A history of Italian literature

by Richard Garnett

Then of a gurgling murmur he was 'ware
Within the stream, and thither turned his eyes,
And saw a ripple in 'mid current there
Whirl round about itself in eddying guise,
And thence emerge a glint of golden hair,
And thence a maiden’s lovely face uprise;
Her voice the ear enthralled, her face the vision,
And heaven hung tranced upon her notes Elysian.

And now the false one’s song of treacherous wile
O’erpowers the youth with slumberous heaviness,
And by degrees that serpent base and vile
Subdues his senses with o’ermastering stress,
Nor death’s still mimicry, wrought by her guile,
Could thunders rouse from; other sounds far less.
Then the foul sorceress from her ambush showing,
Stands over him, with hate and fury glowing.

But as she gazing scans the gentle sighs,
The stir of whose soft breathing she can mark,
The smile that lurked around the beauteous eyes,
Now closed (what then their living glances dark?),
She pauses thrilled, then droops in tender guise,
Beside him—quenched her hatred’s every spark,
As rapt above that radiant brow inclining,
She seems Narcissus o’er the fountain pining.

The dew of heat there starting, she ne’er tires
With tender fingers in her veil to dry;
While his cheek softly fanning, she desires
The heat to temper of the summer sky;
Thus (who could have believed it?) smouldering fires
Of hidden orbs dissolved the frost, whereby
That adamantine heart its core did cover,
And the harsh foe becomes the tender lover.

Pale privet, roses red, and lilies white,
Perennial blooming on that lovely shore,
Blent with strange art, she wove in fetters light
Yet close of clasp, and flung them softly o’er
His neck and arms and feet; thus helpless quite
She bound and held him fast, and sleeping bore
Unto the prison of her car aerial,
And carried in swift flight through realms ethereal.

Few of the great artificial epics of the world, those which have not been moulded out of songs and legends welling up spontaneously from the heart of the people, can sustain very strict criticism of their poetical economy, and the Jerusalem Delivered perhaps less than any other. The subject of the Crusades, indeed, is a very great one, too vast even to be embraced in a single poem; and the capture of Jerusalem, though of all its incidents incomparably the most fit for poetical treatment, is not of itself sufficiently extensive for an epic poem. It must consequently be enriched by episodes, which in Tasso’s hands have the double fault of jarring with the spirit of the main action, and of obscuring its due predominance by their superior attractiveness. It might perhaps have been otherwise if Tasso had been cast in the mould of Milton or had lived in an austerer age. Italian poetry, however, was so saturated by the influence of Petrarch and Ariosto that any embellishments of the chief action must of necessity partake of the character of love and romance. The former class, however charming in themselves, inevitably depressed the character of an epic so largely depending upon them as the Jerusalem, below that proper to an heroic poem. The romance and sorcery, though recommended to Tasso as introducing the supernatural, then considered indispensable to epic poetry, provoke criticism by their inconsistency. If the enchanters Ismeno and Armida could do so much, they might have done a great deal more. Ismeno has all the infernal hosts at his command, and makes hardly any use of them. Pluto is a most lazy and incompetent devil. Armida might easily have made her magic island impregnable. The whole contrivance of the enchanted wood, though full of descriptive beauties, is weak as poetical machinery; it could have offered no real obstacle to the Christians. And it is almost comical to observe that amid all the confusion the venerable Peter the Hermit knows perfectly well what is to happen, can remedy every misfortune when he chooses, and could have prevented it but for the convenience of the poet, more inexorable than the fiat of the Fates.

The merit of the Jerusalem, then, consists mainly in details whose beauty requires no exposition. Mention has already been made of the merit of the character-painting, which greatly surpasses Ariosto’s. The latter’s personages are in comparison puppets; Tasso’s are living men and women. The passion of love in the three principal female characters is exquisitely painted, and admirably discriminated in accordance with the disposition of each. Erminia, in particular, calls up the sweetest image conceivable of womanly tenderness and devotion. Rinaldo is less interesting than he should have been; but Tancred is the mirror of chivalry; and the difficulty of delineating a perfect hero without provoking scepticism or disgust is overcome as nearly as possible in the character of Goffredo. The veteran Raimondo’s insistence upon the post of honour and danger; the indomitable spirit of Solimano; the circumspect valour of Emireno, devoid of illusion, and with no aim but the fulfilment of duty—are noble traits, and the more so as the poet found them in himself. The very last incident in the poem, Goffredo’s interference to save his gallant enemy Altamoro, is one that could have occurred to no one less noble and courteous than the author of the Jerusalem. It is very different from Bradamante’s behaviour to Atlante in the Orlando Furioso.

Another honourable characteristic is Tasso’s love of science and discovery, revealed by many passages in his minor poems and his dialogues, and in the Jerusalem by the noble prophecy of the Columbus to be. His sonnet to Stigliani, hereafter to be quoted, appears to hint that with better health and fortune he would himself have taken the exploits of Columbus as the subject of another epic; and he is said to have remarked that the only contemporary poet against whom he felt any hesitation in measuring himself was Camoens, the singer of the discoveries of the Portuguese. This theme, often essayed, and never with success, would have favoured Tasso’s genius in so far as it exempted him from describing single combats and pitched battles. His battle-pieces are not ineffective, but he is evidently more at home among the sorceries of Armida’s enchanted garden:

“Ah mark!” he sang, “the rose but now revealed,
Fresh from its veiling sheath of virgin green,
Unfolded yet but half, half yet concealed,
More fair to see, the less it may be seen.
Now view its bare and flaunting pride unsealed;
All faded now, as though it ne’er had been
The beauteous growth, that while it bloomed retired,
A thousand maids, a thousand youths desired.

“Thus passeth in the passing of a day
Life’s flower, with green and roseate tints imbued:
Think not, since Spring leads back the laughing May,
The mortal bloom shall likewise be renewed.
Cull we the rose in morning’s prime, ere grey
Dims the fair vault, and cloud and gloom intrude.
Cull we Love’s roses in the hour approved,
When whoso loves may hope to be beloved.”