Book VII

Through the brown shade of forests ivied o’er
With age, meanwhile, divine Erminia fled;
Her trembling hand the bridle ruled no more;
And she appear’d betwixt alive and dead.
The steed that bore her with th’ instinctive dread
Of danger, at its own wild mercy, through
Such winding paths and bosky mazes sped,
That it at length quite rapt her from the view;
Baffling the eager hopes of those that would pursue.

As when, after some long and toilsome chase,
The hounds return, a sad and panting train,
Leaving the prey it mocks their skill to trace,
Lodged in some thicket from the open plain;
So, full of shame, resentment, and disdain,
Their far pursuit the weary knights resigned;
Yet still the timid Virgin fled amain
Through the drear woods, disconsolate of mind,
Nor once look’d back to mark if yet they press’d behind.

All night she fled; and all the day succeeding,
Still without guidance or reflection, flies
O’er dale and hill, naught list’ning to, or heeding,
But her own tears, but her own mournful cries;
Till now, what time the sun, descending, dyes
The clouds with crimson, leaving earth in shade,
Fair Jordan’s lucid current she descries;
There first her steed’s bewilder’d step she stay’d;
Her bed the chill green bank, her bower the wild woods made.

Repast she yet had none; her only diet
The food that sorrow from remembrance brings;
But Sleep at length, pain’s balm, and care’s sweet quiet,
O’er her closed eyes displays his brooding wings;
Seals with his opiate rod the many springs
Of thought, and in serene oblivion steeps
Her sense of grief; but forms of vision’d things
Disturb her flutt’ring spirit while she sleeps, —
Still Fancy’s pictured porch unsilenced Passion keeps.

She slept, till in her dreaming ear the bowers
Whisper’d, the gay birds warbled of the dawn;
The river roar’d; the winds to the young flowers
Made love; the blithe bee wound its dulcet horn:
Roused by the mirth and melodies of morn,
Her languid eyes she opens, and perceives
The huts of shepherds on the lonely lawn;
While seeming voices, ’twixt the waves and leaves,
Call back her scatter’d thoughts, — again she sighs and grieves.

Her plaints were silenced by soft music, sent
As from a rural pipe, such sounds as cheer
The Syrian shepherd in his summer tent,
And mix’d with past’ral accents, rude but clear.
She rose; and gently, guided by her ear,
Came where an old man on a rising ground
In the fresh shade, his white flocks feeding near,
Twig-baskets wove, and listen’d to the sound
Trill’d by three blooming boys, who sate disporting round.

They at the shining of her silver arms
Were seized at once with wonder and despair;
But sweet Erminia sooth’d their vain alarms,
Discov’ring her dove’s eyes, and golden hair.
“Follow,” she said, “dear innocents, the care
Of fav’ring Heaven, your fanciful employ!
For the so formidable arms I bear,
No cruel warfare bring, nor harsh annoy,
To your engaging tasks, to your sweet songs of joy!

“But, Father, say, while the destructive fire
Of war lays waste the country wide and far,
How live you free from military ire,
Beneath the charm of what benignant star?”
“My son,” said he, “from the rude wrongs of war
My family and flocks in this lone nook
Were ever safe; no fears my quiet mar;
These groves to the hoarse trumpet never shook;
Calm rolls yon stately stream, calm flows yon woodland brook.

“Whether it be that Heaven protects in love
The chaste humility of shepherd swains,
Or, as its lightnings strike the crag’s tall grove,
But leave untouch’d the roses of the plains, —
That so the wrath of foreign swords disdains
To harm the meek heads of the lowly poor,
Aiming alone at lofty kings, — our gains
Tempt not the greedy soldier to our door;
Safe stands our simple shed, despised our little store.

“Despised by others, but so dear to me,
That gems and crowns I hold in less esteem;
From pride, from avarice is my spirit free,
And mad ambition’s visionary dream.
My thirst I quench in the pellucid stream,
Nor fear lest poison the pure wave pollutes;
With flocks my fields, my fields with herbage teem;
My garden-plot supplies nutritious roots;
And my brown orchard bends with Autumn’s wealthiest fruits.

“Few are our wishes, few our wants; Man needs
But little to preserve the vital spark:
These are my sons; they keep the flock that feeds,
And rise in the gray morning with the lark.
Thus in my hermitage I live; now mark
The goats disport amid the budding brooms;
Now the slim stags bound through the forest dark;
The fish glide by; the bees hum round the blooms;
And the birds spread to heaven the splendor of their plumes.

“Time was (these gray hairs then were golden locks,)
When other wishes wanton’d in my veins;
I scorn’d the simple charge of tending flocks,
And fled disgusted from my native plains.
Awhile in Memphis I abode, where reigns
The mighty Caliph; he admired my port,
And made me keeper of his flower-domains;
And though to town I rarely made resort,
Much have I seen and known of the intrigues of court.

“Long by presumptuous hopes was I beguiled,
And many, many a disappointment bore;
But when with youth false hope no longer smiled,
And the scene pall’d that charm’d so much before, —
I sigh’d for my lost peace, and brooded o’er
Th’ abandon’d quiet of this humble shed;
Then, farewell State’s proud palaces! once more
To these delightful solitudes I fled;
And in their peaceful shades harmonious days have led.’

This his discourse so sweetly did subdue
The secret sorrows of the list’ning maid,
Each word, descending to her heart, like dew,
The fev’rish passion of her soul allay’d:
That, when the measure she had inly weigh’d —
Her present peace, and her so late dismay, —
She stood resolved within the silent shade
Of these sweet solitudes, at least to stay,
Till for her safe return kind Heaven might smooth the way;

And thus replied: “O fortunate and wise!
Who hast thyself experienced, nor forgot
The ills of cruel fortune! if the skies
Be nothing jealous of thy blissful lot,
Pity my woes, and to this pleasant spot
Deign to receive me, stung with sorrow’s smart;
In the safe shelter of thy welcome cot
And these still shades, I may perhaps in part
Lose the oppressive weight that hangs around my heart.

“And if what crowds fall down to and adore
As idols, gold and jewels, thou shouldst prize,
Rich e’en in ruin, I have here a store
That well thine utmost wishes may suffice.”
Then, show’ring from her bright benignant eyes
Tears like those dropp’d from heaven’s resplendent bow,
Part of her history she told: with sighs
And tears, in concord with her own that flow,
The pitying shepherd heard the narrative of wo;

And straight, with all a father’s love and zeal,
He took her to his heart, sooth’d her distress,
And to his wife, whose heart alike could feel
For others’ sorrows, led the fair Princess.
Her arms she changes for a pastoral dress,
And with rude riband binds her dainty hair;
Yet still, her graceful manner of address,
Movement of eyes and steps the truth declare,-
Was never woodland girl so delicately fair!

Those rustic weeds hid not the princely fire
And grandeur so instinctively her own;
In every action through her quaint attire,
The latent spirit of the Lady shone;
Whether she drove her flocks to range alone
The thymy down, or penn’d them in the fold;
Or, to wild ditties sung in mournful tone,
The dulcet cream in churns revolving roll’d,
Till firm the fluid fix’d, and took the tinge of gold.

Oft when her flocks, from summer’s noontide rays,
Lay in cool shades o’erarch’d by gadding vines,
She carved on beeches and immortal bays
Her Tancred’s name, and left the mossy pines
With sad inscriptions flourish’d, silent signs
Of the unhappy flame her fancy fed;
And when again she saw her own fond lines,
As she the melancholy fragments read,
Fresh tears of grief uncheck’d her lovely eyes would shed:

And weeping she would say; “Forever be,
O ye dear trees, historians of my wo!
That when two faithful lovers rest, like me,
In the cool shade your verdant boughs bestow,
Their hearts with gen’rous sympathy may glow;
And, as this volume of my griefs they view,
Say to themselves, ‘Ah, never may we know
Her pangs, poor maid! ’tis hard a love so true
Should be so ill repaid by Love and Fortune too I’

“Perhaps, if Heaven benignly hears the vow
And prayer affectionate of girls unblest,
He who cares nothing for Erminia now,
May wander to these woods, where buried rest
Her virgin relics, early dispossess’d
Of life’s pure fire, — may, glancing on my grave
White with spring’s violets, beat his manly breast,
And to my griefs — the first he ever gave —
Yield a few gracious tears, too late, alas, to save!

“Thus, though in life most miserable, in death
Bliss to my spirit shall at least arise;
And my cold ashes, quicken’d by his breath,
Enjoy what now my evil star denies.”
While thus, the tears fast streaming from her eyes,
To the deaf trees she talk’d in fondest phrase,
Th’ unconscious object of her plaintive cries,
As chance or froward fortune guides him, strays
In search of her, far-off, through dark and dreary ways.

Following the impress of her horse’s hoof,
He reach’d the neighb’ring wood; there brier and fern
So choked the way, and from its leafy roof
The checker’d shade grew momently so stern,
That he no more could ’mid the trees discern
The recent prints, but through the gloom profound
Wander’d perplex’d; at almost every turn
List’ning if, chance, from the deep glens around,
Of arms or trampling steeds his ear might catch the sound.

And if but the night breeze in beach or oak
Shook the still leaves, if but a timid bird
Sped through the rustling boughs, from slumber woke,
Or fiercer creature in the thicket stirr’d,
To the vague murmur instantly he spurr’d;
At length he issued from the wood’s blind maze.
And to a noise mysterious, which he heard
Remote, — beneath the yellow moon’s bright rays,
Rode, till he held the cause subjected to his gaze.

A steep he reach’d, where from the living stone
Fell in full streams a beautiful cascade;
Which, curb’d into a flood, went roaring on,
And the whole valley like a garden made.
Here he his fruitless steps dejected stay’d;
He call’d — but Echo of his eager cries
Made mock’ry, vocal from the greenwood shade, —
None else; meanwhile he saw — with tranquil eyes,
Blooming with white and red the new Aurora rise.

He sigh’d, he storm’d, he angrily repined,
And of his disappointment Heaven accused;
But deepest vengeance vow’d, if he should find
That the dear maid had been at all abused.
Back to the Camp at length, when he had mused
What step to take, his course he fix’d to steer,
Although the way was dubious and confused;
For well he knew the stated time drew near,
When he again should fight th’ Egyptian cavalier.

Through many a winding path as he advanced,
He heard the sound of hoofs; nor was it long,
Ere up the narrow vale in prospect, pranced
One, courier-like, who shook a waving thong;
Gay at his side by chains of silver hung
An ivory horn, in our Italian mode
Across his shoulders negligently slung;
Tancred of him inquired the nearest road
To Godfrey’s camp, which straight the ready strange? show’d:

Adding in Tuscan; “Thither am I bent,
By Bohemond’s command;” the knight, this heard,
Deem’d him his uncle’s post, and with him went,
In full reliance on his guileful word.
They came at length to where, alike unstirr’d
By breeze or storm, a stagnant lake embay ’d
A castle; huge the pile its waters gird;
On the dark towers the sun one moment play’d,
Then sudden sank to sea, and left the world in shade.

Arrived, the courier blew his signal horn,
Instant a drawbridge fell athwart the fosse;
“Sir Knight,” he said, “thou here canst rest till morn,
If Frank thou art, or follower of the Cross;
These towers Cosenza’s Earl, with little loss,
Three days since wrested from the Turk:” the knight
Gazed on the antique structure, — gray with moss,
Gloomy, yet grand it show’d, of giant height,
Nobly defenced by art, impregnable in site.

A pile so strong, conceal’d, he was afraid.
Some secret treason or malignant charm;
But, to all risks accustom’d, he betray’d
Neither by sound nor sign the least alarm;
For well he trusted in his own right arm,
Where’er by choice or Fortune led, to make
Terms of complete security from harm;
But, pledged already, and his fame at stake,
No fresh adventure now he cared to undertake.

Before the Castle, where in the green lea
The drawbridge ceased to span the sullen tide,
He therefore paused; nor would persuaded be
To follow o’er the flood his wily guide.
But now an armed warrior he descried
On the pontoon, of fierce and scornful mien;
Sublime his statue, haughty was his stride;
In his right hand a naked sword was seen,
And thus he spake in terms decisive, stern, and keen.

“O thou whom choice conducts, or fortune charms
To tread, beguiled, Armida’s fatal lands!
Think not of flight; strip off those idle arms,
And to her chains submit thine abject hands.
Free to thy feet her guarded palace stands,
The bliss to taste, the fealty to swear,
Which she to others offers, and commands;
Look not to see heaven’s sunshine more, whate’er
May be thy youth of years, or hoariness of hair; —

“Unless thou swear her edicts to enforce,
And with her other slaves to death pursue
All Christ’s detested sons:” at this discourse
The knight regarded him, on closer view,
The arms and accents recognised, and knew
Rambaldo for his foe, — the Gascon base,
Who with Annida from the camp withdrew,
Pagan became, and here, to his disgrace,
Maintain’d the evil rules and customs of the place.

The pious warrior blush’d with holy scorn,
And answer’d; “Cursed apostate! know that I
That Tancred am, who aye for Christ have borne
The warrior’s weapon on my martial thigh.
Strong in His strength, his rebels I defy,
And tame; as thou, if thou but enterprise
Thy sword with mine, shalt surely testify;
For the just anger of th’ insulted skies
Has chosen this strong right hand thy treason to chastise.”

Aghast at mention of his glorious name
Stood the false knight, but cloak’d his fear, and said;
“Ill-starr’d the hour when to these shores you came,
In Eblis’ halls to join the silent dead!
Here shall thy crest be shorn, thy spirits shed;
To the last drop thy heart’s blood will I spill,
And to your Captain send that haughty head,
In gift of grace, if but my prowess still
Be, what it ever was, consistent with my will.”

While thus the Pagan spoke, the shades of night
Shut up their view; when swift, around, on high,
Cressets, and lamps, and urns of golden light
Filled the dusk element with brilliancy:
Gay shone the Castle to th’ enchanted eye,
As in a theatre the shifted scene,
When gorgeous Tragedy sweeps sceptred by;
And in her lofty latticed bower, the Queen
Unmark’d spectatress sate, and smiled behind her screen.

Meanwhile the Christian Chief begins to fit
His arms and courage to the coming fight,
Nor on his feeble courser will he sit,
His foe on foot, but generously alight.
The foe comes cover’d with his buckler; bright
The helmet glitters on his head, and bare
Shines his raised cimeter in act to smite;
’Gainst him the Prince too flies, his worst to dare,
Like thunder sounds his voice, his eyes like lightnings glare.

That, in wide circles wheels averse, in strict
Defence of art, feigns, motions, falsifies;
This though late wounds and faintness sore afflict,
With bold impatience the near conflict plies;
And when his foe draws back, in quick surprise
Springs with the utmost speed he can command,
To intercept, or smite him as he flies;
While ever and anon his active hand
To the unguarded face directs its flashing brand.

With yet more eagerness the Prince assails
The vital parts, and every stroke he deals.
Quits with high threats; the Gascon’s courage fails.
His ears ring inward, and his blood congeals:
Now here, now there in panic fear he wheels,
Lithe and alert as an assaulted snake;
With live eye circumspect his blows he steals;
And now with sword, now shield, essays to make
The knight’s impetuous steel a slant direction take.

But he to ward off harm is not so swift
As that fierce foe is active to assail;
Batter’d his helm, his shield’s already cleft,
And bored and bloody is his plated mail.
Of Tancred’s meditated blows, none fail
Of their effect, not one descends in vain; —
Each keenly wounds; the renegade turns pale,
And his heart writhes at once beneath the pain
Of anger, pride, remorse, love, conscience, and disdain.

On one last effort of despairing pride
Resolved at length his dying hopes to set,
He casts the fragment of his shield aside,
Grasps with both hands his sword, uncrimson’d yet,
And, closing nimbly with his foe, to get
The full command and vantage of the ground,
Quits with so sharp a stroke his heavy debt,
That through both plate and mail the flesh it found,
And in the warrior’s side impress’d a grisly wound.

Next on his spacious brows he struck, — the steel
Lake an alarm-bell rang; a stroke so dire
And unexpected made the warrior reel
Some paces back, yet left the helm entire.
Red grew the prince’s cheeks for very ire;
In agony of shame his teeth he gnash’d;
His eyes were like two coals of living fire,
And ev’ry glance that through his visor flash’d,
Blasted the Gascon’s pride, both blasted and abash’d.

He heard the hissing of th’ Avenger’s steel,
Brandish’d aloft; its shining he descried;
Already in his breast he seem’d to feel
Th’ accelerated sword his heart divide,
And tremblingly recoil’d; the blow fell wide
On an antique pilaster that emboss’d
The marble bridge, — sparks flash’d on ev’ry side;
Fragments sprang forth and in the skies were lost;
While to the traitor’s heart fear shot its arrowy frost.

Back to the bridge he rush’d, in speed reposing
His hopes of life, — behind, th’ Avenger hung
On his fleet steps, now near, now nearer closing,
One hand already to his shoulder clung;
When lo! from trembling air the lights are wrung;
The cressets disappear; the tapers die; —
Gone was each star that in blue ether hung;
The yellow moon drew in her horns on high;
And all grew hideous shade beneath the vacant sky.

Through the thick glooms of witchcraft and of night
Naught could the Prince distinguish to pursue;
Still he press’d on, though ignorant if aright,
His steps confused and dubious as his view:
Bewilder’d thus, he to the portals drew,
By evil chance the threshold he pass’d o’er,
And of his fatal entrance nothing knew,
Till hoarse behind, with repercussive roar,
The sullen hinge flew back, and lock’d the closing door.

As from our seas to the Comacchian bay,
Urged by the fury of the driving tide,
The vex’d fish joys to cleave its wanton way
Where calm and smooth the silent waters glide,
And locks itself unconsciously inside
The marshy jail; nor finds, till it would dart
Back to the ocean, all escape denied;
For the strange estuary, with curious art,
To all free access yields, but lets not one depart:

So Tancred there (such artful springs involved
The wizard work of that mysterious den,)
Enter’d with ease, but found, on flight resolved,
No human foot might pass its walls again.
He shook the massy gate with might and main;
The lock essay’d; the brazen hinges tried;
But found the effort void, the project vain:
“In vain,” a loud voice in the distance cried,
“Seek’st thou to flee from hence, lorn thrall of queen Armide!

“Here thou, thus livingly entomb’d, shalt waste
(Fear not for death) thy days and years alone;”
The hardy knight replied not, but compress’d
Within his heart affliction’s rising groan.
Love inly he accused, — love, fate, his own
Small wit, and his false guide’s deceptions fell;
“’Tis not,” he murmur’d in desponding tone,
“’Tis not to bid the cheerful sun farewell
Can make my heart with grief or proud resentment swell.

“That were small suff’ring; but I lose, alas,
Of a diviner sun the lovelier grace!
Ignorant if e’er these gates I shall repass,
Or e’er again the blissful sight embrace
Of my love’s stately form and radiant face:”
Therewith the image of Argantes came,
And deepen’d his distress; “O due disgrace!”
He cried; “with too just cause will he defame
My truth; alas th’ affront! the fix’d eternal shame!

While love, while honor thus his spirit stings,
Nor peace, nor rest the fierce Argantes knows
On his soft pillow; from the couch he springs,
And such his scorn of indolent repose,
Such lust for glory in his bosom glows,
That though his former wounds are yet unsealed,
And twinge him still with intermittent throes,
He burns to see the sixth day-dawn revealed,
And hear the trumpet sing his summons to the field.

Scarce could the Paynim rest the previous night,
Scarce close an eyelid; restless with desire,
He rose while heaven was starry, long ere light
Had touch’d the mountain-peaks with ruddy fire;
And “Bring my arms!” he shouted to his squire, —
His ready arms the active servant brought;
Not those he wont to wear, but bright attire
Of plate, which Aladine had late besought
The man t’ accept, with skill and wondrous labor wrought.

He takes them, little curious of their pride,
Not ill his limbs the weighty burden bear;
And last, his wonted sabre to his side
He girds, of purest steel, antique and rare.
As with its bloody locks let loose in air,
Horribly bright, the Comet shows whose shine
Plagues the parch’d world, whose looks the nations scare,
Before whose face states change, and powers decline,
To purple Tyrants all an inauspicious sign, —

So in his arms he sparkled, and askance
His eyes, with blood and rage inebriate, roll’d;
A mortal menace shone in ev’ry glance,
Nor of his vassals was there one so bold.
As trembled not sincerely, to behold
His face of horror, and the scorn display’d
In fierce gesticulations; in his hold
He strain’d, he raised, he shook his naked blade,
Wounding the empty air and unessential shade.

“Right soon,” he cried, “shall the vain-glorious wretch
That in close fight with me presumed to stand,
Faint at my feet his bleeding carcass stretch,
And soil his flowing tresses in the sand.
Yet shall he live to see my conqu’ring hand,
Despite his baffled God, triumphant tear
His arms away, shall with entreaties bland
Beg me, but vainly beg, his limbs to spare,
Vow’d to the growling dogs, and griffins of the air I”

E’en as a bull, that, stung with hot desire,
Horribly roars, and with his roaring shakes
The nodding groves, thus cherishing his ire,
Till anger burns, and all the brute awakes;
He whets his horns against the oaks, and makes
As he to battle would the winds invite,
With empty strokes; then from the thicket breaks,
And spurns the yellow sands with hoofs that cite
The rival of his love, far-off, to mortal fight.

With such blind fury moved, Argantes sent
To call the herald, and abruptly cried;
“Go to the Camp, and bid, in Godfrey’s tent,
The Christian champion fiercely be defied!”
For none he waits, but with impatient pride
Vaults to his saddle, and commands to lead
The conquer’d Otho fetter’d at his side;
Then, issuing from the town, his snorting steed
Spurs down the vales in rash and unrelaxing speed.

He blew his hollow horn, — the startling sound
Roll’d o’er the hills in echoes far away,
And like the thunder the dark storm flings round,
Fill’d both the ear and spirit with dismay.
Soon within Godfrey’s tent in fair array
The Christian knights were met; his haughty claim
The herald made, — with all his challenge lay,
But Tancred he distinguish’d first by name,
Then on insulting heel turn’d back to whence he came.

In deep suspense, with slow and serious glance,
Godfrey contemplated each chief and knight;
Long grew his gaze, yet would not one advance
To undertake the formidable fight.
His bravest Chiefs were wanting to his sight, —
Tidings were none of Tancred, since the hour
Of his alarm and surreptitious flight,
Bohemond far, and self-exiled the flower
Of all his force, the knight who quell’d Gernando’s power.

While yet, beside the chance-elected ten,
His most experienced, most renown’d in wars
Following had join’d Armida’s subject train,
Beneath the favor of the midnight stars;
The rest, coy fav’rites of a feebler Mars,
Though blushing for the fault, stood mute and tame;
None cared at such a risk to purchase scars,
Though with sure promise of a glorious fame,
So much their sense of fear o’erpower’d their sense of shame.

In their long silence, in their looks, too plain
In every sign he traced the thoughts that scare
Their timid souls; and with sublime disdain
Upstarting sudden from his ducal chair,
Said; “Most unworthy should I be to bear
Life, O my Peers, if, raised to this high post,
That life to hazard I should now forbear,
Leaving it in a Pagan’s power to boast,
He under -foot had trod the honor of our host.

“Sit still, my knights, and safe from all alarms
View at your perfect ease the risk I run;
Bring me my arms, Sigero, bring my arms!”
Decisively he spoke, and it was done.
But Raymond, who from ripe old age had won
Like ripe discretion and consistent thought,
Whose strength, still verdant, was surpass’d by none
In that assembly, better counsels brought,
Stood forth, turn’d to his Chief, and turning, thus be sought.

“Ah no, my Prince! stake not the lives of all
Upon the hazard of thine own! look round;
No simple soldier art thou; shouldst thou fall,
The grief were public, public were the wound:
On thee our Faith and empire rest, renown’d
By thy wise rule; on thee it is we build
Our hopes to raze this Babel to the ground:
To others leave the use of sword and shield;
Fight thou by mind alone, alone the sceptre wield.

“I, though bow’d down by age, will not refuse
The fight, — let others shrink when Battle rears
His frightful voice, — gray hairs shall not excuse
My spirit, joyful in the strife of spears:
O that I were but in my youth of years,
Like you, my gallants, who with downcast eyes,
Stand spellbound thus, enslaved by empty fears,
Whom wrath nor shame can influence to chastise
The man who to your teeth all Christendom defies!

“Such as I was, when, gazed by all the peers
Of Germany, at Conrad’s court I drew
My maiden sword on Leopold the fierce,
Reach’d his mail’d bosom, and at odds o’erthrew!
To spoil a warrior brave as him I slew,
Was sure a deed that claims superior praise
Than here, unarm’d, unaided, to subdue,
Put to foul flight, and singly hold in chase,
Whole herds of foes like these, superlatively base.

“If still that vigor braced my limbs austere,
I had by this time quell’d that haughty foe;
Old as I am, I am too young to fear,
Nor is my blood all frozen in its flow;
And, if it be my fate to be laid low,
While my soul burns in brightness to the last,
Home with content my Victor shall not go!
Arm then I will; this brilliant day shall cast
Light over all my track, and shame the lustre past?

Thus spoke the sage: his words like spurs awake
Their slumb’ring worth, that they who late were dumb
And timid, now brave show of corn-age make,
And loudly clamor for the fight to come:
Not only terror does not now benumb
Their hearts to shun the quarrel, but the prize
Is sought by all, contended for by some;
Baldwin demands it, Guelph, the two bold Guys,
And with Rogero Stephen, with Stephen Gernier vies:

And Pyrrhus, whose praised stratagem betray’d
To Bohemond proud Antioch, forward press’d;
The battle too, for battle well array’d,
Rosmond, Fitz-raphe, and Everard request, —
All from the sister-kingdoms of the West,
Albion, Ierne, and blue Scotia — lands
Barr’d from our world by seas that never rest;
With Edward last, divine Gildippe stands,
And each with equal warmth the challenged fight demands.

But in the good old Count Toulouse is shown
The liveliest ardor and most keen desire;
Arm’d cap-a-pie he stands, or wants alone
His lucid helm to make the suit entire:
To whom the Chief; “O venerable Sire!
Mirror of ancient zeal, in whom we see,
And seeing, learn the virtues we admire,
Art, honor, discipline, and worth in thee,
Shining with knightly grace, harmoniously agree!

“If but ten more, thine equals in desert,
Of vig’rous years, were in my aid combined,
This haughty Babel soon would I subvert,
And spread the Cross from Thule e’en to Ind:
But be this needless enterprise resign’d
To younger champions; for a nobler fight
Reserve thy vig’rous arm and ardent mind;
And leave these candidates their names to write,
And in a helmet cast, — let chance select the right; —

“Or rather, Providence on high, whose will
Fortune and Chance, his ministers, unfold;”
But Raymond in his claim persisted still,
And with the other knights his name enroll’d:
In his own helmet rimm’d with shining gold,
Godfrey received, and carelessly anew
Mingled the shaken papers; when, behold,
The first chance scroll which thence at ease he drew,
The name of Count Toulouse exhibited to view! —

Loud acclamations follow; none presume
To blame the lot; and Raymond’s visage clears,
His hoar trunk seems rebursting into bloom,
Renew’d no less in vigor than in years:
Thus the blithe snake when renovated rears
High the gay crest, and proudly in the sun
Blazons its golden coils: the rival Peers,
But Godfrey most, extoll’d him as he shone,
Promised him sure success, and cheer’d with praises on.

Then from his side his poignant sword he took,
And giving it to Raymond, said: “This blade
Is that which once the mighty rebel Duke,
Rodolph of Saxony, in battle sway’d;
From him by force I took it, and repaid
At the same moment, by a death condign,
A life by thousand crimes notorious made:
In my caress, ’tis Victory’s surest sign,
Take it, and may it prove as fortunate in thine!”

Meanwhile, impatient of their long delay,
In fierce derision the Circassian cries;
“Ho, men unmatch’d! ho, Europe’s brave array
Of chiefs! ’tis but one man your host defies:
Since on his prowess he so much relies,
Send now your late stern Tancred to the fight;
Or on soft down does he prefer with wise
Consistency to wait, until the night,
Which saved him once before, again shall blind my sight?

“Send others, if he fears me; band on band,
Horsemen, foot, all, come all, it recks not me,
Since none dares singly meet me hand to hand,
Of all your Barons, thousands though there be.
On to the tott’ring Town! look up, and see
The Sepulchre where lies the Son adored
Of sweet saint Mary! lo, the path is free!
Why pay ye not your vows, thereto restored?
For what more sapient use reserve you now the sword?”

With such like taunts the savage Pagan lash’d
The minds of all; but most His words inflame
The Count Toulouse, — his eyes defiance flash’d,
And ill could he endure th’ imputed shame:
His courage, stigmatized, more fierce became,
Ground on the whetstone of his wrath; that, freed
From all prevention, a delay so tame
He breaks, and leaps to Aquiline his steed,
Named from the Northern Wind, and like that wind in speed.

Upon the banks of Tagus was he bred,
Where oft the mothers of those martial steeds,
When with her warmth inspiring Spring has fed
The eager heat which genial instinct breeds,
Mad o’er the mountains, o’er the spacious meads,
Run open-mouth’d against the winds of May,
And greedily receive their fruitful seeds;
Whence growing quick, they (singular to say)
Give, when ripe time rolls round, their issue to the day.

And, to see Aquilino, you would say
None but the sprightly Wind could be his sire,
So instantly his feet cut short the way;
Swift to rush forward, nimble to retire,
And wheel to right and left in narrowest gyre.
Yet leave no print upon the sands he trode, —
Playful, yet proud; though gentle, full of fire;
Such the Count’s steed: he, as to war he rode,
Thus with uplifted eyes preferr’d his prayers to God.

“O Thou, that to Goliath’s brow didst guide,
By Terebinth’s sad vale and sanguine spring,
Untutor’d arms, so that the Scorner died
By the first pebble from a stripling’s sling!
Like aid, O Lord! to-day vouchsafe to bring;
That, struck by me, this ruffian with like shame
May vanquished fall to earth; with vigor string
My feeble Age his arrogance to tame,
As feeble Youth of yore th’ uncircumcised o’ercame!”

Thus pray’d the noble veteran; and his prayer,
Wing’d by firm faith and piety sincere,
Soar’d, naturally as fire ascends in air,
Swifter than thought to the celestial sphere:
Th’ Eternal Father bent a gracious ear
To the request, and from th’ angelic band
That round in glorious sanhedrim appear,
Appointed one in his defence to stand,
And thus restore him safe from foil’d Argantes’ hand.

The destined Angel to whose charge was given
The guardianship of Raymond, from his prime,
When new and naked to the light of heaven
He first began to run the race of time, —
Soon as the king of the celestial clime
This welcome duty had afresh imposed,
Flew to a crystal rock that soars sublime
Above all height, where of Heaven’s total host
The fine refulgent arms from battle are disposed.

Here does the lance that pierced th’ old Serpent lie,
With the pernicious shafts that smite the earth, —
Those shafts, invisible to mortal eye,
That give the horrid plague and fever birth;
And here, suspended with the darts of dearth,
Are hung the writhen bolts, midst pennons furl’d,
Which turn to deepest dread all human mirth,
When, through the steadfast empyrean hurl’d,
Cities are ground to dust, and Earthquake rocks the world.

Here too with chariots, harnessries, and helms,
A dazzling shield of brightest diamond blazed,
Whose sphere might cover half the lands and realms
That lie ’twixt Atlas and the Scythian waste:
Herewith are holy kings and cities chaste
In every age defenced and fortified;
This on his arm the plumed Seraph braced,
Shot down to earth in secret, undescried,
And took his station’d watch by good Count Raymond’s side.

And now the turban’d Moslem, young and old,
Swarm to the walls; and, such the tyrant’s will,
Clorinda with her band moved on to hold,
Firmly conjoin’d, the midway of the hill.
In order ranged of military skill,
Arm’d, on the other hand, a Christian force
Like space at ceremonial distance fill;
And to the champions leave a spacious course,
Betwixt both gazing hosts, for ev’ry chance resource.

Argantes look’d — no Tancred could he see,
But the strange figure of an unknown knight,
Who now came up, and “Thank thy stars,” said he,
“Absent’s the chief for whom thou strain’st thy sight;
Yet vapor not, while I the loss requite;
For here I stand, prepared to prove again
The utmost rage and malice of thy might;
As Tancred’s substitute I seek the plain,
Or on mine own account th’ engagement good maintain.

At this the Pagan proudly smiled, and said;
“What then does Tancred? where does he abide?
Of late he braved all heaven, and now is fled;
In dancing heels alone can he confide!
But to earth’s centre let him flee, or hide
In the deep main; no place shall bar from me
The flying wretch!” “Thou best,” the knight replied,
“To say that he, th’ unmatch’d in fight, that he
Flies from thy arms: his worth outvalues ten like thee!”

Wrathful, the piqued Circassian cut him short;
“Take then his place, the favor I accord;
We shall see shortly how thou wilt support
The rash bravade of that injurious word.”
Thus to the tilt they moved; their chargers spurr’d,
And their long lances to the helm address’d;
Raymond, whose practised arm but rarely err’d,
Struck where he aim’d, the visor he impress’d,
But shook his rival not, scarce bow’d his haughty crest.

But fierce Argantes less successful fared,
The lance struck not which rarely fail’d to wound,
Driv’n far aslant by the Celestial guard,
Whose shield the good old Earl encompass’d round.
Grimly the disappointed Pagan frown’d,
And bit his lips, and forth wild curses threw:
His faithless spear he snapp’d against the ground,
And with drawn sword upon his rival flew,
Burning with tenfold rage to try the course anew.

His coal-black steed he urged with all his might,
As butting rams their horned foreheads bow;
But Raymond shunn’d th’ encounter, to the right
Wheel’d, and in passing, struck his scowling brow:
Back rush’d the Egyptian Cavalier, and now
Back wheel’d the Earl with swiftness uncontroll’d,
And on his helmet dealt a nobler blow;
But still in vain; the helmet’s massy mould
Had all the temper’d strength of adamant or gold.

The Pagan, weary of such futile play,
To gripe his foe next tries each strong resource;
But he, lest the colossal bulk should weigh
To earth both steed and rider, shuns his force;
Now strikes; now yields; and in his circling course,
As though endued with viewless wings, maintains
The rotatory war; his matchless horse
Obeys each mandate of the flutt’ring reins;
Nor one false footstep e’er its nimbleness restrains.

And as the Chief who some strong tower essays
Amid cloud-kissing hills or marshy vales,
Seeks access by a thousand wiles and ways,
So the Earl scans the giant he assails;
And, as no power of his can cleave the scales
That shield Ins breast, nor all his thousand arts
Shiver the glist’ning burganet that veils
His brows, he long explores the quilted parts,
And there ’twixt joint and joint his active falchion darts.

Those arms, in many points already bored,
Are red with streaming blood, while his remain
Untouch’d, nor from his helmet has the sword
Struck one gay plume, or cut one sparkling chain;
In vain Argantes rages, strikes in vain,
Yet stubbornly toils on, with careless skill;
He fails not, faints not, flags not in his pain,
But doubles ev’ry pass, — from erring skill
Deriving fiercer strength, a more impetuous will.

After a thousand blows, the Saracino
At last struck one when Raymond was so nigh,
That ’twas believed his nimble Aquiline
Could scarcely from its sweeping fury fly;
But not the watchful Seraph of the sky,
In the pure sunshine at his side conceal’d,
Failed him at need; his arm he stretch’d on high,
And on his heavenly adamantine shield
Took the pernicious sword, and all its rage repeal’d.

The sabre broke; for, not with all the charms
Of art, can metals forged by earthly hand,
The unalloy’d imperishable arms
Temper’d by heaven’s own alchemy, withstand:
In million sparks, minuter than the sand,
Its fragments fell, — the Emir saw them shine —
Naught but the golden hilt was in his hand;
Yet doubted he the fact, nor could divine
What arms his rival bore, so magically fine.

Amazed he stood, and thought the brittle blade
Shiver’d on Raymond’s shield, — so deem’d the knight,
Who nothing knew of the celestial aid,
Sent to protect him from the Pagan’s might:
And when he saw th’ informidable plight
Of the disarm’d Circassian, he remain’d
In doubt if longer he should press the fight;
A vile inglorious laurel he disdain’d,
Nor could the vict’ry prize by pure advantage gain’d.

“Go, seek,” he would have said, “another brand,”
But a new thought within his breast arose —
The public cause was trusted to his hand,
And should he fall, he would dishonor those
For whom he fought; thus neither could he close
In shameful fight to win inglorious bays,
Nor Godfrey’s honor to vain risks expose;
While thus he stood debating on the case,
Argantes hurl’d the hilt and pommel in his face; —

And forward spurr’d, by grappling to o’erwhelm
His gaunt antagonist; the darted blow
Struck fiercely on his bright Tolosan helm,
And bent the batter’d visor to his brow.
But he, undiscomposed, wheel’d round, and so
Shunning th’ encounter, gash’d the hand he saw
Stretch’d out in muscular disdain, as though
To grasp its prey, unsparing as the paw
Of the voracious wolf, or vulture’s horny claw.

Now there, now here, the circled sands he spurn’d;
Then back again wheel’d round, now here, now there;
Nor when he spurr’d abroad, nor when return’d,
Did his eye pity, or his falchion spare.
Whate’er he can of strength; of art whate’er;
Whate’er of old disdain or present ire
The knight can muster, he now brings to bear
Against the foe: and with his strong desire
To end the conflict, Heaven and Fortune both conspire.

Fenced in fine arms and in himself, the foe
Yet braves his mighty strokes, from all fears free;
Like a vast ship with shatter’d sails, whose prow
At random drives upon a stormy sea;
Which, though she bears all Neptune on her lee,
Ribb’d round with heart of oak, firm, stubborn, stout,
Starts not a plank, but in proud majesty
Endures the rushing waves, with not a doubt
That her well-timber’d frame will ride the tempest out.

Such was thy risk, Argantes! when to aid
Thy cause, the Prince of Air himself address’d;
Straight of a painted cloud the empty shade
He to the figure of a man compress’d;
And on the visionary shape impress’d
Clorinda’s likeness, — the same lively grace,
Rich shining armor, and embroider’d vest;
Gave it organic breath, and in the place
Of mind, her well-known voice, demeanor, port and pace.

To Oradine, a man of matchless skill
In archery, the beauteous Image came,
And whisper’d: “Prince of shooters! who at will
Canst strike all marks at which thou takest aim, —
Judge what would be our loss, and what our shame,
Should Syria’s brave protector thus expire,
And, supercilious in the victor’s claim,
By law of arms yon Christian should acquire
His ornamental spoils, and safe to Camp retire!

“Now prove thy cunning; give thine arrows wing;
And quick and sure let the Frank villain bleed;
Beside th’ eternal glory of the thing,
Expect rewards proportion’d to the deed.”
Charm’d with the promise of the future meed,
Th’ unhesitating Traitor smiled assent;
Then from his weighty quiver snatch’d a reed,
Its notch adapted to the bowstring, bent
With ease the tough yew bow, and prophesied th’ event.

Twangs the tense cord, and with a whistling sound
The feather’d arrow flies its mark to win;
Aim’d where the decorated belt clasps round
The hero’s waist, it strikes, and enters in:
Cleaves the rich buckles; cleaves the armor thin,
And dyes its point with blood; there, short of fate,
It stays, just piercing through the tender skin;
For the prompt Angel did its force abate,
Nor let the eager steel too deeply pierce the plate.

The blood spun largely from the wounded vein,
Soon as the Count essay ’d the shaft to draw;
And, fill’d with gen’rous anger and disdain,
He chid the Pagan for the breach of law:
Godfrey, who could not his charm’d eyes withdraw
A single instant from his much-loved knight,
Moved with the liveliest indignation, saw
The flying shaft, and knowing not how slight
Th’ inflicted puncture was, grew pale with sore affright.

With hand and tongue at once alarum sounding,
He urged his knights to see the wrong redress’d;
Then were seen visors closing, war-barbs bounding,
Tight bridles slacked, and lances laid in rest.
So instantly both hosts to battle press’d,
Their course was finish’d as it seem’d begun;
Sands, stamped to dust, the vanish’d space confessed,
Which, whirl’d in breezy billows, dense and dun,
Soar’d to the steep of heaven, and veil’d the shining sun.

Of helms, and clashing shields, and lances brast
In the first shock, loud rumor roars around;
Here rolls a steed, and there, his rider cast,
One gallops, madd’ning at the trumpet’s sound.
Here lies a warrior lifeless on the ground;
And here another, compass’d by his foes,
Groans in the anguish of his mortal wound;
Dire is the fight, and still, the more they close,
And mix, more bloody, sharp, and obstinate it grows.

Light leap’d Argantes in the midmost throng,
And from a soldier wrung his iron mace;
Bursting the dense crowd as he rode along,
He whirl’d it round, and soon made ample space:
Raymond alone he looks for; holds in chase;
With Raymond only struggles to engage;
Pressing against him with a giant’s pace,
He like a wolf seem’d burning to assuage
With his quaff’d blood, the thirst and hunger of his rage.

But many a harsh impediment he met;
Still fierce encounters his rash course controll’d;
Him the two Gerards, with Ormane beset,
Guido, and Barneville, the brave and bold:
Yet not e’en these his progress can withhold;
Foaming he toils, he struggles to the last;
As cavern’d streams, or fires in prison roll’d,
Wage fiercer war when loose outbursts the blast,
So raged his power opposed, so forth in splendor pass’d.

He slew Ormano, wounded Guido, fell’d
Barneville, stunn’d, and stretch’d amidst the slain;
But fast the gath’ring crowd against him swell’d,
And circling lock’d him in a tenfold chain
Of men and arms that pinion and restrain
His giant powers; — while by his single hand
The scales of war an equal poise maintain,
To Baldwin Godfrey issues his command:
“Now to the conflict move thy gallant Frison band;

“And on the left, where most the battle raves,
Charge them in flank!” he heard, and he obeyed;
Swift as the roll of ocean’s mountain waves
Before the wind, was the encounter made:
An energy so mountainous o’erweighed
The Asian troops, too languid to sustain
The Franks’ fresh shock, — in ruin retrograde
They bend — their lines are broke — and on the pain
Roll horsemen, horses, flags, and pennons snapp’d in twain.

From the same charge the right wing turn’d and fled;
None, save Argantes, made defence or stay;
With gory rowels and loose reins they sped
In haste, urged headlong by supreme dismay;
Alone the bold Argantes stood at bay;
He faced the driven storm; the rushing bands;
Nor made less havoc on that signal day,
Than if Earth’s Titan with his hundred hands,
Had brandish’d fifty shields, and fifty flashing brands.

The thrust of swords, the shock of lances thrown,
The clang of maces and career of steeds
He braves, to all sufficient, though alone,
And dares on ev’ry side stupendous deeds.
His limbs all bruised, his marr’d arms cleft, he bleeds,
And sweat rolls down with blood, yet, fenced with phlegm,
He heeds it not; but crowd to crowd succeeds;
Press’d, overborne, he fails the tide to stem;
Onward abrupt they drive, and he perforce with them.

To the wild fury of the tide he bends,
That like a cataract hurries him along;
Not like a man that flies, his heart commends
Fresh acts of slaughter to a hand still strong:
His eyes yet keep the terrors that belong
To their grim balls; he still in high disdain
Hurls forth defiance, and his flying throng
Seeks by all modes in battle to retain, —
But no! his earnest toils their stupor renders vain.

His noble spirit neither can restrain,
Nor regulate their flight; for hasty fear
Casts off all conduct, foams against the rein,
And like the adder closes its deaf ear
To prayers though mild, and threats howe’er severe;
But the wise Chief, to whose reflective eye
Fortune and beck’ning Victory appear
To crown his hopes, sends forth fresh troops to ply
The glad pursuit, and cast the day’s decisive die.

And, but the special day prefix’d by God,
Was not yet given to run its golden round,
The Christians then in Salem’s courts had trod,
And a blest period to their labors found:
But Hell’s black Angels, from the Deep unbound,
Who saw how fast their tyranny declined
In the tremendous conflict, swarm around,
(Of heaven permitted) in an instant bind
The air in billowy clouds, and raise th’ ungovern’d wind.

From mortal eyes dark vapors snatch the sun;
Fires flash; the kindred elements rebel;
All heaven burns black, and, smould’ring, shows more dun
E’en than the horrible obscure of hell:
Mid showers of hail the long, loud thunders yell;
Fields float; the leas are drown’d; not boughs alone
Crash in the rushing blast’s sonorous swell,
But oaks, rocks, hills to their foundation-stone,
Quake to the roaring storm, or in the whirlwind groan.

At once the hail, the lightning, and the wind
Full in the Christians’ eyes with fury play’d;
Forced, they recede! blank sadness fills each mind,
And sudden terrors their stout hearts invade.
Few, few (as little through the hideous shade
Could be discern’d) around their flags abide;
Which when Clorinda distantly survey’d,
She seized the sign, and with inspiring pride
Shaking aloft her sword, thus to her soldiers cried.

“Lo, friends Heaven fights for us! the hours are number’d,
And Fate and Justice to our aid arise;
Our faces are untouch’d, our hands uncumber’d,
The storm beats only in the Christians’ eyes;
On them alone the irritated skies
Pour doubt and death, pour ruin and dismay;
And Heaven strikes down their lances, and denies
To their bewilder’d view the light of day;
On! where God’s finger points, ’tis Vict’ry leads the way i”

Thus cheer’d the Amazon her drooping ranks,
And, bearing on her back the horrid rain
Of hell, in furious charge assail’d the Franks,
And scorn’d the idle thrusts they gave again.
Then too Argantes turn’d his bridle-rein,
And dreadful slaughter of the victors made;
Who the fierce brunt ill able to sustain,
Yielded the point, and but their backs display’d
To bide the infuriate storm, and sharp vindictive blade.

The rage immortal and the mortal sword
Upon their shoulders smote them as they fled,
Whose blood, in union with the rain that pour’d.
Fell in fast showers, and dyed th’ arena red.
Here midst the heaps of dying and of dead,
Pyrrhus and good Ridolpho slumber’d calm;
Death on their eyes his purple finger laid;
This sigh’d out life beneath Argantes’ arm, —
Of that, Clorinda boasts th’ imperishable palm.

Thus fled the Franks; nor meanwhile ceased all hell,
Nor ceased the Syrians still to give them chase;
Sole against arms, threats, hailstones, the dire swell
Of whirlwind, thunder, and the arrowy blaze
Of momentary lightnings, his bold face
Godfrey advanced; and with supreme disdain
Chiding his Barons for a flight so base,
Spurr’d forth, the Camp-Gate sternly to maintain,
And in the trenches saved his scared and scatter’d train.

And twice, despite the hurricane that roar’d,
Against Argantes furiously he flew;
Twice beat him back; as oft, his naked sword
Pierced the thick phalanx, bathed in lightnings blue:
At last within the ramparts he withdrew
In the lorn rear of his disorder’d ranks,
And conquest yielded to th’ infernal crew;
The foe returns, and the dishearten’d Franks
Rest, like a flood retired within its reed-crown’d banks.

Nor can they wholly yet the furies shun
Of the black storm, which lightens, rains, and hails;
Quench’d are their lights and torches one by one,
And the flood deepens, and the wind prevails:
Breaks the strong cordage; splits the beams and rails,
Plucks up whole tents, which far, far-off are whirl’d;
The rains beat time to the loud-roaring gales;
And in the tune from Heaven’s dread organ hurl’d,
Hell’s bellowing thunders join, and stun th’ affrighted world.