Jerusalem Delivered Read online

  Upon his hidden mates for aid he cries

  Gainst his supposed foe, and forth he flew,

  As he was rash, and heedless in his wrath,

  Bending his lance, “Thou art but dead,” he saith.

  CIX

  As when a chased hind her course doth bend

  To seek by soil to find some ease or goad;

  Whether from craggy rock the spring descend,

  Or softly glide within the shady wood;

  If there the dogs she meet, where late she wend

  To comfort her weak limbs in cooling flood,

  Again she flies swift as she fled at first,

  Forgetting weakness, weariness and thirst.

  CX

  So she, that thought to rest her weary sprite,

  And quench the endless thirst of ardent love

  With dear embracements of her lord and knight,

  But such as marriage rites should first approve,

  When she beheld her foe, with weapon bright

  Threatening her death, his trusty courser move,

  Her love, her lord, herself abandoned,

  She spurred her speedy steed, and swift she fled.

  CXI

  Erminia fled, scantly the tender grass

  Her Pegasus with his light footsteps bent,

  Her maiden’s beast for speed did likewise pass;

  Yet divers ways, such was their fear, they went:

  The squire who all too late returned, alas.

  With tardy news from Prince Tancredi’s tent,

  Fled likewise, when he saw his mistress gone,

  It booted not to sojourn there alone.

  CXII

  But Alicandro wiser than the rest,

  Who this supposed Clorinda saw likewise,

  To follow her yet was he nothing pressed,

  But in his ambush still and close he lies,

  A messenger to Godfrey he addressed,

  That should him of this accident advise,

  How that his brother chased with naked blade

  Clorinda’s self, or else Clorinda’s shade.

  CXIII

  Yet that it was, or that it could be she,

  He had small cause or reason to suppose,

  Occasion great and weighty must it be

  Should make her ride by night among her foes:

  What Godfrey willed that observed he,

  And with his soldiers lay in ambush close:

  These news through all the Christian army went,

  In every cabin talked, in every tent.

  CXIV

  Tancred, whose thoughts the squire had filled with doubt

  By his sweet words, supposed now hearing this,

  Alas! the virgin came to seek me out,

  And for my sake her life in danger is;

  Himself forthwith he singled from the rout,

  And rode in haste, though half his arms he miss;

  Among those sandy fields and valleys green,

  To seek his love, he galloped fast unseen.

  SEVENTH BOOK

  THE ARGUMENT.

  Whom whilst Tancredi seeks in vain to find,

  He is entrapped in Armida’s trains:

  Raymond with strong Argantes is assigned

  To fight, an angel to his aid he gains:

  Satan that sees the Pagan’s fury blind,

  And hasty wrath turn to his loss and harm,

  Doth raise new tempest, uproar and alarm.

  I

  Erminia’s steed this while his mistress bore

  Through forests thick among the shady treen,

  Her feeble hand the bridle reins forlore,

  Half in a swoon she was, for fear I ween;

  But her fleet courser spared ne’er the more,

  To bear her through the desert woods unseen

  Of her strong foes, that chased her through the plain,

  And still pursued, but still pursued in vain.

  II

  Like as the weary hounds at last retire,

  Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase,

  When the sly beast tapished in bush and brier,

  No art nor pains can rouse out of his place:

  The Christian knights so full of shame and ire

  Returned back, with faint and weary pace:

  Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind,

  Nor ever stayed, nor ever looked behind.

  III

  Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she drived,

  Withouten comfort, company, or guide,

  Her plaints and tears with every thought revived,

  She heard and saw her griefs, but naught beside:

  But when the sun his burning chariot dived

  In Thetis’ wave, and weary team untied,

  On Jordan’s sandy banks her course she stayed

  At last, there down she light, and down she laid.

  IV

  Her tears, her drink; her food, her sorrowings,

  This was her diet that unhappy night:

  But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings,

  To ease the griefs of discontented wight,

  Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings,

  In his dull arms folding the virgin bright;

  And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept

  Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept.

  V

  The birds awaked her with their morning song,

  Their warbling music pierced her tender ear,

  The murmuring brooks and whistling winds among

  The rattling boughs and leaves, their parts did bear;

  Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along

  Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings were;

  And that sweet noise, birds, winds and waters sent,

  Provoked again the virgin to lament.

  VI

  Her plaints were interrupted with a sound,

  That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed,

  Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round,

  And to his voice he tuned his oaten reed;

  Thither she went, an old man there she found,

  At whose right hand his little flock did feed,

  Sat making baskets, his three sons among,

  That learned their father’s art, and learned his song.

  VII

  Beholding one in shining Arms appear,

  The seely man and his were sore dismay’d;

  But sweet Erminia comforted their fear,

  Her vental up, her visage open laid;

  You happy folk, of heav’n beloved dear,

  Work on, quoth she, upon your harmless trade;

  These dreadful arms, I bear, no warfare bring

  To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you sing.

  VIII

  “But, father, since this land, these towns and towers

  Destroyed are with sword, with fire and spoil,

  How may it be unhurt that you and yours

  In safety thus apply your harmless toil?”

  “My son,” quoth he, “this poor estate of ours

  Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil;

  This wilderness doth us in safety keep,

  No thundering drum, no trumpet breaks our sleep.

  IX

  “Haply just Heaven’s defence and shield of right

  Doth love the innocence of simple swains,

  The thunderbolts on highest mountains light,

  And seld or never strike the lower plains;

  So kings have cause to fear Bellona’s might,

  Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner gains,

  Nor ever greedy soldier was enticed

  By poverty, neglected and despised.

  X

  “O poverty, chief of the heavenly brood,

  Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crown:

  No wish for honor, thirst of others’ good,

  Can move my heart, contented with mine ow
n:

  We quench our thirst with water of this flood,

  Nor fear we poison should therein be thrown;

  These little flocks of sheep and tender goats

  Give milk for food, and wool to make us coats.

  XI

  “We little wish, we need but little wealth,

  From cold and hunger us to clothe and feed;

  These are my sons, their care preserves from stealth

  Their father’s flocks, nor servants more I need:

  Amid these groves I walk oft for my health,

  And to the fishes, birds, and beasts give heed,

  How they are fed, in forest, spring and lake,

  And their contentment for example take.

  XII

  “Time was, for each one hath his doating time,

  These silver locks were golden tresses then,

  That country life I hated as a crime,

  And from the forest’s sweet contentment ran,

  And there became the mighty caliph’s man,

  and though I but a simple gardener were,

  Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear.

  XIII

  “Enticed on with hope of future gain,

  I suffered long what did my soul displease;

  But when my youth was spent, my hope was vain.

  I felt my native strength at last decrease;

  I gan my loss of lusty years complain,

  And wished I had enjoyed the country’s peace;

  I bade the court farewell, and with content

  My latter age here have I quiet spent.”

  XIV

  While thus he spake, Erminia hushed and still

  His wise discourses heard, with great attention,

  His speeches grave those idle fancies kill

  Which in her troubled soul bred such dissension;

  After much thought reformed was her will,

  Within those woods to dwell was her intention,

  Till Fortune should occasion new afford,

  To turn her home to her desired lord.

  XV

  She said therefore, “O shepherd fortunate!

  That troubles some didst whilom feel and prove,

  Yet livest now in this contented state,

  Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move,

  To entertain me as a willing mate

  In shepherd’s life which I admire and love;

  Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart,

  Of her discomforts, may unload some part.

  XVI

  “If gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear,

  If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize,

  Such store thereof, such plenty have I here,

  As to a greedy mind might well suffice:”

  With that down trickled many a silver tear,

  Two crystal streams fell from her watery eyes;

  Part of her sad misfortunes then she told,

  And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old.

  XVII

  With speeches kind, he gan the virgin dear

  Toward his cottage gently home to guide;

  His aged wife there made her homely cheer,

  Yet welcomed her, and placed her by her side.

  The princess donned a poor pastoral’s gear,

  A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied;

  But yet her gestures and her looks, I guess,

  Were such as ill beseemed a shepherdess.

  XVIII

  Not those rude garments could obscure and hide

  The heavenly beauty of her angel’s face,

  Nor was her princely offspring damnified

  Or aught disparaged by those labors base;

  Her little flocks to pasture would she guide,

  And milk her goats, and in their folds them place,

  Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame

  Herself to please the shepherd and his dame.

  XIX

  But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade

  Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus’ scorching rays,

  Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made,

  And them engraved in bark of beech and bays;

  She told how Cupid did her first invade,

  How conquered her, and ends with Tancred’s praise:

  And when her passion’s writ she over read,

  Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed.

  XX

  “You happy trees forever keep,” quoth she,

  “This woful story in your tender rind,

  Another day under your shade maybe

  Will come to rest again some lover kind;

  Who if these trophies of my griefs he see,

  Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind;”

  With that she sighed and said, “Too late I prove

  There is no troth in fortune, trust in love.

  XXI

  “Yet may it be, if gracious heavens attend

  The earnest suit of a distressed wight,

  At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send

  To these huge deserts that unthankful knight,

  That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend,

  And sees my grave, my tomb, and ashes light,

  My woful death his stubborn heart may move,

  With tears and sorrows to reward my love.

  XXII

  “So, though my life hath most unhappy been,

  At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest,

  My ashes cold shall, buried on this green,

  Enjoy that good this body ne’er possessed.”

  Thus she complained to the senseless treen,

  Floods in her eyes, and fires were in her breast;

  But he for whom these streams of tears she shed,

  Wandered far off, alas, as chance him led.

  XXIII

  He followed on the footsteps he had traced,

  Till in high woods and forests old he came,

  Where bushes, thorns and trees so thick were placed,

  And so obscure the shadows of the same,

  That soon he lost the tract wherein he paced;

  Yet went he on, which way he could not aim,

  But still attentive was his longing ear

  If noise of horse or noise of arms he hear.

  XXIV

  If with the breathing of the gentle wind,

  An aspen leaf but shaked on the tree,

  If bird or beast stirred in the bushes blind,

  Thither he spurred, thither he rode to see:

  Out of the wood by Cynthia’s favor kind,

  At last, with travel great and pains, got he,

  And following on a little path, he heard

  A rumbling sound, and hasted thitherward.

  XXV

  It was a fountain from the living stone,

  That poured down clear streams in noble store,

  Whose conduit pipes, united all in one,

  Throughout a rocky channel ghastly roar;

  Here Tancred stayed, and called, yet answered none,

  Save babbling echo, from the crooked shore;

  And there the weary knight at last espies

  The springing daylight red and white arise.

  XXVI

  He sighed sore, and guiltless heaven gan blame,

  That wished success to his desire denied,

  And sharp revenge protested for the same,

  If aught but good his mistress fair betide;

  Then wished he to return the way he came,

  Although he wist not by what path to ride,

  And time drew near when he again must fight

  With proud Argantes, that vain-glorious knight.

  XXVII

  His stalwart steed the champion stout bestrode

  And pricked fast to find the way he lost,

  But through a valley as he musing rode,

  He saw a man that seemed for haste a post,

  His horn was hung between
his shoulders broad,

  As is the guise with us: Tancredi crossed

  His way, and gently prayed the man to say,

  To Godfrey’s camp how he should find the way.

  XXVIII

  “Sir,” in the Italian language answered he,

  “I ride where noble Boemond hath me sent:”

  The prince thought this his uncle’s man should be,

  And after him his course with speed he bent,

  A fortress stately built at last they see,

  Bout which a muddy stinking lake there went,

  There they arrived when Titan went to rest

  His weary limbs in night’s untroubled nest.

  XXIX

  The courier gave the fort a warning blast;

  The drawbridge was let down by them within:

  “If thou a Christian be,” quoth he, “thou mayest

  Till Phoebus shine again, here take thine inn,

  The County of Cosenza, three days past,

  This castle from the Turks did nobly win.”

  The prince beheld the piece, which site and art

  Impregnable had made on every part.

  XXX

  He feared within a pile so fortified

  Some secret treason or enchantment lay,

  But had he known even there he should have died,

  Yet should his looks no sign of fear betray;

  For wheresoever will or chance him guide,

  His strong victorious hand still made him way:

  Yet for the combat he must shortly make,

  No new adventures list he undertake.

  XXXI

  Before the castle, in a meadow plain

  Beside the bridge’s end, he stayed and stood,

  Nor was entreated by the speeches vain

  Of his false guide, to pass beyond the flood.

  Upon the bridge appeared a warlike swain,

  From top to toe all clad in armor good,

  Who brandishing a broad and cutting sword,

  Thus threatened death with many an idle word.

  XXXII

  “O thou, whom chance or will brings to the soil,

  Where fair Armida doth the sceptre guide,

  Thou canst not fly, of arms thyself despoil,

  And let thy hands with iron chains be tied;

  Enter and rest thee from thy weary toil.

  Within this dungeon shalt thou safe abide,

  And never hope again to see the day,

  Or that thy hair for age shall turn to gray;

  XXXIII

  “Except thou swear her valiant knights to aid

  Against those traitors of the Christian crew.”

  Tancred at this discourse a little stayed,

  His arms, his gesture, and his voice he knew:

  It was Rambaldo, who for that false maid

  Forsook his country and religion true,

  And of that fort defender chief became,

  And those vile customs stablished in the same.

  XXXIV

  The warrior answered, blushing red for shame,