Part 27 (1/2)
LXVI ”Friend, thou hast won, I pardon thee, nor save This body, that all torments can endure, But save my soul, baptism I dying crave, Come wash away my sins with waters pure:”
His heart relenting nigh in sunder rave, With woful speech of that sweet creature, So that his rage, his wrath, and anger died, And on his cheeks salt tears for ruth down slide.
LXVII With murmur loud down from the mountain's side A little runnel tumbled near the place, Thither he ran and filled his helmet wide, And quick returned to do that work of grace, With trembling hands her beaver he untied, Which done he saw, and seeing, knew her face, And lost therewith his speech and moving quite, Oh woful knowledge, ah unhappy sight!
LXVIII He died not, but all his strength unites, And to his virtues gave his heart in guard, Bridling his grief, with water he requites The life that he bereft with iron hard, And while the sacred words the knight recites, The nymph to heaven with joy herself prepared; And as her life decays her joys increase, She smiled and said, ”Farewell, I die in peace.”
LXIX As violets blue mongst lilies pure men throw, So paleness midst her native white begun; Her looks to heaven she cast, their eyes I trow Downward for pity bent both heaven and sun, Her naked hand she gave the knight, in show Of love and peace, her speech, alas, was done, And thus the virgin fell on endless sleep,-- Love, Beauty, Virtue, for your darling weep!
LXX But when he saw her gentle soul was went, His manly courage to relent began, Grief, sorrow, anguish, sadness, discontent, Free empire got and lords.h.i.+p on the man, His life within his heart they close up pent, Death through his senses and his visage ran: Like his dead lady, dead seemed Tancred good, In paleness, stillness, wounds and streams of blood.
LXXI And his weak sprite, to be unbodied From fleshly prison free that ceaseless strived, Had followed her fair soul but lately fled Had not a Christian squadron there arrived, To seek fresh water thither haply led, And found the princess dead, and him deprived Of signs of life; yet did the knight remain On live, nigh dead, for her himself had slain.
LXXII Their guide far off the prince knew by his s.h.i.+eld, And thither hasted full of grief and fear, Her dead, him seeming so, he there beheld, And for that strange mishap shed many a tear; He would not leave the corpses fair in field For food to wolves, though she a Pagan were, But in their arms the soldiers both uphent, And both lamenting brought to Tancred's tent.
LXXIII With those dear burdens to their camp they pa.s.s, Yet would not that dead seeming knight awake, At last he deeply groaned, which token was His feeble soul had not her flight yet take: The other lay a still and heavy ma.s.s, Her spirit had that earthen cage forsake; Thus were they brought, and thus they placed were In sundry rooms, yet both adjoining near.
LXXIV All skill and art his careful servants used To life again their dying lord to bring, At last his eyes unclosed, with tears suffused, He felt their hands and heard their whispering, But how he thither came long time he mused, His mind astonished was with everything; He gazed about, his squires in fine he knew, Then weak and woful thus his plaints out threw:
LXXV ”What, live I yet? and do I breathe and see Of this accursed day the hateful light?
This spiteful ray which still upbraideth me With that accursed deed I did this night, Ah, coward hand, afraid why should'st thou be; Thou instrument of death, shame and despite, Why should'st thou fear, with sharp and trenchant knife, To cut the thread of this blood-guilty life?
LXXVI ”Pierce through this bosom, and my cruel heart In pieces cleave, break every string and vein; But thou to slaughters vile which used art, Think'st it were pity so to ease my pain: Of luckless love therefore in torments' smart A sad example must I still remain, A woful monster of unhappy love, Who still must live, lest death his comfort prove:
LXXVII ”Still must I live in anguish, grief, and care; Furies my guilty conscience that torment, The ugly shades, dark night, and troubled air In grisly forms her slaughter still present, Madness and death about my bed repair, h.e.l.l gapeth wide to swallow up this tent; Swift from myself I run, myself I fear, Yet still my h.e.l.l within myself I bear.
LXXVIII ”But where, alas, where be those relics sweet, Wherein dwelt late all love, all joy, all good?
My fury left them cast in open street, Some beast hath torn her flesh and licked her blood, Ah n.o.ble prey! for savage beast unmeet, Ah sweet! too sweet, and far too precious food, Ah, seely nymph! whom night and darksome shade To beasts, and me, far worse than beasts, betrayed.
LXXIX ”But where you be, if still you be, I wend To gather up those relics dear at least, But if some beast hath from the hills descend, And on her tender bowels made his feast, Let that fell monster me in pieces rend, And deep entomb me in his hollow chest: For where she buried is, there shall I have A stately tomb, a rich and costly grave.”
Lx.x.x Thus mourned the knight, his squires him told at last, They had her there for whom those tears he shed; A beam of comfort his dim eyes outcast, Like lightning through thick clouds of darkness spread, The heavy burden of his limbs in haste, With mickle pain, he drew forth of his bed, And scant of strength to stand, to move or go, Thither he staggered, reeling to and fro.
Lx.x.xI When he came there, and in her breast espied His handiwork, that deep and cruel wound, And her sweet face with leaden paleness dyed, Where beauty late spread forth her beams around, He trembled so, that nere his squires beside To hold him up, he had sunk down to ground, And said, ”O face in death still sweet and fair!
Thou canst not sweeten yet my grief and care:
Lx.x.xII ”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.
Lx.x.xIII ”But thither now run forth my guilty blood, Whither my plaints, my sorrows cannot wend.”
He said no more, but, as his pa.s.sion 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.
Lx.x.xIV 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: G.o.dfrey and all his lords of worth and might, Ran thither, and the duty would discharge Of friends.h.i.+p true, and with sweet words the rage Of bitter grief and woe they would a.s.suage.
Lx.x.xV 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:
Lx.x.xVI ”O Tancred, Tancred, how far different From thy beginnings good these follies be?
What makes thee deaf? what hath thy eyesight blent?