But now, alas! the fatal hour arrives That must shut up Clorinda's life in shade; In her fair bosom deep his sword he drives; 'Tis done--life's purple fountain bathes the blade; The golden flowered cymar of light brocade, That swathed so tenderly her breasts of snow, Is steeped in the warm stream: the hapless maid Feels her end nigh; her knees their strength forego, And her enfeebled frame droops languishing and low. He, following up the thrust with taunting cries, Lays the pierced Virgin at his careless feet; She as she falls, in mournful tones outsighs, Her last faint words, pathetically sweet; Which a new spirit prompts, a spirit replete With charity, and faith, and hope serene, Sent dove-like down from God's pure mercy-seat; Who, though through life his rebel she had been, Would have her die a fond, repentant Magdalene. "Friend, thou hast won; I pardon thee, and oh Forgive thou me! I fear not for this clay, But my dark soul--pray for it, and bestow The sacred right that laves all stains away:" Like dying hymns heard far at close of day, Sounding I know not what in the soothed ear Of sweetest sadness, the faint words make way To his fierce heart, and, touched with grief sincere, Streams from his pitying eye the involuntary tear. Not distant, gushing from the rocks, a rill Clashed on his ear; to this with eager pace He speeds--his hollow casque the waters fill-- And back he hurries to the deed of grace; His hands as aspens tremble, whilst they raise The locked aventayle of the unknown knight;-- God, for thy mercy! 'tis her angel face! Aghast and thunderstruck, he loathes the light; Ah, knowledge best unknown! ah, too distracting sight. Yet still he lived; and mustering all his powers To the sad task, restrained each wild lament, Fain to redeem by those baptismal showers The life his sword bereft; whilst thus intent The hallowing words he spoke, with ravishment Her face transfigured shone, and half apart Her bland lips shed a lively smile that sent This silent speech in sunshine to his heart: "Heaven gleams; in blissful peace behold thy friend depart!" A paleness beauteous as the lily's mixt With the sweet violet's, like a gust of wind Flits o'er her face; her eyes on Heaven are fixt, And heaven on her returns its looks as kind: Speak she can not; but her cold hand, declined, In pledge of peace on Tancred she bestows; And to her fate thus tenderly resigned, In her meek beauty she expires, and shows But as a smiling saint indulging soft repose. Clorinda, being dead, Tancred has little desire to live, but is comforted by a vision of her in heaven: