Book VI

But better hopes inspirit and make blithe
The hearts of the besieged: beside the grain
Stored from the reaping sickle and the scythe,
Beneath night’s fav’ring darkness they obtain
Fresh stores; and flank, and fortify amain
With engines and grim frieze the Northern wall;
Which, grown to giant height, seems to disdain
The shock of brazen rams, as idle all,
Nor dreads what man can do to work its purposed fall.

Yet still at morn, at eve, at radiant noon,
The Monarch higher gives his towers to soar;
Nor quits his labor when the stars and moon
Silver the dusk of night; and evermore,
New arms for battle forging to the roar
Of swelt’ring fires, armorer and artisan
Toil with strong limbs, till vigor be no more.
As thus th’ intolerable moments ran,
To him Argantes came, and boastful thus began:

“How long in these vile walls must we be bound,
Rebellious pris’ners, tamed by slow blockade?
I hear the clang of anvils; the shrill sound
From hauberk, helm, and shield, my ears invade;
But to what purpose is the proud parade?
These robbers at their license don the crest;
Scour all our fields; our palaces invade;
Yet none of us their progress dare molest,
Or one clear trumpet sound, to scare their golden rest.

“Them the gay lute and bounding dance employ,
Unbroken banquets and secure delights;
Their day is one long carnival of joy,
And ease and quiet crown their blissful nights:
But thou at length, when fiercely famine bites,
Conquer’d must fall, and with submission buy
The victor’s insults and the foe’s despites;
Or die without a blow, as cowards die,
If Cairo send not soon our ling’ring, late ally.

“Ne’er o’er the dial of my life shall run
The oblivious darkness of a death it hates;
Not e’en the lustre of another sun
Shall see me shut within these cursed gates
With this, my life’s poor fragment, let the Fates
Do what is fix’d for it in heaven or hell;
None e’er shall say in these inglorious straits,
That with his sword in sheath Argantes fell;
He will revenge disgrace, and earn his tomb too well.

“But if one spark of thy first chivalry
Still in thy bosom shed its fervent charm,
I should not hope in noble strife to die,
But live, enrich’d with honor’s proudest palm;
With one accord let us resolve to arm,
Confront the Christians, and the field contest;
How oft in deepest peril and alarm,
The most audacious strokes have proved the best;
And ills which Care increased, Distraction has redress’d.

“But if thou dread’st to play so bold a game;
If to stake all thy forces to decide
The war at once, be judged a frantic aim, —
At least in duel let the strife be tried:
And that with livelier willingness and pride
The Captain of the Franks may entertain
Our challenge, and th’ arbitrement abide,
Let him choose arms, take vantage of the plain.
And fix the terms of fight as he himself may deign.

“Then, if no hundred-handed Briareus
Arm on his side, how fierce soe’er he be,
Dread not that evil chance thy cause will lose,
Upheld by justice, and secured by me;
In place of fate and fortune’s blind decree,
My strong right hand shall from the stars pluck down
Consummate conquest for thy realms and thee:
Grasp it in pledge; now, by my old renown,
Trust me, they shall not shake one jewel from thy crown I”

He ceased, and Aladine replied: “In truth,
Though Age my pristine vigor has defaced,
Think not this scrupulous hand, too fervent youth,
A traitor to the sword it once embraced;
Think not my spirit slothful or debased;
Sooner with honor by the sword or spear
Would I expire, than die a death disgraced;
If I could entertain misdoubt or fear
That the distressful ills, announced, were really near.

“Allah such shame avert! What deep my art
From others hides, to thee shall now be shown:
The mighty Solyman, who burns in part
T’ avenge the loss of his Nicean throne,
Has roused Arabia from her utmost zone
Of sand to Alcai’ro, and relies
On all her tribes, when once his trumpet’s blown,
In the black night the foeman to surprise,
And pour into the town fresh succor and supplies.

“Soon will he join us; if meanwhile they reign
In our spoil’d castles, blinded by conceit
And careless ease, fret not, while I retain
My purple mantle and imperial seat;
But that rash courage and intemp’rate heat
Which hurries thee to such excess, abate:
And for a dignified occasion, meet
For thy renown and my deep vengeance, wait;
Soon the black storm will burst, and lightnings seal their fate.”

The haughty Pagan frown’d at this: high pride
And bitter spite boil’d in his breast, to hear
How on this Nicene prince the king relied,
His ancient rival and most fierce compeer:
“Sir,” he replied, in icy tone austere,
“’Tis thy undoubted right to wage or end
War at thy pleasure; I have done; wait here
The shiver’d sword of Solyman thy friend;
Let him who lost his own thy kingdoms safe defend.

“Proud as a patron God let him advance
To free thy people from their yoke abhorr’d;
Myself am my palladium ’gainst mischance,
Nor freedom ask but from this single sword.
But while the rest repose, the grace accord,
That I at least may my own wrongs requite;
That from the town descending to the sward,
Not as thy champion but a private knight,
I may at least engage the Franks in single fight.”

The king replied, “Although thou shouldst reserve
Thy sword and anger for a nobler use,
That thou defy some knight, if that will serve
Thy purpose, Aladine will not refuse.”
His herald then without a moment’s truce
Argantes spake, and with the daring boast
Dilating, said: “Give all thy swiftness loose;
And let this not mean challenge be proposed
To the Frank Duke below, in hearing of his host.

“Say, that a knight who longer scorns to crouch
Within the marble ramparts of the town,
Burns in the eye of angels to avouch,
By fact of arms, his prowess and renown;
That he to duel hastens to come down
Upon the plain midway ’twixt tent and tower;
To prove his valor on the golden crown
Of whatsoever Frank, of Franks the flower,
Dares to accept the gage, and try his martial power.

“And that not only is he girt to wage
Victorious battle with a single foe,
But with the third, fourth, fifth he will engage,
Villain or lord, with high-born or with low;
The vanquish’d shall the victor serve, for so
The rules of war ordain:” his message done,
The silver-sceptred herald turn’d to go,
And lightly threw his purple surcoat on,
Emblazed with golden arms that glitter’d in the sun.

When reach’d the tent of Godfrey the divine,
In presence of his Barons, “Prince,” he said,
“May perfect liberty of speech be mine
To tell a daring message without dread?”
He in assent inclined a haughty head,
And answer’d, “Ay! without the thought of fear,
Before us be the mighty venture spread:”
Then thus the herald, “Now will it appear
If the great news sound sweet or frightful to your ear!”

The knight’s defiance he at large exposed,
In glorying terms, magnificent and high; —
Loud murmur’d the fierce Lords, and round him closed,
Scorn on each lip, and pride in ev’ry eye:
Quickly their Lion-leader gave reply;
“A modest task methinks the knight has mused;
What think ye, Peers? dare we the battle try?
Much I misdoubt when he his sword has used
On the fourth knight, the fifth will wish to stand excused!

“But let him put it to the proof; I grant
Safe field and lib’ral; we have some shall dare
Advance, to lessen his presumptuous vaunt, —
They shall no vantage use, nor fact unfair,
I lift my sceptre to the stars, and swear!”
This heard, the sov’reign of the silver mace
Turn’d back by the same path he trod whilere;
Nor till he saw Argantes face to face,
Slack’d, for a moment slack’d, the swiftness of his pace.

“Arm!” he exclaim’d, “why hesitate to arm’
The challenge they accept with glad surprise;
Like sovereign heroes there the meanest swarm
To front you, — visors close, and lances rise;
I saw rage lighten in a thousand eyes;
I saw a thousand hands caress the sword
In passion for the fight; hark, how the skies
Sound to their shout, as though a river roar’d! —
Safe guard and ample field their Captain will afford I.

He heard, he call’d his Squire, and hurriedly
Braced on his mail, impatient for the plain;
While to the fair Clorinda standing by,
The king exclaim’d: “Brave Lady! to abstain
From arms, and in the city to remain,
While free Argantes issues out to fight,
Suit not thy rank; take then an armed train
For surer safety, and attend the knight;
At distance range their spears, but keep the lists in sight.

He ceased, and soon under the open sky
The troop rode forth in beautiful array,
And mark’d, far on before how gallantly
The knight, in wonted arms and trappings gay,
Cheer’d to the frequent spur his ardent bay: —
A plain there was, seem’d form’d by art, between
The camp and town; of wide extent it lay,
As though the Campus Martius it had been
Before another Rome, unswelling, smooth, and green.

There singly he descended; there, in sight
Of the collected Camp his station took;
By his brave heart, great bulk, and brawny might
Magnificent, and menacing in look
As huge Goliath by the vale’s clear brook,
Or grim Enceladus, before whose stride
Th’ aerial pines, and fields of Phlegra shook;
But many without fear the giant eyed,
For none his utmost strength in battle yet had tried.

Though Godfrey yet no champion had selected,
Whose brav’ry best the Camp might represent,
It was no secret whom they most affected —
All eyes, hopes, wishes were on Tancred bent;
To him the favor of all faces lent,
Spoke him th’ ascendant genius of the crowd;
And first a whisper round the circle went,
Which, faint awhile, grew momently more loud;
Nor less the General’s looks his own desire avow’d.

To him the rest give place, nor silent then
Remain’d the Duke; “The tilt be thine,” he cried;
“Tancred, meet thou the ruffian Saracen,
Repress his fury, and abase his pride:”
In Tancred’s face I would you had descried
What exultation shone, what boldness glow’d;
Proud to be named th’ antagonist defied,
He call’d for helm and steed; his steed bestrode;
And straight with num’rous friends from forth the intrenchments rode.

Within a bowshot of the ample field
Wherein Argantes for his champion stay’d,
On the near hill, upgazing, he beheld
The warlike figure of his Persian maid:
White were the vests that o’er her armor stray’d,
As snows on Alpine glaciers, and her face,
(For she her visor had thrown up) display’d
Grandeur sublime so sweet’ning into grace, —
The region seem’d to him some heavenly-haunted place.

He noted not where the Circassian rear’d
His frightful face to the affronted skies,
But to the hill-top where his Love appear’d,
Turn’d, slack’ning his quick pace, his amorous eyes,
Till he stood steadfast as a rock, all ice
Without, all glowing heat within; — the sight
To him was as the gates of Paradise;
And from his mind the mem’ry of the fight
Pass’d like a summer cloud or dream at morning light.

Th’ impatient Pagan, seeing none appear
In act preparative for battle, cried;
“Desire of gallant conflict brought me here,
Come forward one, and let the tilt be tried.”
Still Tancred stood as he were stupified;
The hero’s shout broke not his thoughtful trance,
But Otho, striking in His courser’s side
His shining rowels, bravely made advance
First in the vacant lists, and couch’d his eager lance.

He was of those whose ardent hope and aim
It was, with fierce Argantes to have fought;
To Tancred he indeed resign’d his claim,
And with the rest that Prince to battle brought;
But noticing him now, absorb’d in thought,
Fail the desired advantage to employ, —
Seeing the tournay he before had sought
Free to his lance, the bold impatient boy
Seized on the offer’d chance with rash and greedy joy.

Swift as the tiger or voracious pard
Springs through the crashing forest, Otho press’d
To the stout Mussulman, who, on good guard,
Laid his tremendous spear in sudden rest:
Then Tancred first awoke; then from the zest
Of am’rous thoughts as from a sweet dream started;
And cried, “The fight is mine! his course arrest!”
But the young champion now too far had darted
Within the lists, to be from his opponent parted.

Therewith he stay’d, while wrath and crimson shame
Glow’d on his cheek, and in his bosom boil’d,
Deeming it worse than falsehood to his fame,
Thus of the field’s first risks to be beguiled:
Meantime in mid career the hardy Childe
Struck the Circassian’s burganet, and tore
The feathers from its crown; but he, half wild,
With naked spear implacable for gore,
Quite clove his Redcross shield, and through the breastplate bore!

Push’d from his seat by rudeness of the blow,
The Christian fell, half senseless from the shock;
But his more vig’rous and athletic foe
Bore it unbow’d, impassive as a rock;
And thus began the prostrate knight to mock, —
Fierce was his gesture, insolent his tone, —
“Yield thee my slave! where proudest nobles flock,
’Twill be enough for thy renown, to own
That thou hast fought with me, and thus been overthrown!”

“No!” said the youth, “not quite so soon we use
To yield our arms and ardor on command:
Let others as they list my fall excuse,
I will revenge it, or die sword in hand!”
Fierce as Alecto, pitilessly grand,
With all the Gorgon raging in his face,
And breath like that of Ate’s flaming brand,
Argantes said, “And scom’st thou my good grace?
Learn then my power!” he spoke, and speaking spurn’d the place.

His rampant steed he drove at him, nor heeded
What to his chivalry was due; the Frank
From the rude onset, quick as thought, receded,
And dealt, in passing, at his dexter flank
A stroke so strong, that through his armor sank
The sword, incarnadine with blood; — the ground
Some rosy drops of the libation drank;
But what avail’d it to inflict a wound
That raised the conqueror’s rage, and left his vigor sound?

He curb’d his courser, whirl’d him round, bore back,
And almost in the twinkling of an eye,
Ere his charged foe could guard against th’ attack,
Trampled him down in grim ferocity:
Short drew his breath; quiver’d in agony
His legs, and with a faint, lamenting shriek
He swoon’d away; now low behold him he, —
On the hard earth thrown panting, bruised, and weak;
Half closed the languid eye, and pale the suff ’ring cheek.

Argantes, drunk with rage, enforced his way
With high curvettings o’er his victim’s chest;
And cried, “Let all proud knights obedience pay,
Like him whom thus my horse’s hoofs have press’d:”
Undaunted Tancred in his manly breast
At this barbaric action could restrain
His wrath no longer; shaking his black crest,
He forward spurr’d, ambitious to regain
His wonted fame eclipsed, and clear its recent stain.

“And O,” he cried, advancing, “spirit base!
E’en in thy conquests, infamous! what meed,
What title to esteem, what claim to praise
Hop’st thou, accursed, from such a villain’s deed!
With Arab robbers or the like fierce breed
Of ruffians, surely thou wert bred; — away!
Back to thy loathed den of darkness speed;
Midst hills and woods go raven for thy prey
With other wolves by night, more savage far than they!!

The Pagan Lord, to such affronts unused,
Bit both his lips, wrath’s strangled orators;
He would have spoke, but only sounds confused
Broke forth, such sounds as when a lion roars;
Or, as when lightning cleaves the stormy doors
Of heaven, to rouse from its reluctant rest
The thunder growling as the tempest pours;
For ev’ry word which he with pain express’d,
Escaped in tones as gruff, from his infuriate breast.

When by ferocious threats they each had fired
His rival’s pride, and fortified his own,
Some paces back they rapidly retired,
And met, like two black clouds together blown.
Queen of the Lyre! down from thy Delphic throne
Descend with all thy talismans and charms;
Breathe in my ringing shell thy hoarsest tone,
That to their rage attemper’d, its alarms
May with the shock, repeat the clangor of their arms!

Both placed in rest, and levell’d at the face
Their knotty lances; — ne’er did tiger’s spring,
Nor ardent charger in the rushing race,
Match their swift course, nor bird of swiftest wing;
Here Tancred, there Argantes came! — to sing
The force with which they met, would ask the cry
Of angels, — sudden the shock’d helmets ring;
Their spears are broke; and up to the blue sky
A thousand lucid sparks, a thousand shivers fly.

That shrill blow shook Earth’s firm volubil ball;
The mountains, sounding as the metals clash’d,
Pass’d the dire music to the towers, till all
The City trembled; but the shock, which dash’d
Both steeds to earth, as each for anguish gnash’d
Its teeth, and shriek’d its noble life away,
Scarce bow’d their haughty heads; they, unabash’d,
Sprang lightly up, war’s perfect masters they,
Drew their gold-hilted swords, and stood at desp’rate bay.

Warily deals each warrior’s arm its thrust,
His foot its motion, its live glance his eye;
To various guards and attitudes they trust;
They foin, they dally, now aloof, now nigh,
Recede, advance, wheel, traverse, and pass by,
Threat where they strike not, where they threat not dart
The desp’rate pass; or, with perception sly,
Free to the foe leave some unguarded part,
Then his foil’d stroke revenge, with art deriding art.

Prince Tancred’s thigh the Pagan knight perceives
But ill defended, or by shield or sword;
He hastes to strike, and inconsid’rate leaves
His side unshielded as he strides abroad;
Tancred fail’d not instinctively to ward
The stroke, beat back the weapon, and, inspired
With eager hope, the guardless body gored;
Which done, of either gazing host admired,
He nimbly back recoil’d, and to his ward retired.

The fierce Argantes, when he now beheld
Himself in his own gushing blood baptized,
In unaccustom’d horror sigh’d and yell’d,
With shame discount’nanced, and with pain surprised;
And, both by rage and suff ’ring agonized,
Raised with his voice his sword aloft, to quit
The sharp rebuke; but Tancred, well advised
Of his intent, afresh th’ assailant smit,
Where to the nervous arm the shoulder-blade was knit.

As in its Alpine forest the grim bear,
Stung by the hunter’s arrow, from its haunts
Flies in the face of all his shafts, to dare
Death for the wild revenge, no peril daunts;
Just so the mad Circassian fares, so pants
For blood, as thus the foe his soul besets,
When shame on shame, and wound on wound he plants;
And his revenge his wrath so keenly whets,
That he all danger scorns, and all defence forgets.

Joining with courage keen a valor rash,
And untired strength with unexampled might,
He showers his strokes so fast, that the skies flash,
And earth e’en trembles in her wild affright:
No time has the alarm’d Italian knight
To deal a single blow; from such a shower
Scarce can he shield himself, scarce breathe; no sleight
Of arms is there t’ assure his life an hour
From the man’s headstrong haste and brute gigantic power.

Collected in himself, he waits in vain
Till the first fury of the storm be past;
Now lifts his moony targe; now round the plain
Fetches his skilful circles, far and fast;
But when he sees the Pagan’s fierceness last
Through all delay, his own proud blood takes fire;
And, staking all his fortunes on the cast,
He whirls his sword in many a giddy gyre,
Requiting strength with strength, and answ’ring ire with ire.

Judgment and skill are lost in rage; rage gives
Resentment life; fresh force resentment lends;
Where falls the steel, it either bores or cleaves
Chainplate or mail; plumes shiver, metal bends,
Helms crack, and not a stroke in vain descends;
The ground is strew’d with armor hewn asunder,
Armor with blood, with ruby blood sweat blends;
Each smiting sword appears a whirling wonder,
Its flash the lightning’s fire, its sullen clang far thunder.”

Both gazing nations anxious hung suspended
Upon a spectacle so wild and new;
With fear, with hope, the issue they attended,
Some good or ill perpetually in view;
Not the least beck or slightest whisper flew
Mid the two hosts so lately in commotion;
All nerve alone, all eye, all ear, they grew
Fix’d, mute, and soundless as an eve-lull’d ocean,
Save what the beating heart struck in its awful motion.

Now tired were both; and both, their spirits spent,
Had surely perish’d on the field of fight,
Had not dim eve her length’ning shadows sent,
And e’en of nearest things obscured the sight;
And now on either side in apposite
Array, a rev’rend herald rose, and sought
From the keen strife to sep’rate each his knight;
This Aridos, Pindoro that, who brought
Of late th’ insulter’s boast, and terms on which they fought.

Safe in the sacred laws of nations kept
Religiously from hallowing age to age,
The swords of both they dare to intercept
With their pacific sceptres, and the sage
Pindoro spoke; “Suspend, my sons, your rage:
Equal your glory, equal is your might;
No longer then th’ invet’rate warfare wage,
Nor with rude sounds unamiable affright
Rashly the holy ear of quiet-keeping Night!

“Lull’d in soft rest by night each creature lies;
Man should but toil while shines the daily sun,
And noble bosoms will but lightly prize
E’en noble deeds in silent darkness done.”
Argantes then: “To quit the strife begun
Pleases me ill, though darkness ride the air;
Yet worthier far will be my conquest won
Beneath the eye of day; then let him swear,
Here for fresh proof of arms again to make repair.

To whom the high Italian: “Thou too plight
Thy promise to return, and bring with thee
Thy captive to the lists, or ne’er, proud knight,
Look thou for other time than this from me.”
Thus swear they both by what may holiest be;
And the choice heralds meditate what time
May best subserve the combat; they decree,
(Consid’rate of their wounds,) the hour of prime,
When the sixth morning’s breeze sheds coolness through the clime.

This dreadful battle left in every heart
Deep horror, mighty wonder, and chill fear,
Which cannot be forgot, nor soon depart,
And open gloom and counterfeited cheer.
The force and valor shown by either peer
Alone the talk of all employ’d — how well,
And stubbornly they fought; but which with clear
Pre-eminence of power did most excel,
Perplex’d the vulgar thought; in sooth no tongue could tell.

All wait in sharp anxiety to see
What fate will crown the strife; if rage shall quail
To the calm virtue of pure chivalry,
Or giant strength o’er hardihood prevail:
But deepest cares and doubts distract the pale
And sensitive Erminia; her fond heart
A thousand agonies and fears assail;
Since, on the cast of war’s uncertain dart,
Hangs the sweet life she loves, her soul’s far dearer part.

She, daughter to Cassano, who the crown
Wore of imperial Antioch, in the hour
When the flush’d Christians won the stubborn town,
With other booty fell in Tancred’s power:
But he received her as some sacred flower,
Nor harm’d her shrinking leaves; midst outrage keen
Pure and inviolate was her virgin-bower;
And her he caused to be attended, e’en
Amidst her ruin’d realms, as an unquestion’d queen.

The gen’rous knight in every act and word
Honor’d her, served her, sooth’d her deep distress,
Gave her her freedom, to her charge restored
Her gems, her gold, and bade her still possess
Her ornaments of price: the sweet Princess,
Seeing what kingliness of spirit
’d
In his engaging form and frank address,
Was touch’d with love; and never did Love bind
With his most charming chain a more devoted mind.

Thus, though in person free, her spirit ever
Remain’d his willing thrall; and many a tear,
Many a last look, many a vain endeavor,
It cost her to depart from one so dear,
And quit her blissful cage; but shame austere,
And princely chastity, whose least command
The high-souled lady ever must revere,
Forced her to take her aged mother’s hand,
And an asylum seek in some far friendly land.

To tower’d Jerusalem she came, and there
Was richly entertain’d; but ’twas her doom,
Too soon the sable vests of wo to wear,
And plant the cypress round her mother’s tomb:
But not the grief, the sickness, and the gloom,
Not all that bitter exile could inspire,
From her delicious cheek might brush the bloom,
The rosy bloom of amorous desire,
Or quench in her soft heart pure Passion’s ling’ring fire.

She loved, she glow’d, poor girl! and yet was far
From happy, for her love hoped no return;
Indeed, she turn’d far oftener to the star
Of Mem’ry, than of Hope; as in an urn
Hiding within her breast the thoughts that burn
Fiercest in secret: to foment the flame,
Vain as it was, was long her sole concern;
Till with the war to Salem, Tancred came,
And Hope again flash’d forth like lightning through her frame.

Others beheld with gloom and pale dismay
Such tameless numbers to the plain advance:
But her dark looks at once grew bright, and gay
She mark’d the banners float, the white plumes dance;
And roll’d throughout the host an eager glance,
The gen’rous hero of her heart to see;
Oft the vain search her sadness would enhance;
Yet oft she recognised him, in fond glee
Shook her rich locks, and said: “That, that indeed is he!”

Near to the walls, within the palace, soar’d
A lofty tower antique, from whose steep height
The eye at its own pleasant will explored
The camp, the mountains, and the field of fight;
There would she sit from the first hour that light
Bathed the gray battlements, till seas and skies
Grew dark with the impurpling hues of night; —
There would she sit, fond dreamer! with her eyes
Turn’d to the Christian camp, and spend her soul in sighs.

’Twas thence she view’d that battle, whose least blow
Made her heart tremble in its dainty cell,
And send its strong pulsations to and fro,
As if in solemn tone it toll’d the knell
Of hope, and sounded to her soul — “Farewell
To Tancred!” troubled thus, with fear profound
She watch’d each fortune that her knight befell;
And ever as the Pagan’s sword flew round,
Felt in her own fond heart and brain th’ inflicted wound.

But when the fatal tidings reach’d her ear
That the fierce conflict must afresh be tried,
Her sick blood curdled in its flow; blank fear
Appall’d her, and her heart within her died;
Now she pour’d forth wild tears; now sorely sighed;
And now to unseen glooms stole, seeking there
The strong convulsions of her soul to hide;
Grief in her gaze, distraction in her air,
She seem’d the passive slave and picture of Despair.

And frightful shapes and images possess’d
The organs of her fancy; types and themes
More drear than death, if e’er she sank to rest,
Throng’d to her sleep, and shook her midnight dreams:
Now to her sight her loved Crusader seems
Mangled and bleeding, or assaulted rears
To her his fond beseeching arms, and screams
For her vain help; till, leaping with her fears,
She wakes, and finds her eyes and bosom bathed with tears.

But dread of future ills was not the worst
Of her solicitudes; rude visit ings
Of fancy thoughtful of his wounds unnursed,
Ruffled her soul, and loosed its silver springs;
Nor less each fresh report that Rumor brings
In her fallacious circuit, magnifies
Her pict’rings of unknown and distant things,
Till she at length admits the wild surmise,
That at the point of death her languid warrior lies.

And as her mother taught her in her youth
The virtues of all herbs by saint or sage
For medicine cull’d, with all the charms that sooth
The thrilling wound, and calm the fever’s rage, —
An art which from the Patriarchal Age
The East’s prescriptive usages accord
To virgins e’en of princely parentage, —
With her own hand would she, of risk unawed,
Tend, and to health restore the bruises of her lord.

To heal her love was her desire, to cure
His foe her bitter task: she thought to seek
Sometimes for pois’nous herbs that might ensure
His death; but such malignant arts her meek
And pious hands recoil’d from — she could speak,
Not execute the scheme: but she might nurse
At least the wish, her piety to pique,
That some kind power the blessings would reverse
Of all her balms and spells, and change them to a curse.

She had no fear to go midst adverse nations,
Who was so much a pilgrim; she had seen
The anarchy of battle, desolations,
Adversities, and slaughters; and had been
So toss’d by Fate through each tumultuous scene,
That now her gentle mind a strength display’d
That was not in its nature, — fix’d, serene;
No more to shake with ev’ry wind that play’d
Amongst the midnight woods, nor shriek at ev’ry shade.

But more than all, Love, headstrong Love, removed
From her all sense of fear: she would have faced,
Devoid of terror, for the man she loved,
The snakes and lions of the Lybian waste,
And deem’d her passage sure; but though in haste
To please her will existence she disdain’d,
She trembled lest her name should be disgraced;
Two potent rivals, Love and Honor,
’d
Within her maiden breast, and dubious strife maintain’d.

“Beloved young Virgin,” Honor whisper’d, “well
Hast thou preserved my statutes to this hour!
Think how I kept, by mine immortal spell,
Chaste thy fair limbs when in the spoiler’s power;
And wilt thou, now that thou art free, the flower
Of holy Chastity unwoo’d resign,
So closely treasured then? beshrew thy bower?
How canst thou once indulge the dread design!
What thoughts, alas, what hopes, dear maid, are these of thine!

“Hold’st thou thy glory at a price so slight,
The priceless glory of a maiden’s fame,
That thou must go, Love’s paranymph, by night
Mid adverse hosts to court unquestion’d shame?
“No,’ the proud victor coolly will exclaim,
‘Thou with thy throne thy dignity of mind
Hast lost, — a prize so worthless I disclaim;’ —
Say, canst thou brook to be by one so kind
To some more vulgar feere contemptuously resign’d?

Next Love, the flatt’ring sophist, with a tongue
Sweet as the nightingale’s, her soul beguiled;
“Thou wert not, gentle maid, from rude rocks sprung,
Or nursed by wild wolves in the fruitless wild,
That thou shouldst scorn soft Cytherea’s child,
His admirable bow and dulcet dart,
Forswearing bliss; then blush not to be styled
His votaress, young and charming as thou art, —
Heaven ne’er has cursed that form with an unyielding heart.

“Go then where mild Desire thy steps invites!
Canst thou conceive thy victor harsh or vain,
Who know’st how much thy grief his grief incites,
How thy complaints e’en move him to complain?
’Tis not His harshness then, but thy disdain
That thou shouldst deprecate, who with so slow
An inclination mov’st to ease his pain:
Thy virtuous Tancred dies, stern girl, and lo —
Thou must be sitting here to aid his worthless foe!

“Yes, cure Argantes, that his sword may smite
Thy benefactor to the dead! what then,
Wouldst thou thus cancel, wouldst thou thus requite
Th’ unmeasured kindness of the best of men?
Canst thou once doubt, that the vile Saracen
Will fail on Tancred and on thee to bring
Yet sharper pangs, restored to arms again?
Let the mere dread and horror of the thing
Suffice to speed thee hence as on the turtle’s wing.

“It would be some humanity to stand
His dutiful physician! what delight
Would it not be to lay thy healing hand
Upon the brave man’s breast! how exquisite
To watch, as at thy call, the roseate light
Of health descend with freshness to displace
The pallid hues which now his beauty blight;
And on the coloring roses of his face,
As on thine own rich gifts, admiringly to gaze!

“So shouldst thou share in all the after-fame
Of his romantic exploits; so should sweet
And unreproved caresses crown thy flame;
And prosp’rous nuptials make thy joy complete:
Then into beauteous Italy, the seat
Of high-born worth, thou go’st, a glorious bride;
While Latin girls and mothers at thy feet
Scatter young flowers, and point at thee with pride,
Seated in Tancred’s car, like Love by Valor’s side.”

With these light hopes, sweet simple girl, upbuoy’d,
She fondly deem’d all Paradise her own;
Yet still a thousand doubts her mind annoy’d, —
How could she pass out through the gates, unknown;
For trumpets at the least alarm were blown,
And station’d guards paraded, without pause,
The court, the streets, and ramparts of the town;
Nor might the gates, by Aladine’s wise laws,
Be night or day unbarr’d, but on some urgent cause.

It was Erminia’s wont, long hours, to hold
Converse with brave Clorinda: them the sun
Together view’d, as down the skies he roll’d, —
Them, when his orient progress was begun;
And when his circuit through the heavens was runs.
On the same couch together they reposed;
And all her thoughts and feelings, save the one
Her glowing spirit loved and mused on most,
Were to the Persian maid familiarly disclosed.

This only secret to herself alone
She kept; and if she did but once complain,
Or unawares let fall a sigh or groan,
Straight she disguised it on pretence of pain
For her
’d home: so strict the chain
Of their connection now was grown, that ne’er
Did mute or maiden offer to restrain
Erminia’s access to her, whatsoe’er
Might be th’ immediate theme that claim’d their Lady’s care.

She came one eve — Clorinda was away, —
Yet pensive she sat down, and inly weigh’d
Each mode of art by which she might essay
The so-much-wished departure, unbetray’d;
There while a thousand thoughts her mind, unstay’d
In its designs, revolved, nor could decide
Which to adopt, by the mild light that play’d
On the white walls, suspended she descried
Clorinda’s arms and vest: she saw them, and she sigh’d:

And sighing, thus exclaim’d: “Heroic dame,
How envy I thy fortune! not that thou
Art lovely in thy might, — not for the fame
And vaunt of thy wild beauty, Dearest, no!
But thee no envious cell restrains; no flow
Of cumbrous garments curbs thy steps, — thy weeds
Are of the beaten silver: thou canst go
By night or day where’er thy humor leads;
No fear thy course controls, no bashfulness thy deeds.

“Ah, wherefore did not Heaven to me accord
A strength like hers! then might I change the veil
For the plumed helm, the quiver for the sword,
And pall of purple for the shirt of mail:
Then neither thunder, heat, nor hoary hail
Should mew my love within these towers of stone:
But or in open day, or by the pale
Pure planet of the night, would I begone,
Arm’d, to the Christian camp, attended or alone.

“Then thou, accursed Argantes, hadst not fought
First with my lord: I would have sought the plain,
And struck, perhaps a noble conquest wrought,
And hither brought my vassal to sustain,
Forged by revengeful Love, a red-rose chain
Gay as the light, and playful as the air;
Charm’d with that fond beguilement of my pain,
I should have felt the bonds he makes me wear,
Sweet for my servant’s sake, and passing light to bear.

“Or else his hand the passage had explored
To my poor heart, and piercing through my breast,
His kindly-cruel and unhinder’d sword
Had cured the wound his image there impress’d:
Then would my weary spirit be at rest;
Perchance the victor, piteous of my doom,
With one kind tear my obsequies had graced;
Raised the lone urn, and o’er my early tomb
Bade the green cypress wave, th’ unwith’ring laurel bloom.

“Alas, I dream wild things! what have I said?
My thoughts are in a maze of follies lost;
Shall I then stay, lamenting, yet afraid
To act, like a weak slave or shiv’ring ghost?
I will not! no! mount, spirits, to your post!
My bold heart, fortify my tim’rous cheek!
Can I not use these arms for once? at most,
It is but a brief hardship that I seek;
Can I not bear their weight, though tender, faint, and weak?

“I can; I will; true Love will make me strong, —
Love gives the weakest strength: e’en the tame deer,
Prick’d by his kindly heat, to battle throng
In antler’d vigor, without care or fear:
I have no wish indeed with helm or spear
To war, like them; but only, by their rape,
Like my beloved Clorinda to appear;
If I of her but take the armed shape,
Beneath the pleasant fraud I make my sure escape.

“The warders will not dare but ope for her
The portal-gates, and a free pass allow;
I think again.... no other means occur;
This method only can avail my vow.
O, gentle Love! in this sharp need, do thou
Favor my flight, as thou inspir’st my wit;
And Fortune, stand benignant! even now
Prove I your power, — this is the time most fit,
While yet Clorinda’s cares the mask’d attempt permit.”

Thus, fix’d was her resolve; delay was none;
By the rash fervor of her passion sway’d,
From her friend’s near apartment to her own,
Clorinda’s arms she secretly convey’d, —
For at her entrance each attendant maid
Retired, and she remain’d alone; while Night,
Blind patroness of thefts and frolics play’d
By gentle lovers, fav’rer of her flight,
Rose o’er the silent world, and hid the spoils from sight.

She, when she saw the bloom of sunset fade,
And Love’s pale star put forth its sparkling fire,
No moment of her precious time delay’d,
But sent a secret summons for her squire,
And for her fav’rite maid, in whose entire
Devotion to her person she reposed
Implicit trust: to them her strong desire
To quit th’ invested city she disclosed;
But feign’d that other cause the timeless step imposed.

Quick was the Squire, and active to provide
What for the journey he conceived was meet;
While young Erminia laid her vests aside,
That hung for pomp below her graceful feet;
And to her flower’d cymar disrobed complete.
Never did virgin bride a shape display
So elegantly slender; charms so sweet
Surpass the power of fancy to portray:
Prompt stands the fav’rite maid her Lady to array.

The hard cold steel oppresses and offends
Her delicate smooth neck and golden hair;
Her arm, unequal to the burden, bends
Beneath the huge shield she aspires to bear:
Arm’d, the bright Virgin cast a dazzling glare,
And fashion’d her nice step and aspect mild
To a proud stride and military air;
Love near her clapp’d his little wings, and smiled,
As when in female weeds Alcides he beguiled.

Oh, how fatiguing every moment grew
Th’ unequal weight! how slow her falt’ring Pace!
Faint to her handmaid for support she drew,
And by her help moved onward a short space;
But Love renews her spirits, bright hopes brace
Her sinews strength’ning as her fear abates;
So that at length they reach the chosen place,
Where the mute Squire for their arrival waits,
Vault on their steeds, and seek at once the guarded.

Disguised they went, the least -frequented ways
Selecting well; yet pass’d they many a band
Of soldiers under arms, and saw the blaze
Of bick’ring armor flash on ev’ry hand;
But none of those they met with, durst withstand
Their uncommission’d progress, nor presume
E’en to require the signal of command;
Awed they pass’d on, for through the evening gloom
All knew the silver arms and dreaded tigress plume.

Erminia, though this homage had dispersed
The strongest of her doubts, was ill at ease;
Still for her bold design she fear’d the worst;
And heard discov’ry sound in ev’ry breeze.
But now the portals of the town she sees;
Checks her alarm, and in commanding state
Boldly confronts the keeper of the keys:
“For Aladine!” she cries, “unbar the gate!
Heave the portcullis up! the hour is waxing late.

Her female tone and form give added power
To the mask’d fraud; (for who would think to see
Arm’d and in saddle, at so dusk an hour,
A gentle lady of her high degree?)
So that the guard obeys at once, and she,
With the two press’d attendants that partake
Her flight, proceeds; for full security
Resolved to thread the vales, by bush and brake
Gliding in noiseless stealth, long winding tracks they take.

But when Erminia saw herself at last
Deep in the lonely vales, she curb’d her steed;
For her first peril she accounted past, —
And well aware that she had now no need
For apprehension, gave attentive heed
To the still voice of prudence, which, she grieved,
Had been in her desire’s impetuous speed
Pass’d by unheard: her access she perceived
Would prove more hard to win, than she at first believed.

She now perceived the folly of a flight
In borrow’d arms amid her angry foes;
Nor, on the other hand, till to the knight
She came, would she her rank or name disclose;
But, secret and reserved as the moss-rose
In its enfolding leaves, would first acquire
Pledge of deserved reception; whence she goes
More gently o’er the grass, and her desire,
Lower’d to cool caution’s key, thus trusts to her sure squire.

“My faithful servant! thee have I design’d
For my precursor; but be swift and wise:
Haste to the camp, and some auxiliar find
To introduce thee where Prince Tancred lies;
Him of my coming tranquilly apprize:
Say, ‘That a pitying lady comes to pour
Oil in his wounds, and on his grace relies
For peace, whom warring Love has wounded sore;
So may our mutual gifts our mutual ease restore!

“‘One, who on him does such full trust repose,
That in his hands she fears nor wrong nor scorn:’
This only — to his private ear disclose,
And if he wishes aught beside to learn,
Tell nothing, nothing know, but straight return;
I (for the spot a sense of safety brings)
Will meanwhile in the valley make sojourn:”
This said, her faithful herald forward springs;
And scours the vale as though endued with actual wings.

With such a dext’rous skill his aim he wrought,
He won the jealous sentries, pass’d them clear,
And to the warrior on his couch was brought,
Who heard the message with delighted ear.
Left to himself, th’ astonish’d cavalier
Lay full of thought, and in his fancy weigh’d
A thousand doubtful things, by hope and fear
At once possess’d: the answer which he made
Was, that she safe might come, and secret as the shade.

But she meanwhile impatient, in whose eyes
Each moment seem’d an age, to care a prey,
Counts to herself each sep’rate step, and cries,
“Now he arrives, now speaks, now hastes away;”
Next she upbraids his indolent delay;
Chides his unusual want of diligence;
And, weary grown of his eternal stay,
Spurs till she gains the nearest eminence,
Whence her dilating eye discerns the distant tents.

On high were the clear stars; the gentle Hours
Walk’d cloudless through the galaxy of space,
And the calm moon rose, lighting up the flowers
With frost of living pearl: like her in grace,
Th’ enamoured maid from her illumined face
Reflected light where’er she chanced to rove;
And made the silent Spirit of the place,
The hills, the melancholy moon above,
And the dumb valleys round, familiars of her love.

Seeing the Camp, she whisper’d; “O ye fair
Italian tents i how amiable ye show!
The breathing winds that such refreshment bear,
Ravish my soul, for ’tis from you they blow!
So may relenting Heaven on me bestow, —
On me, by froward Fate so long distress’d, —
A chaste repose from weariness and wo,
As in your compass only lies my quest;
As ’tis your arms alone can give my spirit rest.

“Receive me then, and in you let me find
Love’s gentle voice, which spoke of pity, true;
And that delightful music of the mind,
Which in my bless’d captivity I drew
From my lord’s mercy; patronized by you,
I have no wish to reobtain and wear
My regal crown, — adieu, vain pomps, adieu!
Enough for me if Tancred grants my prayer;
More bless’d in you to serve, than reign a queen elsewhere.

Ah, little does she think, while thus she dreams,
What is prepared for her by Fortune’s spite!
She is so placed, that the moon’s placid beams
In line direct upon her armor light:
So far remote into the shades of night
The silver splendor is convey’d, and she
Surrounded is, with brilliancy so bright,
That whosoe’er might chance her crest to see,
Would of a truth conclude it must Clorinda be.

And, as Fate will’d, close couch’d in the high fern,
In stations due of distance interposed,
Two brave Italian brothers, Polypheme,
And, paramount, Alcander, had disposed
Full fifty youths, the flower of Tancred’s host,
To intercept the Saracens’ supply
Of flocks and herds from the Arabian coast;
Erminia’s servant but escaped their eye
By his long winding track, and speed in gliding by.

Watchful young Polypheme, whose aged sire
Before his eyes Clorinda lately slew,
Saw the white arms, the feminine attire,
And the charged helmet for Clorinda’s knew;
Rash and unguarded in his wrath, he drew
His urged attendants from the covert near;
And, as on fire for vengeance forth he flew,
Shouted aloud, “’Tis well; death waits thee here!”
And lanced, but lanced in vain, his formidable spear.

As when a hind, inflamed with fervid thirst,
Seeking the cool refreshing fountains, sees
A clear spring gushing from a crag, or burst
Of some cascade o’erbower’d with leafy trees, —
If, while she thinks to taste the shade at ease,
And quaff the waves up that so sweetly roar,
The hunter’s horn sounds shrilly in the breeze,
Back, back she rushes, nor remembers more
The faintness, thirst, and heat, that fired her limbs before:

So she, who thought in Tancred’s pure embrace
To quench the love which she began to find.
Inflame her heart, and, anchor’d on his grace,
To woo repose to her so weary mind,
Hearing the clang of weapons on the wind,
And the loud menace of the hunters arm’d
To thwart her pleasures, tremblingly resign’d
Thought of the joy that woo’d, the wish that warm’d,
And spurr’d her courser back, distracted and alarm’d.

Away the Princess flies, her snorting steed
Trampling with swift intelligential feet
The echoing soil; with imitative speed
Flies too her handmaid, while with steps less fleet
The troop pursue; and now the squire discreet,
With his untimely tidings comes in sight
Of the pale maid, perceives her in retreat,
And, press’d, participates her dubious flight;
Wide o’er the plains they speed, diversely driv’n by fright.

But the more wise Alcander, though he too
Had the same counterfeit Clorinda seen,
Would not th’ already challenged maid pursue,
But kept still close within his leafy screen;
And sent to say, that through the valleys green
Nor fleecy sheep had pass’d, nor lowing steer;
And that no foe had intercepted been,
But strong Clorinda, who in panic fear
Fled from his brother’s call and close -pursuing spear:

And that he could not reas’nably conceive
That she, the Lady Chieftain of the land,
Not a mere warrioress, would choose to leave
The town at such an hour, but on some grand
And hardy enterprise, for mischief plann’d
Against the camp; yet, ere he shifted thence,
He look’d for Godfrey’s counsel or command:
The scout that brought the news of these events.
Passing, divulged it first amid th’ Italian tents.

Tancred, who yet had scarce the doubts allay’d
Raised by the message which the Syrian bore,
Thinks, what if for my sake the courteous maid
Risks her dear life! ah! what if all be o’er!
He leaps from off his couch, assumes no more
Than half his arms, in still and secret haste
Climbs to his steed, the strange event t’ explore,
And, following the clear footmarks freshly traced,
Glides like a shooting star across the moonbright waste.