Part 42

LXXXII “O fair right hand, the pledge of faith and love? Given me but late, too late, in sign of peace, How haps it now thou canst not stir nor move? And you, dear limbs, now laid in rest and ease, Through which my cruel blade this flood-gate rove, Your pains have end, my torments never cease, O hands, O cruel eyes, accursed alike! You gave the wound, you gave them light to strike.

LXXXIII “But thither now run forth my guilty blood, Whither my plaints, my sorrows cannot wend.” He said no more, but, as his passion wood Inforced him, he gan to tear and rend His hair, his face, his wounds, a purple flood Did from each side in rolling streams descend, He had been slain, but that his pain and woe Bereft his senses, and preserved him so.

LXXXIV Cast on his bed his squires recalled his sprite To execute again her hateful charge, But tattling fame the sorrows of the knight And hard mischance had told this while at large: Godfrey and all his lords of worth and might, Ran thither, and the duty would discharge Of friendship true, and with sweet words the rage Of bitter grief and woe they would assuage.

LXXXV But as a mortal wound the more doth smart The more it searched is, handled or sought; So their sweet words to his afflicted heart More grief, more anguish, pain and torment brought But reverend Peter that would set apart Care of his sheep, as a good shepherd ought, His vanity with grave advice reproved And told what mourning Christian knights behoved:

LXXXVI “O Tancred, Tancred, how far different From thy beginnings good these follies be? What makes thee deaf? what hath thy eyesight blent? What mist, what cloud thus overshadeth thee? This is a warning good from heaven down sent, Yet His advice thou canst not hear nor see Who calleth and conducts thee to the way From which thou willing dost and witting stray:

LXXXVII “To worthy actions and achievements fit For Christian knights He would thee home recall; But thou hast left that course and changed it, To make thyself a heathen damsel’s thrall; But see, thy grief and sorrow’s painful fit Is made the rod to scourge thy sins withal, Of thine own good thyself the means He makes, But thou His mercy, goodness, grace forsakes.

LXXXVIII “Thou dost refuse of heaven the proffered And gainst it still rebel with sinful ire, Oh wretch! Oh whither doth thy rage thee chase? Refrain thy grief, bridle thy fond desire, At hell’s wide gate vain sorrow doth thee place, Sorrow, misfortune’s son, despair’s foul fire: Oh see thine evil, thy plaint and woe refrain, The guides to death, to hell, and endless pain.”

LXXXIX This said, his will to die the patient Abandoned, that second death he feared, These words of comfort to his heart down went, And that dark night of sorrow somewhat cleared; Yet now and then his grief deep sighs forth sent, His voice shrill plaints and sad laments oft reared, Now to himself, now to his murdered love, He spoke, who heard perchance from heaven above.

XC Till Phoebus’ rising from his evening fall To her, for her, he mourns, he calls, he cries; The nightingale so when her children small Some churl takes before their parents’ eyes, Alone, dismayed, quite bare of comforts all, Tires with complaints the seas, the shores, the skies, Till in sweet sleep against the morning bright She fall at last; so mourned, so slept the knight.

XCI And clad in starry veil, amid his dream, For whose sweet sake he mourned, appeared the maid, Fairer than erst, yet with that heavenly beam. Not out of knowledge was her lovely shade, With looks of ruth her eyes celestial seem To pity his sad plight, and thus she said, “Behold how fair, how glad thy love appears, And for my sake, my dear, forbear these tears.

XCII “Thine be the thanks, my soul thou madest flit At unawares out of her earthly nest, Thine be the thanks, thou hast advanced it In Abraham’s dear bosom long to rest, There still I love thee, there for Tancred fit A seat prepared is among the blest; There in eternal joy, eternal light, Thou shalt thy love enjoy, and she her knight;

XCIII “Unless thyself, thyself heaven’s joys envy, And thy vain sorrow thee of bliss deprive, Live, know I love thee, that I nill deny, As angels, men: as saints may wights on live:” This said, of zeal and love forth of her eye An hundred glorious beams bright shining drive, Amid which rays herself she closed from sigh, And with new joy, new comfort left her knight.

XCIV Thus comforted he waked, and men discreet In surgery to cure his wounds were sought, Meanwhile of his dear love the relics sweet, As best he could, to grave with pomp he brought: Her tomb was not of varied Spartan greet, Nor yet by cunning hand of Scopas wrought, But built of polished stone, and thereon laid The lively shape and portrait of the maid.

XCV With sacred burning lamps in order long And mournful pomp the corpse was brought to ground Her arms upon a leafless pine were hung, The hearse, with cypress; arms, with laurel crowned: Next day the prince, whose love and courage strong Drew forth his limbs, weak, feeble, and unsound, To visit went, with care and reverence meet, The buried ashes of his mistress sweet:

XCVI Before her new-made tomb at last arrived, The woful prison of his living sprite, Pale, cold, sad, comfortless, of sense deprived, Upon the marble gray he fixed his sight, Two streams of tears were from his eyes derived: Thus with a sad “Alas!” began the knight, “O marble dear on my dear mistress placed! My flames within, without my tears thou hast.

XCVII “Not of dead bones art thou the mournful grave, But of quick love the fortress and the hold, Still in my heart thy wonted brands I have More bitter far, alas! but not more cold; Receive these sighs, these kisses sweet receive, In liquid drops of melting tears enrolled, And give them to that body pure and chaste, Which in thy bosom cold entombed thou hast.

XCVIII “For if her happy soul her eye doth bend On that sweet body which it lately dressed, My love, thy pity cannot her offend, Anger and wrath is not in angels blessed, She pardon will the trespass of her friend, That hope relieves me with these griefs oppressed, This hand she knows hath only sinned, not I, Who living loved her, and for love now die:

XCIX “And loving will I die, oh happy day Whene’er it chanceth! but oh far more blessed If as about thy polished sides I stray, My bones within thy hollow grave might rest, Together should in heaven our spirits stay, Together should our bodies lie in chest; So happy death should join what life doth sever, O Death, O Life! sweet both, both blessed ever.”

C Meanwhile the news in that besieged town Of this mishap was whispered here and there, Forthwith it spread, and for too true was known, Her woful loss was talked everywhere, Mingled with cries and plaints to heaven upthrown, As if the city’s self new taken were With conquering foes, or as if flame and fire, Nor house, nor church, nor street had left entire.

CI But all men’s eyes were on Arsetes bent, His sighs were deep, his looks full of despair, Out of his woful eyes no tear there went, His heart was hardened with his too much care, His silver locks with dust he foul besprent, He knocked his breast, his face he rent and tare, And while the press flocked to the eunuch old, Thus to the people spake Argantes bold:

CII “I would, when first I knew the hardy maid Excluded was among her Christian foes, Have followed her to give her timely aid, Or by her side this breath and life to lose, What did I not, or what left I unsaid To make the king the gates again unclose? But he denied, his power did aye restrain My will, my suit was waste, my speech was vain:

CIII “Ah, had I gone, I would from danger free Have brought to Sion that sweet nymph again, Or in the bloody fight, where killed was she, In her defence there nobly have been slain: But what could I do more? the counsels be Of God and man gainst my designments plain, Dead is Clorinda fair, laid in cold grave, Let me revenge her whom I could not save.

CIV “Jerusalem, hear what Argantes saith, Hear Heaven, and if he break his oath and word, Upon this head cast thunder in thy wrath: I will destroy and kill that Christian lord Who this fair dame by night thus murdered hath, Nor from my side I will ungird this sword Till Tancred’s heart it cleave, and shed his blood, And leave his corpse to wolves and crows for food.”

CV This said, the people with a joyful shout Applaud his speeches and his words approve, And calmed their grief in hope the boaster stout Would kill the prince, who late had slain his love. O promise vain! it otherwise fell out: Men purpose, but high gods dispose above, For underneath his sword this boaster died Whom thus he scorned and threatened in his pride.

THIRTEENTH BOOK

THE ARGUMENT. Ismeno sets to guard the forest old The wicked sprites, whose ugly shapes affray And put to flight the men, whose labor would To their dark shades let in heaven’s golden ray: Thither goes Tancred hardy, faithful, bold, But foolish pity lets him not assay His strength and courage: heat the Christian power Annoys, whom to refresh God sends a shower.

I But scant, dissolved into ashes cold, The smoking tower fell on the scorched grass, When new device found out the enchanter old By which the town besieged secured was, Of timber fit his foes deprive he would, Such terror bred that late consumed mass: So that the strength of Sion’s walls to shake, They should no turrets, rams, nor engines make.

II From Godfrey’s camp a grove a little way Amid the valleys deep grows out of sight, Thick with old trees whose horrid arms display An ugly shade, like everlasting night; There when the sun spreads forth his clearest ray, Dim, thick, uncertain, gloomy seems the light; As when in evening, day and darkness strive Which should his foe from our horizon drive.