Jerusalem Delivered Page 25

  “How long,” cried he, “shall I attend you here?

  Dares none come forth? dares none his fortune trust?”

  The other stood amazed, love stopped his ear,

  He thinks on Cupid, think of Mars who lust;

  But forth stert Otho bold, and took the field,

  A gentle knight whom God from danger shield.

  XXIX

  This youth was one of those, who late desired

  With that vain-glorious boaster to have fought,

  But Tancred chosen, he and all retired;

  Now when his slackness he awhile admired,

  And saw elsewhere employed was his thought,

  Nor that to just, though chosen, once he proffered,

  He boldly took that fit occasion offered.

  XXX

  No tiger, panther, spotted leopard,

  Runs half so swift, the forests wild among,

  As this young champion hasted thitherward,

  Where he attending saw the Pagan strong:

  Tancredi started with the noise he heard,

  As waked from sleep, where he had dreamed long,

  “Oh stay,” he cried, “to me belongs this war!”

  But cried too late, Otho was gone too far.

  XXXI

  Then full of fury, anger and despite,

  He stayed his horse, and waxed red for shame,

  The fight was his, but now disgraced quite

  Himself he thought, another played his game;

  Meanwhile the Saracen did hugely smite

  On Otho’s helm, who to requite the same,

  His foe quite through his sevenfold targe did bear,

  And in his breastplate stuck and broke his spear.

  XXXII

  The encounter such, upon the tender grass,

  Down from his steed the Christian backward fell;

  Yet his proud foe so strong and sturdy was,

  That he nor shook, nor staggered in his sell,

  But to the knight that lay full low, alas,

  In high disdain his will thus gan he tell,

  “Yield thee my slave, and this thine honor be,

  Thou may’st report thou hast encountered me.”

  XXXIII

  “Not so,” quoth he, “pardy it’s not the guise

  Of Christian knights, though fall’n, so soon to yield;

  I can my fall excuse in better wise,

  And will revenge this shame, or die in field.”

  The great Circassian bent his frowning eyes,

  Like that grim visage in Minerva’s shield,

  “Then learn,” quoth he, “what force Argantes useth

  Against that fool that proffered grace refuseth.”

  XXXIV

  With that he spurred his horse with speed and haste,

  Forgetting what good knights to virtue owe,

  Otho his fury shunned, and, as he passed,

  At his right side he reached a noble blow,

  Wide was the wound, the blood outstreamed fast,

  And from his side fell to his stirrup low:

  But what avails to hurt, if wounds augment

  Our foe’s fierce courage, strength and hardiment?

  XXXV

  Argantes nimbly turned his ready steed,

  And ere his foe was wist or well aware,

  Against his side he drove his courser’s head,

  What force could he gainst so great might prepare?

  Weak were his feeble joints, his courage dead,

  His heart amazed, his paleness showed his care,

  His tender side gainst the hard earth he cast,

  Shamed, with the first fall; bruised, with the last.

  XXXVI

  The victor spurred again his light-foot steed,

  And made his passage over Otho’s heart,

  And cried, “These fools thus under foot I tread,

  That dare contend with me in equal mart.”

  Tancred for anger shook his noble head,

  So was he grieved with that unknightly part;

  The fault was his, he was so slow before,

  With double valor would he salve that sore.

  XXXVII

  Forward he galloped fast, and loudly cried:

  “Villain,” quoth he, “thy conquest is thy shame,

  What praise? what honor shall this fact betide?

  What gain? what guerdon shall befall the same?

  Among the Arabian thieves thy face go hide,

  Far from resort of men of worth and fame,

  Or else in woods and mountains wild, by night,

  On savage beasts employ thy savage might.”

  XXXVIII

  The Pagan patience never knew, nor used,

  Trembling for ire, his sandy locks he tore,

  Out from his lips flew such a sound confused,

  As lions make in deserts thick, which roar;

  Or as when clouds together crushed and bruised,

  Pour down a tempest by the Caspian shore;

  So was his speech imperfect, stopped, and broken,

  He roared and thundered when he should have spoken.

  XXXIX

  But when with threats they both had whetted keen

  Their eager rage, their fury, spite and ire,

  They turned their steeds and left large space between

  To make their forces greater, ‘proaching nigher,

  With terms that warlike and that worthy been:

  O sacred Muse, my haughty thoughts inspire,

  And make a trumpet of my slender quill

  To thunder out this furious combat shrill.

  XL

  These sons of Mavors bore, instead of spears,

  Two knotty masts, which none but they could lift,

  Each foaming steed so fast his master bears,

  That never beast, bird, shaft flew half so swift;

  Such was their fury, as when Boreas tears

  The shattered crags from Taurus’ northern clift,

  Upon their helms their lances long they broke,

  And up to heaven flew splinters, sparks and smoke.

  XLI

  The shock made all the towers and turrets quake,

  And woods and mountains all nigh hand resound;

  Yet could not all that force and fury shake

  The valiant champions, nor their persons wound;

  Together hurtled both their steeds, and brake

  Each other’s neck, the riders lay on ground:

  But they, great masters of war’s dreadful art,

  Plucked forth their swords and soon from earth up start.

  XLII

  Close at his surest ward each warrior lieth,

  He wisely guides his hand, his foot, his eye,

  This blow he proveth, that defence he trieth,

  He traverseth, retireth, presseth nigh,

  Now strikes he out, and now he falsifieth,

  This blow he wardeth, that he lets slip by,

  And for advantage oft he lets some part

  Discovered seem; thus art deludeth art.

  XLIII

  The Pagan ill defenced with sword or targe,

  Tancredi’s thigh, as he supposed, espied

  And reaching forth gainst it his weapon large,

  Quite naked to his foe leaves his left-side;

  Tancred avoideth quick his furious charge,

  And gave him eke a wound deep, sore and wide;

  That done, himself safe to his ward retired,

  His courage praised by all, his skill admired.

  XLIV

  The proud Circassian saw his streaming blood,

  Down from his wound, as from a fountain, running,

  He sighed for rage, and trembled as he stood,

  He blamed his fortune, folly, want of cunning;

  He lift his sword aloft, for ire nigh wood,

  And forward rushed: Tancred his fury shunning,

  With a sharp thrust once more the Pagan hit,

 
; To his broad shoulder where his arm is knit.

  XLV

  Like as a bear through pierced with a dart

  Within the secret woods, no further flieth,

  But bites the senseless weapon mad with smart,

  Seeking revenge till unrevenged she dieth;

  So mad Argantes fared, when his proud heart

  Wound upon wound, and shame on shame espieth,

  Desire of vengeance so o’ercame his senses,

  That he forgot all dangers, all defences.

  XLVI

  Uniting force extreme, with endless wrath,

  Supporting both with youth and strength untired,

  His thundering blows so fast about he layeth,

  That skies and earth the flying sparkles fired;

  His foe to strike one blow no leisure hath,

  Scantly he breathed, though he oft desired,

  His warlike skill and cunning all was waste,

  Such was Argantes’ force, and such his haste.

  XLVII

  Long time Tancredi had in vain attended

  When this huge storm should overblow and pass,

  Some blows his mighty target well defended,

  Some fell beside, and wounded deep the grass;

  But when he saw the tempest never ended,

  Nor that the Paynim’s force aught weaker was,

  He high advanced his cutting sword at length,

  And rage to rage opposed, and strength to strength.

  XLVIII

  Wrath bore the sway, both art and reason fail,

  Fury new force, and courage new supplies,

  Their armors forged were of metal frail,

  On every side thereof, huge cantels flies,

  The land was strewed all with plate and mail.

  That, on the earth; on that, their warm blood lies.

  And at each rush and every blow they smote

  Thunder the noise, the sparks, seemed lightning hot.

  XLIX

  The Christian people and the Pagans gazed,

  On this fierce combat wishing oft the end,

  Twixt hope and fear they stood long time amazed,

  To see the knights assail, and eke defend,

  Yet neither sign they made, nor noise they raised,

  But for the issue of the fight attend,

  And stood as still, as life and sense they wanted,

  Save that their hearts within their bosoms panted.

  L

  Now were they tired both, and well-nigh spent,

  Their blows show greater will than power to wound;

  But Night her gentle daughter Darkness, sent,

  With friendly shade to overspread the ground,

  Two heralds to the fighting champions went,

  To part the fray, as laws of arms them bound

  Aridens born in France, and wise Pindore,

  The man that brought the challenge proud before.

  LI

  These men their sceptres interpose, between

  The doubtful hazards of uncertain fight;

  For such their privilege hath ever been,

  The law of nations doth defend their right;

  Pindore began, “Stay, stay, you warriors keen,

  Equal your honor, equal is your might;

  Forbear this combat, so we deem it best,

  Give night her due, and grant your persons rest.

  LII

  “Man goeth forth to labor with the sun,

  But with the night, all creatures draw to sleep,

  Nor yet of hidden praise in darkness won

  The valiant heart of noble knight takes keep:”

  Argantes answered him, “The fight begun

  Now to forbear, doth wound my heart right deep:

  Yet will I stay, so that this Christian swear,

  Before you both, again to meet me here.”

  LIII

  “I swear,” quoth Tancred, “but swear thou likewise

  To make return thy prisoner eke with thee;

  Else for achievement of this enterprise,

  None other time but this expect of me;”

  Thus swore they both; the heralds both devise,

  What time for this exploit should fittest be:

  And for their wounds of rest and cure had need,

  To meet again the sixth day was decreed.

  LIV

  This fight was deep imprinted in their hearts

  That saw this bloody fray to ending brought,

  An horror great possessed their weaker parts,

  Which made them shrink who on their combat thought:

  Much speech was of the praise and high desarts

  Of these brave champions that so nobly fought;

  But which for knightly worth was most ypraised,

  Of that was doubt and disputation raised.

  LV

  All long to see them end this doubtful fray,

  And as they favor, so they wish success,

  These hope true virtue shall obtain the day,

  Those trust on fury, strength and hardiness;

  But on Erminia most this burden lay,

  Whose looks her trouble and her fear express;

  For on this dangerous combat’s doubtful end

  Her joy, her comfort, hope and life depend.

  LVI

  Her the sole daughter of that hapless king,

  That of proud Antioch late wore the crown,

  The Christian soldiers to Tancredi bring,

  When they had sacked and spoiled that glorious town;

  But he, in whom all good and virtue spring,

  The virgin’s honor saved, and her renown;

  And when her city and her state was lost,

  Then was her person loved and honored most.

  LVII

  He honored her, served her, and leave her gave,

  And willed her go whither and when she list,

  Her gold and jewels had he care to save,

  And them restored all, she nothing missed,

  She, that beheld this youth and person brave,

  When, by this deed, his noble mind she wist,

  Laid ope her heart for Cupid’s shaft to hit,

  Who never knots of love more surer knit.

  LVIII

  Her body free, captivated was her heart,

  And love the keys did of that prison bear,

  Prepared to go, it was a death to part

  From that kind Lord, and from that prison dear,

  But thou, O honor, which esteemed art

  The chiefest virtue noble ladies wear,

  Enforcest her against her will, to wend

  To Aladine, her mother’s dearest friend.

  LIX

  At Sion was this princess entertained,

  By that old tyrant and her mother dear,

  Whose loss too soon the woful damsel plained,

  Her grief was such, she lived not half the year,

  Yet banishment, nor loss of friends constrained

  The hapless maid her passions to forbear,

  For though exceeding were her woe and grief,

  Of all her sorrows yet her love was chief.

  LX

  The silly maid in secret longing pined,

  Her hope a mote drawn up by Phoebus’ rays,

  Her love a mountain seemed, whereon bright shined

  Fresh memory of Tancred’s worth and praise,

  Within her closet if her self she shrined,

  A hotter fire her tender heart assays:

  Tancred at last, to raise her hope nigh dead,

  Before those walls did his broad ensign spread.

  LXI

  The rest to view the Christian army feared,

  Such seemed their number, such their power and might,

  But she alone her troubled forehead cleared,

  And on them spread her beauty shining bright;

  In every squadron when it first appeared,

  Her curious eye sought out her chosen
knight;

  And every gallant that the rest excels,

  The same seems him, so love and fancy tells.

  LXII

  Within the kingly palace builded high,

  A turret standeth near the city’s wall,

  From which Erminia might at ease descry

  The western host, the plains and mountains all,

  And there she stood all the long day to spy,

  From Phoebus’ rising to his evening fall,

  And with her thoughts disputed of his praise,

  And every thought a scalding sigh did raise.

  LXIII

  From hence the furious combat she surveyed,

  And felt her heart tremble with fear and pain,

  Her secret thoughts thus to her fancy said,

  Behold thy dear in danger to be slain;

  So with suspect, with fear and grief dismayed,

  Attended she her darling’s loss or gain,

  And ever when the Pagan lift his blade,

  The stroke a wound in her weak bosom made.

  LXIV

  But when she saw the end, and wist withal

  Their strong contention should eftsoons begin,

  Amazement strange her courage did appal,

  Her vital blood was icy cold within;

  Sometimes she sighed, sometimes tears let fall,

  To witness what distress her heart was in;

  Hopeless, dismayed, pale, sad, astonished,

  Her love, her fear; her fear, her torment bred.

  LXV

  Her idle brain unto her soul presented

  Death in an hundred ugly fashions painted,

  And if she slept, then was her grief augmented,

  With such sad visions were her thoughts acquainted;

  She saw her lord with wounds and hurts tormented,

  How he complained, called for her help, and fainted,

  And found, awaked from that unquiet sleeping,

  Her heart with panting sore; eyes, red with weeping.

  LXVI

  Yet these presages of his coming ill,

  Not greatest cause of her discomfort were,

  She saw his blood from his deep wounds distil,

  Nor what he suffered could she bide or bear:

  Besides, report her longing ear did fill,

  Doubling his danger, doubling so her fear,

  That she concludes, so was her courage lost,

  Her wounded lord was weak, faint, dead almost.

  LXVII

  And for her mother had her taught before

  The secret virtue of each herb that springs,

  Besides fit charms for every wound or sore

  Corruption breedeth or misfortune brings, —

  An art esteemed in those times of yore,

  Beseeming daughters of great lords and kings —

  She would herself be surgeon to her knight,

  And heal him with her skill, or with her sight.

  LXVIII

  Thus would she cure her love, and cure her foe