescribe? did ever one fulfil
A doom so harsh, so merciless before!
Woe’s me! all natures change; the world grows chill;
I only vary not, immutable in ill!

“Now farewell hope! now welcome misery!
All prayer in human breasts has lost its force;
Am I to hope the tears that touch’d not thee,
Will move the barb’rous tyrant with remorse? —
Yet, though denied this pitiful resource,
With no reproach thy rigor shall be paid;
It is my Genius I accuse — the source
Of all my ills, — my Genius, who has made
(Godfrey’s a ruthless heart, — ’tis him that I upbraid.

“Not to thee, gracious Chieftain! not to thee
Lay I this crime, but to imperious Fate;
Oh, that her active tyranny would free
My weary spirit from a world I hate!
Was’t not enough, stern Power, to dedicate
Mother and sire e’en in their morn of life
To the dark grave, that from my high estate
Thou hast now toss’d me on this sea of strife,
And giv’n thy victim bound and blinded to the knife!

“Now holy sanctitude and maiden shame
Urge me to go, but whither shall I fly?
There is no refuge for a blighted name;
Earth holds no spot beneath the boundless sky
So secret, but the tyrant’s active eye
Will find it, and transpierce me; but — I go;
The Angel of Death approaching I descry;
Naught now is left but to forestall his blow;
None but Armida’s arm shall lay Armida low!”

She ceased: a gen’rous and majestic scorn
Fired all her features to a rose-like red,
And then she made as she would have withdrawn,
With grief and anger in her farewell tread:
Her eyes, ’twixt sorrow and resentment, shed
Tears thick as summer’s heat-drops — tears, that shine,
With the sun’s golden rays athwart them spread,
Like falling pearls, like crystals argentine,
Or sparkling opal-drops from some far Indian mine.

Her fresh cheeks, sprinkled with those living showers,
Which to her vesture’s hem, down gliding, cling,
Appear like snowy and vermilion flowers
Humid with May-dews, when romantic Spring,
In shadow of the green leaves whispering,
Spreads their closed bosoms to the amorous ah; —
Flowers, to which sweet Aurora oft takes wing,
Which with gay hand she culls with such fond care
In morn’s melodious prime, to bind her vagrant hair.

But the clear drops that, thick as stars of night,
On those fair cheeks and on that heaving breast
So shine, have all th’ effect of fire, and light
A secret flame in each beholder’s breast:
Oh Love! the marv’lous rod by thee possess’d,
Forever powerful over Nature, draws
Lightning from tears, and gives to grief a zest
Beyond the bliss of smiles; but nature’s laws
Its magic far transcends, in this thy darling’s cause.

Her feign’d laments from roughest warriors call
Sincerest tears; — their hearts to her incline;
Each is afflicted at her grief, and all
At Godfrey’s speech thus whisp’ringly repine:
“Surely he made the vex’d sea-roaring brine
His nursing cradle, and wild wolves that rave
On the chill crags of some rude Apennine,
Gave his youth suck: O, cruel as the grave,
Who could view charms like hers, and not consent to save!”

But Eustace, in whose young and gen’rous blood
Pity and love flow’d strongest, while the rest
But murmur’d and were silent, forward stood,
And dauntlessly his brother thus address’d:
“My Lord! far too inflexibly thy breast
Keeps to the firmness of its first design,
If to the common voice which would obtest
Thy clemency, thou dost not now incline;
Reverent of mercy’s claims and quality divine.

“Think not I urge the princedoms and the powers
Who rank dependent tribes beneath their care,
To turn their arms from these assieged towers,
And the first duties of the camp forswear;
But, warriors of adventure, we, who bear
Nor feudal flag nor delegated trust,
Who act without restriction, well may spare
At thy wise choice, and in a cause most just,
Ten guardian knights to one so helpless, so august.

“Know, he assists the cause of God, who toils
The rights of outraged virgins to maintain;
And precious in his sight must be the spoils
Which freemen hang on Freedom’s holy fane,
The glorious trophies of a tyrant slain:
Though then no interest counseled to the deed,
Duty would urge, and Knighthood would constrain
Me to assist the damsel in her need,
And without scruple go, where’er her voice may lead.

“Oh, by yon bright sun, tell it not in France!
Publish it not where courtesy is dear!
That of our nobles none would break a lance
In Beauty’s quarrel, let not Europe hear!
Henceforth, my lords, sword, corslet, helm, and spear,
I toss aside, and bid farewell to fame;
No gen’rous steed shall bear me in career
With swordless chiefs, where Chivalry weds Shame, —
I will no longer bear the knight’s degraded name!”

Thus spoke the youth, and all his Order there,
Applausive murmur’d in loud unison;
Praised his good counsel, and with urgent prayer
Closed round their Captain on his ducal throne.
“I yield,” at length he said, “but yield alone
To the desire of numbers, since the plea
Is one my private judgment would disown;
Grant we her boon, if such your pleasure be;
But know th’ advice as yours, it not proceeds from me:

“And, far as Godfrey’s counsel can persuade,
Temper your sympathies, be closely wise:”
He said no more, it was enough, — they paid
The kind concession with delighted cries.
What cannot Beauty, when her pleading eyes
From their deep fountains shower down tears of pain,
And to her amorous tongue sweet speeches rise?
From her divine lips glides a golden chain,
That wins to her dear will who most those tears disdain.’

Eustace recall’d her, took her passive hand,
And said, “Now cease, dear Lady, to repine;
The utmost succors that thy fears demand,
(Weep not) shall all, and speedily be thine:”
Then the dark aspect of her face grew fine, —
With her white veil she wiped the tears away,
And gave a smile so brilliant and benign,
You would have thought th’ enamor’d God of Day
In sunshine kiss’d the lips whose lustre shamed his ray.

And in her sweet voice and pathetic tone,
She gave them thanks for their exceeding grace;
Saying it should to the wide world be known,
And ever and forever have a place
Within her grateful heart: her working face,
And gestures with impassion’d meanings fraught,
Told what the tongue was powerless to express;
Thus masking in false smiles the end she sought,
Her varied web of guile she unsuspected wrought.

Who but Armida now exults to see
How fortune and kind fate the fraud befriend?
Who o’er each dark suggestion broods, but she,
To bring the plot to a successful end?
With beauty and sweet flatt’ries to transcend
Whate’er Medea’s witchcraft e’er design’d,
Or Circe’s incantations wrought, — to blend
Mischief with mirth, and the most watchful mind
As in Elysian sleep with siren songs to bind?

All arts th’ enchantress practised to beguile
Some new admirer in her well-spread snare;
Nor used with all, nor always the same wile,
But shaped to every taste her grace and air:
Here cloister’d is her eye’s dark pupil, there
In full voluptuous languishment is roll’d;
Now these her kindness, those her anger bear,
Spurr’d on or check’d by bearing frank or cold,
As she perceived her slave was scrupulous or bold.

If she mark’d some too bashful to advance,
Sick if unnoticed, diffident if seen,
Forth flew her radiant smile, her thrilling glance,
Sunny as summer and as eve serene:
Thus reassured, their dying hopes grow keen;
The faint belief, the languishing desire
Reviving brighten in their eager mien;
Those looks a thousand am’rous thoughts inspire,
And Fear’s pale frost-work melts in Fancy’s lively fire.

If some make bold to press her virgin palm,
Too rashly building on her former cheer,
She grows a miser of her eye’s mild charm,
Spares her fond smile, and frowns them into fear;
But through the wrath that fires her front austere,
And ruffles her sweet cheek, they may discern
Rays of forgiving pity reappear;
Thus do they droop, but not despair, and yearn
Tow’rds her in deepest love when she appears most stern.

Sometimes in lonely places she dissembled
Deep grief — the voice, the action, and the tread;
And oft when in her eye the loose tear trembled,
Crush’d, or reclaim’d it to the fountain-head.
Soon as those tragic gestures were ared,
A thousand striplings, vanquish’d by her art,
Would come and weep around her: Envy fed
Their phrensy, and Love, temp’ring his keen dart
In Pity’s scalding tears, shot torture through the heart.

Anon she starts from her abstraction, wakes
“With hope’s fresh whispers to her spirit; seeks
Her many lovers, talks to them, and shakes
The bright locks on her brow for joy, that speaks
Life to her lips, and to her glowing cheeks
New smiles; her eyes then sparkle as in scorn
Of their late griefs, — as when Apollo streaks
With fire the op’ning eyelids of the mom,
And every dark’ning cloud to distance has withdrawn.

But while she sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles,
And with this twofold sweetness lulls the sense,
She from its blissful cage well-nigh exiles
The soul, unused to rapture so intense;
Ah cruel Love! whether thy hand dispense,
Wreath’d with the cypress or the lotos-leaf,
Thy gall or nectar-cup, its quintessence
Maddens with ecstasy, or blights with grief;
Fatal thy sickness is, and fatal thy relief!

Through all these shifting tempers, while each knight
Fluctuates disturb’d, uncertain of her choice,
Through fire and frost, smiles, tears, fear, hope, delight,
The beauteous witch his agony enjoys:
If any e’er presumes with trembling voice
To tell his secret pain, her guilefulness
The glorious vision of his soul destroys;
She nor perceives his meaning, nor can guess, —
The very fool of Love and frank unconsciousness.

Or, casting down to ground her bashful eyes,
The blush of honor o’er her face she throws,
So that the alabaster white, which lies
In sweet confusion underneath the rose
That her celestial cheek irradiates, glows
Like the rich crimson on Aurora’s face,
When from the Orient first her form she shows;
And the red flush of anger keeping pace
With shame, combines to shed round shame a sweeter grace.

But if she one perceives resolved t’ avow
His warm desire, she stops her charmed ears;
Now shuns his converse, grants an audience now,
Then flies, returns, smiles, frowns, and disappears:
Thus in a war of wishes, sighs, and tears,
In vain pursuit he wastes his life away;
And with deluding hopes, afflicting fears,
Fares like the hunter who at dying day
Has lost in pathless woods all traces of his prey. —

These were the arts by which Armida took
A thousand spirits captive to her sleight,
Or rather, these the arms, with which she strook,
And made them bondslaves in their own despite.
What marvel elder Love subdued the might
Of Theseus fierce, and Hercules the strong;
When those who drew the sword in Jesu’s right,
Sooth’d by a siren’s smile, — a siren’s song,
Wore his enfeebling chains, and gloried in the wrong!