Part 70

CXIV Thus prayed he, but all his vows were vain, Mahound was deaf, or slept in heavens above, And as a lion strikes him with his train, His native wrath to quicken and to move, So he awaked his fury and disdain, And sharped his courage on the whetstone love; Himself he saved behind his mighty targe, And forward spurred his steed and gave the charge.

CXV The Christian saw the hardy warrior come, And leaped forth to undertake the fight, The people round about gave place and room, And wondered on that fierce and cruel sight, Some praised their strength, their skill and courage some, Such and so desperate blows struck either knight, That all that saw forgot both ire and strife, Their wounds, their hurts, forgot both death and life.

CXVI One struck, the other did both strike and wound, His arms were surer, and his strength was more; From Tisipherne the blood streamed down around; His shield was cleft, his helm was rent and tore. The dame, that saw his blood besmear the ground, His armor broke, limbs weak, wounds deep and sore, And all her guard dead, fled, and overthrown, Thought, now her field lay waste, her hedge lay down:

CXVII Environed with so brave a troop but late, Now stood she in her chariot all alone, She feared bondage, and her life did hate, All hope of conquest and revenge was gone, Half mad and half amazed from where she sate, She leaped down, and fled from friends’ and fone, On a swift horse she mounts, and forth she rides Alone, save for disdain and love, her guides.

CXVIII In days of old, Queen Cleopatra so Alone fled from the fight and cruel fray, Against Augustus great his happy foe, Leaving her lord to loss and sure decay. And as that lord for love let honor go, Followed her flying sails and lost the day: So Tisipherne the fair and fearful dame Would follow, but his foe forbids the same.

CXIX But when the Pagan’s joy and comfort fled, It seemed the sun was set, the day was night, Gainst the brave prince with whom he combated He turned, and on the forehead struck the knight: When thunders forged are in Typhoius’ bed, Not Brontes’ hammer falls so swift, so right; The furious stroke fell on Rinaldo’s crest, And made him bend his head down to his breast.

CXX The champion in his stirrups high upstart, And cleft his hauberk hard and tender side, And sheathed his weapon in the Pagan’s heart, The castle where man’s life and soul do bide; The cruel sword his breast and hinder part With double wound unclosed, and opened wide; And two large doors made for his life and breath, Which passed, and cured hot love with frozen death.

CXXI This done, Rinaldo stayed and looked around, Where he should harm his foes, or help his friends; Nor of the Pagans saw he squadron sound: Each standard falls, ensign to earth descends; His fury quiet then and calm he found, There all his wrath, his rage, and rancor ends, He called to mind how, far from help or aid, Armida fled, alone, amazed, afraid:

CXXII Well saw he when she fled, and with that sight The prince had pity, courtesy and care; He promised her to be her friend and knight When erst he left her in the island bare: The way she fled he ran and rode aright, Her palfrey’s feet signs in the grass outware: But she this while found out an ugly shade, Fit place for death, where naught could life persuade.

CXXIII Well pleased was she with those shadows brown, And yet displeased with luck, with life, with love; There from her steed she lighted, there laid down Her bow and shafts, her arms that helpless prove. “There lie with shame,” she says, “disgraced, o’erthrown, Blunt are the weapons, blunt the arms I move, Weak to revenge my harms, or harm my foe, My shafts are blunt, ah, love, would thine were so!

CXXIV Alas, among so many, could not one, Not one draw blood, one wound or rend his skin? All other breasts to you are marble stone, Dare you then pierce a woman’s bosom thin? See, see, my naked heart, on this alone Employ your force this fort is eath to win, And love will shoot you from his mighty bow, Weak is the shot that dripile falls in snow.

CXXV “I pardon will your fear and weakness past, Be strong, mine arrows, cruel, sharp, gainst me, Ah, wretch, how is thy chance and fortune cast, If placed in these thy good and comfort be? But since all hope is vain all help is waste, Since hurts ease hurts, wounds must cure wounds in thee; Then with thine arrow’s stroke cure stroke of love, Death for thy heart must salve and surgeon prove.

CXXVI “And happy me if, being dead and slain, I bear not with me this strange plague to hell: Love, stay behind, come thou with me disdain, And with my wronged soul forever dwell; Or else with it turn to the world again And vex that knight with dreams and visions fell, And tell him, when twixt life and death I strove My last wish, was revenge—last word, was love.”

CXXVII And with that word half mad, half dead, she seems, An arrow, poignant, strong and sharp she took, When her dear knight found her in these extremes, Now fit to die, and pass the Stygian brook, Now prest to quench her own and beauty’s beams; Now death sat on her eyes, death in her look, When to her back he stepped, and stayed her arm Stretched forth to do that service last, last harm.

CXXVIII She turns and, ere she knows, her lord she spies, Whose coming was unwished, unthought, unknown, She shrieks, and twines away her sdainful eyes From his sweet face, she falls dead in a swoon, Falls as a flower half cut, that bending lies: He held her up, and lest she tumble down, Under her tender side his arm he placed, His hand her girdle loosed, her gown unlaced;

CXXIX And her fair face, fair bosom he bedews With tears, tears of remorse, of ruth, of sorrow. As the pale rose her color lost renews With the fresh drops fallen from the silver morrow, So she revives, and cheeks empurpled shows Moist with their own tears and with tears they borrow; Thrice looked she up, her eyes thrice closed she; As who say, “Let me die, ere look on thee.”

CXXX And his strong arm, with weak and feeble hand She would have thrust away, loosed and untwined: Oft strove she, but in vain, to break that band, For he the hold he got not yet resigned, Herself fast bound in those dear knots she fand, Dear, though she feigned scorn, strove and repined: At last she speaks, she weeps, complains and cries; Yet durst not, did not, would not see his eyes.

CXXXI “Cruel at thy departure, at return As cruel, say, what chance thee hither guideth, Would’st thou prevent her death whose heart forlorn For thee, for thee death’s strokes each hour divideth? Com’st thou to save my life? alas, what scorn, What torment for Armida poor abideth? No, no, thy crafts and sleights I well descry, But she can little do that cannot die.

CXXXII “Thy triumph is not great nor well arrayed Unless in chains thou lead a captive dame: A dame now ta’en by force, before betrayed, This is thy greatest glory, greatest fame: Time was that thee of love and life I prayed, Let death now end my love, my life, my shame. Yet let not thy false hand bereave this breath, For if it were thy gift, hateful were death.

CXXXIII “Cruel, myself an hundred ways can find, To rid me from thy malice, from thy hate, If weapons sharp, if poisons of all kind, If fire, if strangling fail, in that estate, Yet ways enough I know to stop this wind: A thousand entries hath the house of fate. Ah, leave these flatteries, leave weak hope to move, Cease, cease, my hope is dead, dead is my love.”

CXXXIV Thus mourned she, and from her watery eyes Disdain and love dropped down, rolled up in tears; From his pure fountains ran two streams likewise, Wherein chaste pity and mild ruth appears: Thus with sweet words the queen he pacifies, “Madam, appease your grief, your wrath, your fears, For to be crowned, not scorned, your life I save; Your foe nay, but your friend, your knight, your slave.

CXXXV “But if you trust no speech, no oath, no word; Yet in mine eyes, my zeal, my truth behold: For to that throne, whereof thy sire was lord, I will restore thee, crown thee with that gold, And if high Heaven would so much grace afford As from thy heart this cloud this veil unfold Of Paganism, in all the east no dame Should equalize thy fortune, state and fame.”

CXXXVI Thus plaineth he, thus prays, and his desire Endears with sighs that fly and tears that fall; That as against the warmth of Titan’s fire, Snowdrifts consume on tops of mountains tall, So melts her wrath; but love remains entire. “Behold,” she says, “your handmaid and your thrall: My life, my crown, my wealth use at your pleasure;” Thus death her life became, loss proved her treasure.

CXXXVII This while the captain of the Egyptian host,— That saw his royal standard laid on ground, Saw Rimedon, that ensign’s prop and post, By Godfrey’s noble hand killed with one wound, And all his folk discomfit, slain and lost, No coward was in this last battle found, But rode about and sought, nor sought in vain, Some famous hand of which he might be slain;

CXXXVIII Against Lord Godfrey boldly out he flew, For nobler foe he wished not, could not spy, Of desperate courage showed he tokens true, Where’er he joined, or stayed, or passed by, And cried to the Duke as near he drew, “Behold of thy strong hand I come to die, Yet trust to overthrow thee with my fall, My castle’s ruins shall break down thy wall.”

CXXXIX This said, forth spurred they both, both high advance Their swords aloft, both struck at once, both hit, His left arm wounded had the knight of France, His shield was pierced, his vantbrace cleft and split, The Pagan backward fell, half in a trance, On his left ear his foe so hugely smit, And as he sought to rise, Godfredo’s sword Pierced him through, so died that army’s lord.

CXL Of his great host, when Emiren was dead, Fled the small remnant that alive remained; Godfrey espied as he turned his steed, Great Altamore on foot, with blood all stained, With half a sword, half helm upon his head, Gainst whom a hundred fought, yet not one gained. “Cease, cease this strife,” he cried: “and thou, brave knight, Yield, I am Godfrey, yield thee to my might!”

CXLI He that till then his proud and haughty heart To act of humbleness did never bend, When that great name he heard, from the north part Of our wide world renowned to Aethiop’s end, Answered, “I yield to thee, thou worthy art, I am thy prisoner, fortune is thy friend: On Altamoro great thy conquest bold Of glory shall be rich, and rich of gold: