Book VIII

The roar of the loud tempest now was ceased;
Whist were the winds; the bellowing thunders mute;
And the calm morn, in the cerulean east,
With cheek of rose and golden-sandall’d foot,
Left her divine pavilion to salute.
With smiles the world: but they whose wrath awoke
The storm, yet ceased not their malign dispute
And damned charms; first Ashtaroth silence broke,
And to Alecto thus, her snaky sister, spoke:

“Alecto! mark, where, posting o’er the sands
Fleet as an angry ghost, careers yon knight,
Who living has escaped the Soldan’s hands,
Nor is it in our power to stay his flight!
Grave deeds he very soon will bring to light;
Deeds sore upon the Frank, — his comrades’ fall,
Thousands left stark upon the field of fight
With their hot Chief, — from which, I doubt not, all
The Christian host will urge Kinaldo’s quick recall.

“How fatal this were, judge; we must oppose
Our force and craft to the consulting Peers;
Arouse thee, then; descend amidst our foes,
And what this herald to insatiate ears
Tells with good purpose, turn to blood and tears;
Up! up! breathe fire, breathe poison in the veins
Of the mix’d nations; stir up tumults fierce;
Move wrath, revenge; move discord, and disdains -,
Till through the total Camp unbounded uproar reigns!

“This work becomes thee and the noble vaunt
Made to our Prince;” — the monster naught replied, —
It was enough — the words her soul enchant,
The project charms, — she spreads her hoarse wings wide,
And downward hurries with the morning tide.
The Knight, meanwhile, who thus their notice took,
The Camp approach’d, and to the warders cried,
With haste and deep emotion in his look,
‘Warriors, I claim your grace; conduct me to your Duke!”

Numbers were ready of the curious crowd
Eager to hear the news he had to name,
To guide him to their Chief; he lowly bow’d,
And kiss’d the honor’d hand that made the frame
Of empires tremble: “Sire,” he said, “whose fame
Is bounded only by th’ Atlantic beach
And starry roof of heaven! would that I came
Knowledge of happier incidents to teach!” —
Awhile his face he veil’d, then thus resumed his speech, s:

“Sweno, the Thane of Denmark’s only son,
The stay and glory of his failing years,
Burn’d to be rank’d with those thy gonfalon
Conducts, the valiant troop of chevaliers
Who wield the sword for Jesus; not the fears
Of toil and peril, not the hope t’ acquire
Soon the void throne, not e’en th’ appealing tears
Shower’d from the fond eyes of his aged sire,
Could in his gen’rous heart control the high desire.

“He glow’d to learn the military art —
Perils to dare and hardships to endure,
Of thee, their noble Chief; he felt, in part,
Shame and resentment for his name obscure,
Hearing on every hand what praise mature
In his green youth Rinaldo had acquired;
But that which most his spirit did allure,
Was less the wish of man to be admired,
Than zeal for God’s renown, by lively faith inspired.

“The shrewd delays his father’s fears contrived,
He baffled, form’d an army bold and brave,
And, marching straight for Thrace, at length arrived
Where throned Byzantium towers above the wave.
Here the Greek Caesar in his palace gave
The Prince warm welcome; here an envoy came
From thee, who, prompt the onward path to pave
Of our adventure, told at large the fame
Of Antioch won, and held to Persia’s lasting shame; —

“Held in despite of Persia, who at once
Moved to invest it, with the boast rebuoy’d
Of powers so vast, it seem’d that all her sons
Swarm’d to the war and left her kingdoms void;
First upon thee, on others next he joy’d
To touch — on Raymond’s prudence, Tancred’s might;
Till to Rinaldo passing, he employ’d
A world of words to paint his first bold flight,
And each fair wreath which since his sword has reap’d in fight.

“He told, in fine, how that your hosts around
These towers already in strict siege were cast;
And woo’d him, yet unlaurell’d, to be found
In this proud field, the noblest and the last:
His words roused Sweno’s spirit like a blast
Of trumpets, and in his young bosom bred
A wish so strong, that ev’ry hour he pass’d
Appear’d an age, till he himself should tread
The hallow’d soil, and turn his unflesh’d falchion red.

“Your glory prey’d on him; the world’s applause
Seem’d to upbraid his spiritless career;
Those who or begg’d, or counsell’d him to pause,
Alike he heard not, or disdain’d to hear;
No fear of peril knew he but the fear
Lest he too late should be in thine to share, —
This only hazard seem’d to him severe;
Those with which others peopled their despair,
He either not perceived, or stood resolved to dare.

“His own brave zeal precipitates his fate,
Fate — his woo’d guide, and our enforced ally,
Since scarce for his departure would he wait
Till the first rays of morning streak’d the sky:
Of various routes, he counted the most nigh
The best, — enough! it was our Chief that chose;
No pass so close, no mountain shows so high,
Too deep no forest waves, no torrent flows,
For us to scale or stem, though held by furious foes.

“Now round our steps the arm’d barbarians press,
Now spring from ambush: hunger, toil, and pain
In turn we bore; but over all distress
We triumph’d, — scatter’d were our foes, or slain:
Success assured us, vict’ry made us vain,
And, day by day, more confident we grew;
Till one fair eve we camp’d upon the plain,
With Palestine’s green hills almost in view,
Blind to th’ events, alas, that did so soon ensue!

“Sudden our scouts return’d; they had beheld
The Turkish Crescent in our van appear,
Had caught the sullen clang of sword and shield,
And deem’d, by various signals to the ear
And eye, some vast embattled army near:
On many a soldier’s face these tidings spread
The pallid whiteness of despairing fear;
Sweno alone, of all the host he led,
Changed not in thought or look, in gesture, voice, or tread.

“‘Brothers,’ he cried, ‘O now, how near we clasp
The victor’s laurel, or the martyr’s crown!
The first I hope, nor less desire to grasp
The greater merit with the like renown:
This very field, let fate or smile or frown,
Shall Memory vest with an immortal bloom,
And as a hallow’d spot deliver down
To future times, which, glorying in our doom,
Shall either point our spoils, or flower-entwine our tomb?

“This said, — our posts mark’d out, the watch disposed,
He bade us all upon our shields to rest;
Nor, while in needful slumber he reposed,
Would he of helm or mail himself divest.
’Twas midnight: Sleep on every eye had press’d
Th’ oblivious sweetness of her tranquil spell,
And the tired soldier was in visions blest,
When instantaneously a barb’rous yell
Rose to the silent stars, and shook th’ abyss of hell.

“‘To arms!’ we shout, ‘to arms!’ and, cased in arms,
See Sweno first before all else aspire;
While, gath’ring grandeur from the loud alarms,
His eyes and cheeks are flush’d with gen’rous fire.
Lo, we are charged! a circle deep and dire
Fronts and assails us, wheresoe’er we move:
And thick’ning, deep’ning, drawing nigh and nigher,
Round us of swords and spears a twilight grove
Frowns, and an arrowy cloud falls hissing from above.

“Uneven the fight! against a single Dane
Full twenty Arabs laid their weapons bare;
Many of these were wounded, many slain
By darts toss’d blindly through the gloom of air;
But of the numbers struck or slaughter’d there,
And by what hands, the dusky shades amid,
No mortal eye could mark, nor tongue declare;
The Night our loss beneath her mantle hid,
And, with the loss we bore, the valiant deeds we did.

“But through the thick press of the fighting crowd,
And through the dark concealment of the hour,
Prince Sweno shone; his valor was avow’d
By a sublime ubiquity of power,
Surpassing all belief; of blood a shower,
And heaps of slaughter’d form’d around the slayer
A crimson moat — a rampart and a tower;
And, wheresoe’er he rush’d, he seem’d to bear
Death in his red right-hand, and in his eyes despair.

“Thus fought we, till the Virgin of the Morn
Arising touch’d the heavens with rosy red;
But when the night’s dusk horrors were withdrawn
That hid from view the horror of the dead,
The so long-wish’d-for light before us spread
A scene, oh God! the stoutest to appal,
Of grief, of pity, agony, and dread;
The Camp was piled with corpses, as though all
Were of our army swathed in Death’s purpureal pall.

“Of full two thousand, ninety scarce remain;
When Sweno saw the multitudes that slept
Pale in their gore, if aught of grief or pain,
If aught of sadness o’er his brave heart crept,
He showed it not, — his eye its lustre kept,
His voice its tone: ‘Come, follow,’ was his cry,
‘These brave companions who have far o’erstepp’d
The streams of Tartarus, and with footsteps high
Printed in glorious blood our pathway to the sky!’

“He said: and glad, I think, of hasting fate
No less in spirit than in aspect, bore
With breast intrepid and with brow elate
Against the ruinous assault and roar
Of the barbarians; not the plate they wore,
Although ’twere thrice refined, nor cap of steel,
Though into diamond charm’d by wizard lore,
Might stand the strokes his fire and fury deal,
Into one total wound till gash’d from head to heel.

“It was not life, but valor’s subtile fire
Sustain’d the living corse no strength could tame;
Struck, he re-strikes, nor yet his members tire,
The more they maim him, more he them doth maim;
When lo! loose-raging from the bloody game,
A Turk arrived, who all the rest surpass’d
In savage aspect and gigantic frame; —
Long time they obstinately fought; at last,
By numbers press’d, to ground the dauntless youth was cast.

“He fell — ah, bitter fate! — nor left behind
One that could yield revenge: oh, blood well-pour’d!
Oh bones, abandon’d to the bleaching wind,
Poor mangled relics of my Prince adored!
I summon you; speak! if I sought to hoard
My hated life, if then I did deny
My breast to spear, mace, sabre, shaft, or sword!
No! had it pleased our Arbiter on high,
Death had I dared enough, to be allow’d to die.

“Senseless amid my slaughter’d friends I fell,
And there was left for dead; nor what our foes
Since or sustain’d or acted can I tell, —
An icy torpor all my senses froze;
But when at length my faint eyes did unclose
From blank unconsciousness, the wings of Night
Seem’d o’er the shadowy landscape to repose;
Feebly I oped them, and a glimm’ring light
Far-off, appear’d by fits to swim before my sight.

“Albeit, no strength had I to recognise
E’en nearest objects through the void opaque,
But saw as one whose overwearied eyes,
Nor all asleep, nor openly awake,
Close and unclose without the power to take
Regard or cognizance of things most nigh;
And now my cruel.wounds began to ache,
Bit by the keen night air, doom’d thus to lie,
Faint, on the naked earth, beneath a freezing sky.

“Meanwhile the light drew momently more near.
Till it arrived and rested at my side;
Then gentle whisp’rings murmur’d in my ear, —
I raised with pain my eyelids, and descried
Two tall commanding figures near me glide,
Clothed in long robes, and shaking in the air
Two torches: ‘Son,’ I heard them say, ‘confide
In Him who oft consents the good to spare,
And with his grace forestalls the sacrifice of prayer.

“And speaking thus, the awful two their palms
O’er me in holy benediction spread,
And in low accents murm’ring mystic psalms,
Then little heard and less conceived, they said:
‘Arise!’ all lightly from my grass-green bed
I rose; new light flow’d to my eye -balls dim;
My wounds were heal’d; my thrilling pains were fled;
O marv’lous grace! I seem’d in bliss to swim,
And felt new life and strength uplifting ev’ry limb.

“Awe-struck I view’d them, and could scarce believe
The truths that struck my dazzled sprite, till one
Of the cowl’d sages said; ‘What doubts affright?
On what illusions do thy fancies run,
O thou of little faith? in us, my son,
Men of like flesh and blood thy wonder meets;
Servants of Jesu, we have wish’d to shun
The flatt’ring world, its fables and false sweets,
And here as hermits live in rocks and lone retreats.

“‘Me to this service did that God ordain,
Whose throne is builded in ubiquity;
Who by ignoblest means does not disdain
To work his will, the wonderful and high:
He would not that the form, which to his eye
Enclosed of late so beautiful a sprite,
Should on these lonely wilds neglected lie, —
The which, when made immortal, robed in light,
Yet with its radiant twin shall one day reunite; —

“‘No! Sweno’s sanctified remains must have
A tomb befitting valor so sublime,
To which alike the beautiful and brave,
Virgins and chevaliers from every clime,
Shall point the finger through all future time;
But lift thine eyes now to the stars, and mark
The one that to the crown of heaven doth climb
As on its golden car! that sunlit e spark
Shall to his noble corse direct us th. ough the dark.’

“I look’d; and as the brilliant meteor roll’d,
(Or rather midnight sun) a ray descended,
Which, like a glorious line of liquid gold
Ruled by some pencil, to the earth extended;
And o’er the body, when its flight was ended,
Shook from its skirts so beautiful a flood
Of color’d light, that all its wounds shone splendid,
Each like a ruby ring or golden stud,
And straight the face I knew, in its grim mask of blood.

“He lay not prone, but as his high desire
Was ever turn’d toward the stars, his face,
E’en as the martyr’s from his couch of fire,
Look’d upward still to heaven’s blue fields of space:
Closed was his red right-hand in strict embrace
Grasping that sword, in act to strike, whose blade
Such ravage wrought; his left, with careless grace,
In meek devotion on his breast was laid,
As though for peace to God the parting spirit pray’d.

“While I his wounds bedew’d with tears, that eased
None of my anguish for his fall deplored,
The ancient sage drew forward, and released
From his reluctant hand th’ inviolate sword;
And said to me: “This crimson glaive which pour’d
Such streams of blood from bosoms of the foe,
Observe! perhaps the world cannot afford —
(Its strength none better than thyself can know) —
One or of finer mould, or more superb in show.

“‘Hence, Heaven wills not, although a timeless doom
Has from its lord divorced the glorious brand,
That here with sordid rust it should consume,
But pass admired from martial hand to hand; —
To one who, with a spirit no less grand,
Shall with like force and skill its lightnings sway
For longer time, a happier fate command,
And with it wreak, — his ghost awaits the day —
Full vengeance wreak on him, who did Lord Sweno slay.

“’Twas Solyman slew Sweno; Solyman
Must therefore by the sword of Sweno fall!
Take it, and bear it then where breezes fan
The Christian banners round high Salem wall;
Nor let a single fear thy mind appal,
That in these regions, or by night or day,
Fresh obstacles shall rise, or ills befall;
For He who sends thee forth, shall, when astray,
Guide thee, and smooth with flowers the roughness of thy way.

“‘There ’tis his will that thou declare at length,
For to this end art thou to health restored,
The zeal, the piety, and valiant strength
Which thou hast witness’d in thy darling lord;
That others on their mantles bright and broad
May stamp the purple Cross, with holy aim
Caught from this tale, — a tale for Tune to laud
Through long futurity, the while his name
In like illustrious minds lights up young Glory’s flame.

“‘What Christian hero may deserve the meed
Of this bequest, remains to be made known;
It is Rinaldo, to whom all concede
The palm of prowess, yet, a branch scarce blown.
Bear it to him, and say, to him alone
The eyes alike of men and angels look
T’ avenge his death, and for his loss atone;’
While on his lips I hang, in wonder’s book
A new portentous page my charm’d attention took.

“For sudden, where the warrior’s corse reposed,
A rich sarcophagus was seen to rise,
Which in its heart his relics had enclosed,
I know not how, nor by what rare device;
And, briefly blazon’d with heraldic dyes,
Shone forth the name and virtues of the dead;
From the strange sight my fascinated eyes
I could not lift; each glance fresh marvel bred;
Now I the porphyry scann’d, and now th’ inscription read.

“‘Here,’ said the ancient, ‘near his friends shall lie
Thy prince’s corse, safe shrined from vulgar sight,
While their pure spirits, pass’d into the sky,
From the full fountain of divine delight
Quaff endless joy; but thou the last sad rite
Of tears — the all that piety can pay,
Hast paid, and nature claims repose; this night
I claim thee for my guest, until the ray
Of the new morning rise, to light thee on thy way.’”

“O’er hill and dale we walk’d, a devious track;
Scarce could my weary steps with theirs keep pace;
Till high, midst toppling crags and cedars black,
A hollow cave received us, round whose face
Green ivies cluster’d, — his lone dwelling-place
Romantic; here amongst the wolves and bears,
With his disciple safe he spends his days;
Clear Innocence his shield, his breastplate prayers,
Armor of trustier proof than aught the warrior wears!

“My food was roots, — moss, leaves, and dulcet thyme,
The couch whereon I slept fatigue away;
But soon as zephyr rang his -earliest chime
Among the pines, and morn’s arising ray
Tinted the eastern cliffs with gold and gay,
The watchful Hermits rose to matin prayer,
And I with them; I next inquired my way
Through the strange region; of the holy pair
Grateful my farewell took and here my tale declare.”

He ceased, and Godfrey answer’d: “Tears, Sir Knight,
Tears for thy tale, ’tis all we can, receive;
Things strange and doleful hast thou brought to light,
Whence we with reason veil our face, and grieve;
Alas th’ injustice of that cruel eve!
That friends so full of zeal, so brave in fight,
Fate should from pleasant life so soon bereave!
Thy valiant Lord was, like a flash of light,
One glitt’ring instant shown, then sudden snatch’d from -sight.

“But wherefore grieve? the prize of realms and gold
Shows mean, compared with this their blissful doom;
Never were bays so glorious, e’en of old,
Giv’n in the car-climb’d Capitol of Rome!
Throned in Heaven’s star -lit temple, they assume
Sceptres of palm, and crowns of flowers that grow
In Eden, odorous with immortal bloom;
There, to the radiant wounds received below,
Each joyous martyr points, and glories in the show.

“But thou, who for fresh toils and dangers new
With the church militant art left behind,
Shouldst in their blissful triumphs triumph too,
And, to the wise decrees of Heaven resign’d,
Give now to joy thy melancholy mind;
And, for Bertoldo’s son, — know, that he strays
Far from the camp, — the wand’rer who may find?
But tempt not thou the desert’s doubtful ways
In search, till certain news instruct us where lie strays.

This their discourse in others’ breasts renew’d
Their latent love for fair Sophia’s son;
And some exclaim’d, “Through what wild desert rude
Does not the youth now rove? what risks not run
From the marauding hordes?” nor was there one
That had not some brave story in his praise
To tell the Dane, of laurels nobly won;
The long bright tissue of his deeds they blaze;
Which he with transport hears, and undisguised amaze.

When now remembrance of the absent youth
Had touch’d all hearts, and melted many an eye
To tears of tenderness and anxious ruth,
Behold, the troops, commission’d to supply
The camp, from nightly forage far and nigh
Return! vast flocks and herds with them they lead,
That fill the region with their welcome cry;
Corn, though not much, and fragrant hay to feed,
With the fat beeves they bring, each knight his hungry steed.

And last, not least, a too decisive sign
Of tragic chance, severely to be rued, —
The good Rinaldo’s vests and armors fine,
Those rent and bloody, these all hack’d and hew’d!
Quick through the host, in sad incertitude
And keen alarm, the sudden rumor flew;
For who such things could hide? the multitude,
Sore grieving at the tidings, throng’d to view
The brave young hero’s arms, — they saw them, and they knew.

Too well they knew his hauberk’s pond’rous plates
And moony shield, far-flashing, on whose face
Is seen emblazed the bird which educates
Her unquill’d infants on the sun to gaze,
With eyes undazzled by its ardent rays;
Or first, or all alone, it used to strain
Its proud wings fearless, giving glory chase;
Now, not without deep pity, wrath, and pain,
They see it cleft, and streak’d with many a sanguine stain.

While the crowd whisper, and the dark event
In various wise account for each to each,
The virtuous Duke for Aliprando sent,
Chief of the troop, a man sincere of speech,
And whose ingenuous words might none impeach,
Stamp’d as they were with truth’s inviolate seal;
Then thus: “The meaning of this mystery teach;
Both how and whence these arms were had, reveal,
Nor, whether good or bad, the slightest fact conceal.”

“Far as an active trav’ler may attain
In two days’ journey hence,” the knight replied,
“In hollow of high hills, a little plain
Lies from the road to Gaza somewhat wide;
To which a brook’s slow waters gurgling glide
’Twixt brier and bough, from tangled steep to steep;
Low down, o’erarching oaks on every side
Fling their brown shadows o’er a dingle deep;
Fit screen for ambush’d men their watch unseen to keep.

“And as we sought, in this sequester’d nook,
For herds or flocks that to its grass-green bed
Might come to graze, we saw beside the brook,
Stretch’d on the purpled herbs, a knight lie dead;
Crimson his vests, his arms were dropp’d with red;
Through every heart instinctive horror shot,
For well we knew them, though with blood o’erspread:
To view his face, I, hast’ning to the spot,
Found but a headless trunk — the sever’d head was not!

“The right hand too was gone, and many a wound
His noble body bore, from back to breast;
Hard by, the argent Eagle on the ground
Lay with his vacant helm and batter’d crest:
While round the greenwood shade we gazed, in quest
Of some one to explain so strange a case,
A peasant pass’d, who spying us, repress’d
His steps, and from the solitary place,
In instant act to fly, turn’d back His frighted face.

“But, chased and taken, to our stern demand
And inquisition, he at length replied,
That he, the day before, had seen a band
Of armed soldiers from the forest ride;
One bore a head fresh sever’d at his side,
Grasp’d by its golden gory locks; his scan
Was keen — the visage clearly he descried,
And to his judgment (so his story ran)
Twas of a beardless youth maturing into man.

“In shawl of satin soon the murderer slung,
And bore it pendent at his saddle-bow;
He knew them Christians by their foreign tongue
And red-cross habits, or he judged them so:
Weeping I stripp’d the body, nor was slow
To speak my apprehensions; paid the brave
The last sad rites, the best I could bestow; —
His dirge was chanted by the whisp’ring wave,
And the gray rustling woods sang requiem o’er his grave; —

“But if the corse be his whom I bewail,
A nobler tomb his relics should receive:”
Naught left untold of his mysterious tale,
Good Aliprando took his mournful leave.
Godfrey stood pensive, and the livelong eve
Sigh’d as the subject inly he discuss’d;
No clear assurance could his doubts relieve;
And much he wish’d, by signs of surer trust,
To know the mangled trunk and homicide unjust.

The night has risen, and silently unfurl’d
O’er heaven’s blue infinite her brooding wings;
And sorceress Slumber, walking through the world,
On every eye her dulcet sirup flings;
Thou, Argillan, alone, by grief’s sharp stings
Pierced to the quick, her blandishments dost slight,
Busying thy brain on mighty thoughts and things;
Nor giv’st to thy wild eyes and troubled sprite,
Mute quiet’s peaceful calm, or slumber’s soothing rite.

He, of a fervid and impetuous mood,
Active of hand, and turbulent of tongue,
Was on the Tronto born; in civil feud
Nursed by fix’d hatred, and exiled while young;
Thus, by strong passions to resentment stung,
In woods and wilds a robber he became,
And stain’d with blood the rocks from which he sprung;
Till, into Asia summon’d, he his fame
Bravely redeem’d in war, and gain’d a nobler name.

At length, tow’rd morn he closed his eyes and slept, —
No calm, sweet sleep, but the dull synonym
Of death; — through his thick blood deep stupor crept,
Possess’d each sense, and lock’d up every limb
In dreadful nightmare; then, delusions dim
Swarm’d to his brain, by cursed Alecto sent;
He slept, not rested; for the Fury grim,
In strangling dreams of terrible portent,
Her own alarming shape did darkly represent.

A headless trunk of monstrous size she feign’d,
Shorn of its better arm; the left, the head
Fast by its horrent hair aloft sustain’d,
Disguised ’twixt livid pale and sanguine red.
The lips still breathed, and breathing spoke, though dead;
Dripp’d the dark blood; and many a doleful sigh
Shrill’d from the skull, as hollowly it said,
“Lo, Argillan! ’tis daylight in the sky!
Fly, fly these dreadful tents! their impious Chieftain fly!

“From his cursed frauds which kill’d me but of late,
Who, comrades dear, shall keep you or defend?
Th’ insidious Traitor, in his rancorous hate,
Thinks to slay you, as late he slew your friend;
But if that hand so eager to transcend
Th’ undying fame which Brutus dared to seize,
Can on its own audacity depend, —
Fly not; but let the tyrant’s blood appease
My angry ghost, and give th’ unquiet spirit ease.

‘I will be with thee, a pale shade, and yield
Arms to thy hand, and anger to thy breast!”
She said; and breathing, all his spirit fill’d
With a new fury not to be repress’d:
He broke from sleep; and trembling roll’d distress’d,
While madness sparkled in each straining ball,
His poisonous eyes, of all the Fiend possess’d:
Arm’d as he was, he flew to summon all
Italia’s fiery sons, obsequious to the call.

He led them where Rinaldo’s arms were hung
In funeral pomp around his vacant tent;
And thus, with pride and indignation stung,
His grief divulged, and gave his passion vent:
“Shall then a vile tyrannic race, whose bent
No faith can bind, no reason can restrain, —
Kites, never gorged, though ever on the scent
For blood and gold, shall they with iron rein
Curb our proud necks, and tame our spirits to the chain?

“What we have borne in suff’rings, shame, and tears,
Six summers now, beneath their fatal spell,
Is such that Rome will, for a thousand years,
With anger burn, and with disdain rebel;
I will not, no, brave souls! I will not tell
How genius, prowess, arms were render’d void,
When Tancred triumph’d and Cilicia fell;
What wonted arts the traitor Frank employ’d,
When that which Valor won, usurping Guile enjoy’d!

“I will not tell, when need and time require
Firm thought, bold heart, and executing hand,
How through a thousand deaths we all aspire
With axe, mace, dagger, truncheon, blade, or brand;
First where the prize is fix’d, the peril plann’d, —
But when the palms, but when the prey they share,
The pride, the praise, the glory, gold or land,
These are not ours — ’tis but for us to stare,
As they the trophies claim, the plunder homeward bear.

“Peace to the thought! there was perhaps a time
When serious and severe such wrongs would show;
Now let them pass — this last tremendous crime
Has made their seeming scarlet white as snow;
Rinaldo have they slain, insulting so
All laws- divine and human; in his bloom
Cut off, the beautiful, the brave; and lo!
Flash not the skies? cleaves not, O earth, thy womb,
In its perpetual night the monsters to entomb!

“They’ve slain Rinaldo, of our faith the shield
And sword! and lies he unrevenged? — he lies
Yet unrevenged; and on the naked field,
Unhymn’d, untomb’d, beneath the freezing skies,
Laced o’er with wounds in terrible disguise:
Ask you what barb’rous ruffian smote him down?
Of him who can be ignorant? you have eyes!
Who marks not, jealous of our high renown,
Both Godfrey’s damning praise, and Baldwin’s envious frown?

“But why debate! I swear by Heaven, that Heaven
Which not unpunish’d lets the perjured pass,
’Twixt light and dark, before my sight was driven
His wand’ring ghost, a pale and mangled mass;
A sight how wildly horrible! alas,
What frauds from Godfrey did it not divine!
It was no dream; my brain is as a glass, —
I see it yet; where’er my eyes incline,
There the red figure stalks, the eyeballs dimly shine.

“What shall we do? to that imperious hand
Which so unjust a death yet foully stains,
Submit for aye? or seek the far-off land,
Where rich Euphrates laves th’ Assyrian plains,
And many a city, many a town sustains,
Held by a feeble and unwarlike race,
Soon to be tamed, I ween! with little pains
This may we win; no Frank shall there find place,
To share our hard-earn’d spoils, or brand us with disgrace.

“Yes, go, and let the guiltless hero lie
All unrevenged, if so it seemeth good;
Though, if your chill and stagnant blood boil’d high,
Oh, boil’d it high and ardent as it should!
This poisonous snake that has devour’d for food
The flower and pride of our Italian clime,
Should to the rest of his accursed brood,
By his own pangs and death, of punish’d crime
A noted warning give, through long succeeding time.

“I, I, if courage serves your wish to dare
All that it should, will first assail his crest!
This very hour my dagger will I bear,
To probe his heart, malignant treason’s nest!”
He said; and on the spirits of the rest,
His wrathful genius and electric eye
Their own tumultuous energy impress’d;
And, “Arm, O arm. you!” was the madman’s cry;
“Arm! arm!” th’ indignant youth in unison reply.

Midst them Alecto whirl’d her torch, and fire
Commix’d with poison in their bosoms blew;
Th’ infernal thirst for blood, the phrensied ire,
Each dreadful instant more controlless grew:
Forward the snaky witch dilating flew,
And to the Swiss from the Italians pass’d,
Storms in their fiery hearts alike to brew;
Thence mid the British troops her plagues she cast;
All lend a gaping mouth, and take th’ infection fast.

Nor did the public loss and grief alone
Rouse in these foreign bands disdain so deep;
They had old piques and grudges of their own;
Whence, this new wrong but added to the heap
Fresh nutriment; each scorn, long lull’d asleep,
Revived, — the Franks as tyrants were accursed;
Their wrath and hate all limits overleap;
Swell in proud threats, and, fix’d to dare the worst,
Loud as a roaring stream, restraint’s strong floodgates burst.

So water, boiling in a brazen vase
With fire too fervent, gurgles, fumes, and glows;
Till, hot at heart, it lifts its raging face
Above the brim, frets, froths, and overflows.
No remedy remains; too few were those
Whose truth-illumined minds went not astray,
The headstrong crowd’s distraction to compose;
Tancred, Camillo, William, were away,
And all whose sov’reign power their heat might else allay.

’Tis uproar all; like tipsy bacchanals
The crowd to arms precipitately spring;
And now are heard fierce cries, seditious calls,
Shields clash, hoarse trumpets stem defiance fling,
And beardless boys heroic ditties sing:
Meanwhile swift messengers, on ev’ry hand,
To Godfrey warning of rebellion bring;
And armed Baldwin with his unsheath’d brand
Fast by his brother’s side in silence takes his stand.

Hearing the charge, his eyes to heaven he turns,
And to his God for wonted succor flees:
“Lord! thou who seest how much my spirit spurns
Th’ imputed crime — thy sight all spirits sees, —
Rend the dark mantle of the mind from these;
Their hearts illumine with thy light divine;
Rebuke the furies of the crowd to peace,
And give mine unstain’d innocence to shine,
Pure in the world’s dim sight, as pure it beams in thine!”

He ceased; and felt new life and vigor dart
Warm thro’ his veins, from heaven imbreathed, which shed
Light o’er his face, and fortified his heart
With faith; surrounded by his friends, he sped
’Gainst those who thought t’ avenge th’ ideal dead:
Though bristling arms illumined all the place;
Though hate and rage in ev’ry glance he read;
Though there were some reproach’d him to his face,
Stately he still held on, with firm, unfalt’ring pace.

He had his hauberk on, — a vest of white,
Richly embroider’d, from his shoulders flow’d;
Bare were his hands and head; and, to the height
Of dignity sublimed, his features glow’d,
Bright as an Angel’s from his blest abode
Sent sceptred forth: such was his port; he trod.
As on the winds; no arms at need he show’d,
Dared them without, — but shook his golden rod;
And when he spoke, all seem’d to hear the voice of God.

“What senseless threats are these that brave the skies?
What idle clang of arms is this I hear?
Who stirr’d these tumults? is it in this wise
That your so -long-proved ruler ye revere?
Godfrey of guile what whisp’rer in the ear
Arraigns? who brings the accusation? who
Abets the charge? stand forth! let him appear!
Ye look perchance that I with prayers should sue,
Number my proofs in plea, and mercy crave from you:

“No! never shall the world that with my name
Resounds, to such debasement see me bend!
Me, Truth, the memory of my deeds, my fame,
And this starr’d sceptre only shall defend:
Justice for once to grace shall condescend;
For once remit the dues she should receive,
Nor o’er the guilty her just scales suspend;
For former worth this error I forgive;
Live, to regret your fault, for young Rinaldo live!

“Th’ Arch-culprit only with his blood must wash
Away the treason — Argillan shall die;
Who, moved by mere suspicion, base as rash,
Led the revolt, and bribed you with a lie!”
While thus he spake, his more than kinglike eye
In pomp of horror on the ruffian shook
Lightnings and frowns, as from a living sky;
That Argillan, amazed, of force forsook,
Turn’d (who would think it?) pale, o’ermaster’d by a look.

The crowd too, late so insolent, that roar’d
Such bold defiance forth of spite and pride,
Whose hands had been so swift to seize on sword,
Axe, torch, or javelin, as the fiend supplied,
(Hush’d at his golden words) could not abide
His glance; but cast their guilty eyes to ground.
While shame their cheeks to deepest crimson dyed;
And suffer’d Argillan, though bristled round
With all their ported spears, in fetters to be bound.

So when a lion, roaring in his rage,
Shakes high against the sun his frightful mane,
If he who tamed his wildness to the cage,
But knits his brows in visible disdain, —
His harsh rule fearing, fearing to sustain
His threats, he pays obedience to the spell,
Foregoes his fire, and crouches to the chain;
Nor can his teeth, arm’d paws, or malice fell,
Spirit him up with pride, or tempt him to rebel.

’Tis famed that there was seen, of cruel look
And threat’ning gesture, but celestial mould,
A winged warrior, who with one arm shook
Before the pious prince a targe of gold;
And with his right hand, dreadful to behold,
Brandished the lightnings of a naked sword,
From which some recent drops of crimson roll’d;
The blood perhaps of realms on which were pour’d,
In his long-slumb’ring wrath, the vials of the Lord.

The tumult thus composed, they cast aside
Their arms and evil wills with one consent;
And Godfrey, slowly, and in decent pride
Return’d, admired, to his imperial tent:
On various cares and new engagements bent,
He now determines to attack the town,
Ere or the second or third day be spent;
And oft surveys the timbers late cut down,
That now in huge machines tremendous battle frown.