Orlando Furioso

CANTO 9

AR­GU­MENT So far Or­lan­do wends, he comes to where He of old Pro­teus’ hears the cru­el use But feels such pity for Olympia fair, Wronged by Cy­mosco, who in prison mews Her plight­ed spouse, that ere he makes re­pair Fur­ther, he gives her hope to venge the abuse: He does so, and de­parts; and with his spouse De­parts Bireno, to re­peat his vows.

I What can­not, when he has a heart pos­sess’d This false and cru­el traitor Love? since he Can ban­ish from Or­lan­do’s faith­ful breast Such tried al­le­giance and due loy­al­ty? Wise, full of all re­gards, and of the blest And glo­ri­ous church the cham­pi­on wont to be, Now, lit­tle for him­self or un­cle, driv­en By a vain love, he cares, and less for heav­en.

II But I ex­cuse him well, re­joiced to know I have like part­ner in my vice: for still To seek my good I too am faint and slow, But sound and nim­ble in pur­suit of ill. The count de­parts, dis­guised in sable show, Nor for so many friends, with froward will, De­sert­ed cares; and comes where on the plain Are camped the hosts of Afric and of Spain;

III Rather un­camped: for, in less troops or more, Rains un­der shed and tree had driv­en the band. Here ten, there twen­ty, sev­en or eight, or four, Near or fur­ther off, Or­lan­do scanned. Each sleeps, op­pressed with toil and wea­ried sore; This stretched on earth, that propped up­on his hand: They sleep, and many might the count have slain, Yet nev­er bared his puis­sant Durin­dane.

IV So gen­er­ous is Or­lan­do’s heart, he base Es­teems it were to smite a sleep­ing foe. Now this he seeks, and now that oth­er place; Yet can­not track his la­dy, high or low. If he finds any one in wak­ing case, Sigh­ing, to him he paints her form and show; Then prays him that for cour­tesy, he where The damsel is, will reach him to re­pair.

V And when the day its shin­ing light dis­played, He whol­ly searched the Moor­ish army through. In that the gen­tle war­rior was ar­rayed In Arab weeds, he this might safe­ly do; And of his pur­pose came alike in aid That oth­er tongues be­side the French he knew; And in the African so well was read, He seemed in Tripoly one born and bred:

VI He so­journs there three days, the camp to see; Still seek­ing nought be­side: next up and down, With­in, with­out, both burgh and city he Spies; nor sur­veys the realm of France alone; But fair Au­vergne, and even Gas­cony Re­vis­its, to its far­thest lit­tle town. Roves from Provence to Brit­tany’s do­main, And from the Pi­cards to the bounds of Spain.

VII Be­tween Oc­to­ber and Novem­ber’s moon, In that dull sea­son when the leafy vest Is stript from trem­bling plant, whose limbs are shown Of all their mantling fo­liage dis­pos­sess’d And in close flights the swarm­ing birds are flown, Or­lan­do en­ters on his amorous quest: This he pur­sues the live­long win­ter through, Nor quits when glad­some spring re­turns anew.

VI­II As (such his wont) from land to land he goes, A riv­er’s side he reach­es on a day; Which to the neigh­bour­ing sea in qui­et flows. Bre­tons and Nor­mans part­ing on its way: But, swoln with moun­tain rain and melt­ed snows, Then thun­dered, white with foam and flash­ing-​spray: And with im­petu­ous stream had over­topt Its brim, and burst the bridge, and pas­sage stopt.

IX The pal­adin this bank and the oth­er eyed, Along the riv­er’s chan­nel, to ex­plore, Since nei­ther fish nor fowl, if from his side He could gain foot­ing on the ad­verse shore; When, with a damsel in the poop, he spied A ready pin­nace that to­wards him bore: She steered, as if she would ap­proach the strand; But would not let her shal­lop make the land.

X Steered not to land; as hap­ly with sus­pi­cion To take a lad­ing, in her own de­spite. To her the good Or­lan­do made pe­ti­tion To put him o’er the stream; and she: “No knight Pass­es this fer­ry, but up­on con­di­tion He shall his faith and promise du­ly plight, That he will do a bat­tle, at my prayer, Up­on the justest quar­rel and most fair.

XI “So that if thou on that oth­er shore to land Dost by my aid, Sir cav­alier, de­sire, Promise me, ere the month which is at hand” (The damsel so pur­sued her speech) “ex­pire, That thou wilt join the Hi­ber­ni­an monarch’s hand, Who forms a fair ar­ma­da, in his ire, To sack Ebu­da’s isle; of all com­press’d By ocean’s cir­cling waves, the cru­ellest.

XII “Know, be­yond Ire­land, in the briny flood, An is­land, amid many oth­ers, lies; Ebu­da is its name; whose peo­ple rude (Such is their law), in search of plun­der hies; And all the wom­en that it takes, for food To a vo­ra­cious an­imal sup­plies; Which ev­ery day to shore for this does speed, And finds new wife or maid where­on to feed:

XI­II “For of these mer­chant still and Cor­sair sell A large sup­ply, and most of those most fair. Reck­on­ing one slain a-​day, you thus may well Com­pute what wives and maids have per­ished there. But if com­pas­sion in your bo­som dwell, Nor you to Love an ut­ter rebel are, Be you con­tent­ed with this band to wend, Unit­ed for such prof­itable end.”

XIV To hear the whole Or­lan­do scarce could bear, Ere to be first in that em­prize he swore, As one who evil deed mis­liked to hear, And with im­pa­tience like re­la­tion bore: Hence first in­duced to think, and next to fear, An­gel­ica is cap­tive on that shore: Since he so long the miss­ing maid pur­sues, Nor of the damsel yet can gath­er news.

XV Break­ing his ev­ery scheme, this phan­ta­sy The trou­bled cav­alier did so con­found, That will all speed to that fell is­land he Re­solved to nav­igate; nor yet the round Of a new sun was buried in the sea, Ere he a ves­sel at St. Ma­lo’s found; In which, em­bark­ing on his quest, the count Put forth, and cleared that night St. Michael’s Mount.

XVI Breac and Lan­drigli­er past on the left hand, Or­lan­do’s ves­sel skims the Bre­ton shore; Then shapes her course to­wards the chalky strand, Whence Eng­land’s isle the name of Al­bion bore: But the south wind, which had her can­vas fanned, Shifts to north-​west, and fresh­en­ing, blows so sore, The mariners are fain to strike all sail, And wear and scud be­fore the bois­ter­ous gale.

XVII A dis­tance tra­versed in four days, in one Back­wards the cease­less wind the frigate bore; The helms­man kept the sea, lest she should run Aground, and break like glass up­on the shore. The wind up­on the fifth day changed its tune, So loud and fu­ri­ous through the oth­er four; And let, with­out more strife, the ves­sel gain A port, where Antwerp’s riv­er met the main.

XVI­II As soon as har­boured there in shat­tered plight, The weary mariners their frigate moor, Out of a city, seat­ed on the right Of that fair stream, de­scends up­on the shore, As his gray hairs may war­rant him, a wight Strick­en in years; who, full of cour­te­ous lore, Turns to the coun­ty, af­ter greet­ings due, Reput­ing him the lead­er of that crew.

XIX And prays him, on a damsel’s part, `that he To her would think not irk­some to re­pair; Whom of un­equalled af­fa­bil­ity And sweet­ness, he would find, as well as fair; Or oth­er­wise would be con­tent, that she Should to his bark re­sort, to seek him there, Nor prove less pli­ant than had been be­fore All the knights er­rant, who had sought that shore:

XX For hith­er­to, by land or sea con­veyed, No cav­alier had jour­neyed to that place That had re­fused to par­lay with the maid, And give her coun­sel in a cru­el case.’ Or­lan­do, hear­ing this, no more de­layed, But is­sued from the bark with hur­ried pace, And, in all kind and cour­te­ous us­age bred, His way di­rect­ed where the an­cient led.

XXI With him did Roland to the city go, And at the bot­tom of a palace-​stair, Con­duct­ed by that el­der, full of woe A la­dy found, if face may grief de­clare, And sable cloth, with which (a mourn­ful show) Cham­ber, and hall, and gallery, fur­nished were; Who, af­ter hon­ourable wel­come paid, Seat­ed the pal­adin, and sad­ly said:

XXII “The daugh­ter of the Count of Hol­land,” (cried The La­dy) “know in me, Sir cav­alier. Though not his on­ly off­spring (for be­side My­self two broth­ers were) to him so dear, That, for what­ev­er favour I ap­plied, I nev­er met re­fusal from the peer. I liv­ing glady in this hap­py sort, A duke by chance was guest­ed at our court;

XXI­II “The Duke of Zealand, mean­ing for Bis­cay; With pur­pose there to war up­on the Moor; His youth and beau­ty, then in man­hood’s May, And force of love, un­felt by me be­fore, Made me, with lit­tle strife, his easy prey: Per­suad­ed by his out­ward cheer yet more, I thought, and think, and still shall think, the peer Loved me, and loves me yet with heart sin­cere.

XXIV “Those days, whenas the wind was con­trary, (Which fair for me, if foul for oth­ers blew) To oth­ers forty seemed, an hour to me; So up­on speedy wings the mo­ments flew. This while, we of­ten­times held col­lo­quy, When, to be giv­en with solemn right and due, I promised him, and he to me, his hand, On his re­turn, in wed­lock’s holy band.

XXV “Bireno hard­ly from our court was gone, For such the name my faith­ful lover bore, When Fries­land’s king, whose realm is from our own No fur­ther than this stream from Ocean’s shore, De­sign­ing to be­stow me on his son, Ar­bantes hight (the monarch had no more), To Hol­land sent the wor­thi­est of his land, Me of the count, my fa­ther, to de­mand.

XXVI “I with­out pow­er to fal­si­fy that vow, Which to my gen­tle lover I had plight; Nor though I had the pow­er, would Love al­low Me so to play the in­grate, if I might, (The treaty, well on foot, to over­throw, And nigh con­clud­ed) with af­flict­ed sprite, Cried to my fa­ther, I would rather shed My very life-​blood, than in Fries­land wed.

XXVII “My gra­cious fa­ther, he who took but plea­sure In what pleased me, nor would my will con­strain; Mark­ing my grief, broke off the in­tend­ed mea­sure, To give me com­fort and re­lieve my pain. At this proud Fries­land’s sovereign such dis­plea­sure Con­ceived, and en­ter­tained such high dis­dain, He en­tered Hol­land, and the war be­gan, In which my kin were slaugh­tered to a man.

XXVI­II “Be­sides, that both his puis­sance and his might Are such, as in our age are matched of few, Such is in evil deeds his cun­ning sleight, He laughs to scorn what wit and force can do. Strange arms he bears, un­known to any wight, Save him, of the an­cient na­tions or the new: A hol­low iron, two yards long, whose small Chan­nel he loads with pow­der and a ball

XXIX “He, where ’tis closed be­hind, in the iron round, Touch­es with fire a vent, dis­cerned with pain; In guise that skil­ful sur­geon tries his ground, Where need re­quires that he should breathe a vein. Whence flies the bul­let with such deaf­en­ing sound, That bolt and light­en­ing from the hol­low cane Ap­pear to dart, and like the pass­ing thun­der, Burn what they smite, beat-​down or rend asun­der.

XXX “Twice bro­ken, he our armies over­threw With this de­vice, my gen­tle brethren slain; The first the shot in our first bat­tle slew, Reach­ing his heart, through bro­ken plate and chain; The oth­er in the oth­er on­set, who Was fly­ing from the fa­tal field in vain. The ball his shoul­der from a dis­tance tore Be­hind, and is­sued from his breast be­fore.

XXXI “My fa­ther next, de­fend­ing on a day The on­ly fortress which he still pos­sessed, The oth­ers tak­en which about it lay, Was sent alike to his eter­nal rest: Who go­ing and re­turn­ing, to pur­vey What lacked, as this or that oc­ca­sion pressed, Was aimed at from afar, in privy wise, And by the tray­tour struck be­tween the eyes.

XXXII “And I re­main­ing, sire and brethren dead, The isle of Hol­land’s on­ly heir, the king Of Fries­land, who by the de­sire was led Of bet­ter there his pow­er es­tab­lish­ing, To me, and al­so to my peo­ple said, I peace and qui­et to my state might bring, Would I (when I be­fore would not ac­cord) Now take his son Ar­bantes for my lord.

XXXI­II “I, not so much for dead­ly hate I bear To him and all his kin­dred, by whose spite My sire and both my broth­ers slaugh­tered were, My coun­try sacked and waste, as that the knight I would not wrong, to whom I feal­ty sware, And had my solemn word al­ready plight That me to wed­lock man should woo in vain, Till he to Hol­land should re­turn from Spain.

XXXIV “For one ill-​born, a hun­dred yet be­hind, Will bear (replied) to haz­ard all con­tent, — Slain, burnt alive, to let them to the wind Scat­ter my ash­es, rather than con­sent. — My peo­ple seek to move my sted­fast mind, By prayer and by protest, from this in­tent; And threat to yield my city up and me, Lest all be lost through my ob­du­ra­cy.

XXXV “When in my fixt and firm re­solve they read, That prayer and protest are alike in vain; My town and me, with Fries­land’s king agreed, Sur­ren­dered, as they vowed, my vas­sal train. Not do­ing by me any shame­ful deed, Me he as­sured of life and of do­main, So I would soft­en my ob­du­rate mood, And be to wed with his Ar­bantes wooed.

XXXVI “I who would have con­sent­ed to forego My life to scape from him, re­flec­tion made, That, save I first avenged my­self, all woe En­dured, would be by this re­gret out­weighed. — Long time I muse, and to my mis­ery know, ‘Tis on­ly sim­ula­tion which can aid. Not sim­ple will­ing­ness, I feign de­sire, To win his grace, and have him for my sire.

XXXVII ” Mid many in my fa­ther’s ser­vice, I Se­lect two broth­ers fit­ted for my view, Of valiant heart and great abil­ity But more ap­proved for truth, as fol­low­ers, who Bred in my fa­ther’s court, from in­fan­cy Had with my­self grown up; the broth­ers two So whol­ly bound to me, they would have thought My safe­ty with their lives was cheap­ly bought.

XXXVI­II “To them I tell my project, and the pair Of brethren promise me their faith­ful aid: To Flan­ders this, a pin­nace to pre­pare, I sent, and that with me in Hol­land stayed. Now, while both for­eign­ers and na­tives were, Of Fries­land’s king­dom, to our nup­tials prayed, Bireno in Bis­cay (the tid­ings went) For Hol­land had equipt an ar­ma­ment.

XXXIX “Since on the is­sue of the ear­li­est fray, When in the rout one hap­less broth­er fell, I had dis­patched a couri­er to Bis­cay, Who the sad news should to Bireno tell: While he toils sore his squadron to ar­ray, Proud Fries­land’s arms our wretched rem­nant quell. Bireno, who knew nought of this, had weighed, And with his barks put forth to bring us aid.

XL “These tid­ings told to Fries­land’s monarch, he Con­fid­ing to his son the wed­ding’s care, To meet Bireno’s squadron puts to sea, And (so chance willed) burns, sinks, or routs them there, Lead­ing him off in­to cap­tiv­ity; — But none to us as yet the tid­ings bear. This while I to the amorous youth am wed, Who, when the sun sought his, would seek my bed.

XLI “Be­hind the cur­tains, I had hid the tried And faith­ful fol­low­er, of whom I said, Who moved not till the bride­groom he de­scried, Yet wait­ed not till he in bed was laid: But raised a hatch­et, and so well ap­plied Be­hind the stripling’s head the pon­der­ous blade, Of speech and life it reft him; I, who note The deed, leap light­ly up and cut his throat.

XLII “As falls the bul­lock up­on sham­ble-​sill, Thus fell the ill-​starred stripling, in de­spite Of king Cy­mosco, worst among the ill; So was the im­pi­ous king of Fries­land hight Who did my broth­ers and my fa­ther kill, And, in my state to found a bet­ter right; In wed­lock wished to join me with his son, Hap­ly to slay me when his end was won.

XLI­II “Ere new dis­tur­bance in­ter­rupt the deed, Tak­ing what costli­est was and light­est weighed, Me my com­pan­ion by a chord, with speed, Drops from a win­dow, where with boat pur­veyed In Flan­ders (as re­lat­ed) for my need, His broth­er, watch­ful of our mo­tions, stayed: We dip the oar, we loose the sail, and driv­en By both, es­cape, as was the will of Heav­en.

XLIV “The dar­ing feat achieved, I can­not say If Fries­land’s king more sor­rowed for his son, Or raged at me: he there ar­rived, the day En­su­ing, where the dread­ful deed was done, Proud he re­turned, both he and his ar­ray, Of the duke tak­en, and the vic­to­ry won: And thought to feast and nup­tials he was bound, But in his home all grief and dark­ness found.

XLV “His pity for his son, the hate he fed To­wards me, tor­ment the fa­ther day and night; But as lament­ing will not raise the dead, And vengeance is a vent for smoth­ered spite; That por­tion of his thoughts, which should have led The king, to ease by sighs his trou­bled sprite, Now will­ing­ly takes coun­sel with his hate, To seize me, and his vengeance sa­ti­ate.

XLVI “All known or said to by my friends, or who Were friends of those that, cho­sen from my train, Had aid­ed me the dead­ly deed to do, Their goods and chat­tels burnt, were doomed or slain: And he had killed Bireno, since he knew No oth­er trou­ble could in­flict such pain; But that he, sav­ing him in mal­ice, thought He had a net where­with I might be caught.

XLVII “Yet him a cru­el propo­si­tion made, Grant­ing a year his pur­pose to com­plete; Con­demned to privy death, till then de­layed, Save in that time, through force or through de­ceit, He by his friends’ and kin­dred’s ut­most aid, Do­ing or plot­ting, me from my re­treat Con­veyed in­to his pris­ons; so that he Can on­ly saved by my de­struc­tion be.

XLVI­II “What for his safe­ty could be done, be­hold, Short of my own de­struc­tion, had been tried. Six towns I had in Flan­ders: these I sold, And (great or small the pro­duce set aside) A part of it, to wily per­sons told, That it to tempt his guards might be ap­plied; The rest of it dis­pensed to move and arm Ger­mans or En­glish, to the mis­cre­ant’s harm.

XLIX “My agents, whether they their trust be­trayed, Or that they could in truth per­form no more, Me with vain words in­stead of help have paid, And scorn me, hav­ing drained my scanty store: And now the term is nigh ex­pired, when aid, Whether of open force or trea­sured ore, No longer will ar­rive in time to save My cher­ished spouse from tor­ture and the grave.

L “Through him, from me was my do­min­ion rent; Through him, my fa­ther and my brethren slain; Through him, the lit­tle trea­sure left me, spent (What served alone ex­is­tence to sus­tain) To res­cue him, in cru­el du­rance pent; Nor oth­er means to suc­cour him re­main; Save I, to lib­er­ate him from prison, go And yield my­self to such a cru­el foe.

LI “If noth­ing more be left me then to try, Nor oth­er way for his es­cape ap­pear, Than his with this my wretched life to buy, This life I glad­ly will lay down: one fear Alone mo­lests me; and it is that I Can nev­er my con­di­tions make so clear, As to as­sure me, that with new de­ceit, Me, when his prey, the tyrant will not cheat.

LII “I fear, when I shall be in cap­tive plight, And he has put all tor­tures up­on me, He may not loose Bireno, and the knight Have not to thank me for his lib­er­ty: Like per­jured king, and full of foul de­spite, Who with my mur­der will not sa­ti­ate be; But by Bireno nei­ther less nor more Will do, than he had done by me be­fore.

LI­II “The oc­ca­sion now that I con­fer with you, And tell my case to all who seek the land, Both lords and knights, is with the sin­gle view, That tak­ing coun­sel of so large a band, Some one may in­di­cate as­sur­ance due, That when be­fore the cru­el king I stand, No longer he Bireno shall de­tain; Nor, af­ter I am killed, the duke be slain.

LIV “War­rior to went with me, I in my need, When I shall be to Fries­land giv­en, have prayed; But so he promise, that the ex­change agreed Shall be be­tween us in such man­ner made, That from his bonds Bireno shall be freed When I am to the monarch’s hands con­veyed: Thus I, when I am slain, shall die con­tent, Who to my spouse shall life by death have lent.

LV “Not to this day have chanced up­on a wight Who on his faith will give me war­ran­ty, That if the king refuse to loose the knight, When I am of­fered, from cap­tiv­ity, He will not suf­fer that in my de­spite (So feared those weapons!) I shall tak­en be. So feared those weapons, up­on ev­ery hand! Which, how­so­ev­er thick, no plates with­stand.

LVI “Now, if as strong Her­culean port and bold Ap­pear to vouch, such worth to you be­long; And you be­lieve to give me or with­hold Is in your pow­er, should he in­tend me wrong; Be with me, when com­mit­ted to his hold, Since I shall fear not, in your con­voy strong, When you are with me, that my lord, though I Be af­ter slain, shall by his or­der die.”

LVII Here her dis­course, where­with were in­ter­posed Loud sobs, the la­dy ceased, and silent stood: Or­lan­do, when her lips the damsel closed, Whose ready will ne’er halts in do­ing good, Briefly to her replies, as in­dis­posed To idle speech­es of his nat­ural mood: But plights his solemn word, that bet­ter aid She should from him re­ceive than that she prayed.

LVI­II ‘Tis not his scheme to place her in the hand Of her foul foe, to have Bireno freed; He will save both the lovers, if his brand And wont­ed val­our fail him not at need. Em­barked that very day, they put from land With a clear sky and pros­per­ous wind to speed. The coun­ty hastes in his im­pa­tient heat, Ea­ger to reach that isle, the mon­ster’s seat.

LIX Through the still deeps, on this or the oth­er side, The skip­per veered his can­vas to the wind: This isle, and that of Zealand, they de­scried, One seen be­fore, and one shut in be­hind. The third day, from the har­boured ves­sel’s side, In Hol­land, Roland dis­em­barks, not joined By the com­plain­ing dame; whom to de­scend He will not till she hear that tyrant’s end.

LX Armed at all points, the coun­ty passed ashore, Borne on a horse ‘twixt brown and black, the breed Of Den­mark, but in Flan­ders nur­tured, more Es­teemed for weight and puis­sance than for speed: For when the pal­adin em­barked be­fore, In Brit­tany he left the gal­lant steed, His Brigli­ador; so nim­ble and so fair, That but Ba­yardo could with him com­pare.

LXI Or­lan­do fares to Dor­drecht, where he views A nu­mer­ous squadron, which the gate main­tain; As well, be­cause sus­pi­cion still en­sues On the foun­da­tion of a new do­main; As that be­fore they had re­ceived the news, That out of Zealand, backed with armed train, Was com­ing with a fleet of many sail, A cousin of the lord here pent in jail.

LXII One, good Or­lan­do to the monarch’s ear Bade bear a mes­sage, `that an er­rant knight Oh him would prove him­self, with sword and spear; But would lay down this pact be­fore the fight: — That if the king un­horsed the cav­alier, Her who Ar­bantes slew, he, as his right, Should have, that, at the cav­alier’s com­mand, Was ready for de­liv­ery to his hand;

LXI­II `And willed the king should on his side agree, If him the knight in com­bat over­bore, Forth­with re­leased from his cap­tiv­ity, Bireno to full free­dom to re­store.’ To him the foot­man does his em­bassy; But he, who knight­ly worth or cour­te­ous lore Had nev­er known, di­rects his whole in­tent The count by treach­er­ous fraud to cir­cum­vent.

LX­IV He hopes as well, if he the war­rior slay, To have the dame, whom, so ag­grieved, he hates, If in the knight’s dis­pos­al, and the say Of that strange knight, the foot­man well re­lates. Hence thir­ty men dis­patched by oth­er way Than to the por­tal led, where Roland waits; Who with a long and privy cir­cuit wind, And come up­on the pal­adin be­hind.

LXV He all this while had made his guard de­lay The knight with words, till horse and foot he spied Ar­rived, where he this am­bus­cade did lay; When from the gate he with as many hied: As is the prac­tised hunter’s wont­ed way, To cir­cle wood and beasts on ev­ery side: As nigh Volana, with his sweep­ing nets, The wary fish­er fish and pool be­sets.

LXVI ‘Tis thus the king bars ev­ery path which lies Free for the war­rior’s flight, with armed train: He him alive, and in no oth­er guise, Would have, and light­ly hopes his end to gain; Nor for the earth­ly thun­der­bolt ap­plies, That had so many and so many slain: Which here he deems would serve his pur­pose ill, Where he de­sires to take and not to kill.

LXVII As wary fowler, bent on greater prey, Wise­ly pre­serves alive the game first caught, That by the call-​bird and his cheat­ing play, More may with­in the cir­cling net be brought; Such cun­ning art Cy­mosco would as­say: But Roland would not be so light­ly bought; Like them by the first toil that springs be­trayed; And quick­ly forced the cir­cle which was made.

LXVI­II Where he per­ceives the as­sailants thick­est stand, He rests his lance, and sticks in his ca­reer First one and af­ter­wards an­oth­er, and An­oth­er, and an­oth­er, who ap­pear Of paste; till six he of the cir­cling band Of foes im­pales up­on a sin­gle spear; A sev­enth left out, who by the push is slain, Since the clogged weapon can no more con­tain.

LX­IX No oth­er­wise, up­on the fur­ther shore Of fos­se or of canal, the frogs we spy, By cau­tious archer, prac­tised in his lore, Smote and trans­fixed the one the oth­er nigh; Up­on the shaft, un­til it hold no more, From barb to feath­ers full, al­lowed to lie. The heavy lance Or­lan­do from him flung, And to close com­bat with his faul­chion sprung.

LXX The lance now broke, his sword the war­rior drew, That sword which nev­er yet was drawn in vain, And still with cut or thrust some sol­dier slew; Now horse, now foot­man of the tyrant’s train. And, ev­er where he dealt a stroke, changed blue, Yel­low, green, white and black, to crim­son stain. Cy­mosco grieves, when most his need re­quire, Not to have now his hol­low cane and fire;

LXXI And with loud voice and men­ac­ing com­mand Bids these be brought, but ill his fol­low­ers hear; For those who have found safe­ty of his band, To is­sue from the city are in fear. He, when he sees them fly on ei­ther hand, Would fly as well from that dread cav­alier; Makes for the gate, and would the draw­bridge lift, But the pur­su­ing coun­ty is too swift.

LXXII The monarch turns his back, and leaves the knight Lord of the draw­bridge and of ei­ther gate. Thanks to his swifter steed, the rest in flight He pass­es: good Or­lan­do will not wait (In­tent the felon, not his band, to smite) Up­on the vul­gar herd to wreck his hate. But his slow horse seems restive; while the king’s, More nim­ble, flies as if equipt with wings.

LXXI­II From street to street, be­fore the count he made; And van­ished clean; but af­ter lit­tle stay, Came with new arms, with tube and fire pur­veyed; Which, at his hest, this while his men con­vey. And post­ed at a cor­ner, he way­laid: His foe, as hunter watch­es for his prey, In for­est, with armed dogs and spear, at­tend­ing The boar in fury from the hill de­scend­ing,

LXXIV Who rends the branch and over­throws the stone; And where­soe’er he turns his haughty front, Ap­pears (so loud the deaf­en­ing crash and groan) As if he were up­rend­ing wood and mount, In­tent to make him his bold deed atone, Cy­mosco at the pass ex­pects the count; As soon as he ap­pears, with ready light Touch­es the hole, and fires up­on the knight.

LXXV Be­hind, the weapon flames in light­ning’s guise, And vents the thun­der from be­fore; the ground Shakes un­der foot and city wall; the skies The fear­ful echo all about re­bound. The burn­ing bolt with sud­den fury flies, Not spar­ing aught which in its course is found. Hiss­ing and whizzing through the skies it went; But smote not, to the as­sas­sin’s foul in­tent.

LXXVI Whether it was his great de­sire to kill That baron, or his hur­ry made him fail, Or trem­bling heart, like leaf which flut­ters still, Made hand and arm to­geth­er flinch and quail; Or that it was not the Cre­ator’s will The church so soon her cham­pi­on should be­wail; The glanc­ing stroke his cours­er’s bel­ly tore, Out­stretched on earth, from thence to rise no more.

LXXVII To earth fall horse and rid­er: this the knight Scarce touched; the oth­er thun­der­ing pressed the plain: For the first rose so ready and so light, He from the fall seemed breath and force to gain. As African An­teus, in the fight, Rose from the sand with proud­er might and main; So when Or­lan­do touched the ground, to view He rose with dou­bled force and vigour new.

LXXVI­II He who has seen the thun­der, from on high, Dis­charged by Jove with such a hor­rid sound, De­scend where ni­tre, coal, and sul­phur lie, Stored up for use in mag­azine pro­found, Which scarce has reached — but touched it, ere the sky Is in a flame, as well as burn­ing ground, Firm walls are split, and sol­id mar­bles riv­en, And fly­ing stones cast up as high as heav­en;

LXXIX Let him imag­ine, when from earth he sprung, Such was the sem­blance of the cav­alier; Who moved in mode to fright­en Mars among The Gods, so fierce and hor­rid was his cheer. At this dis­may’d, the King of Fries­land stung His horse, and turned his rein, to fly the peer: But fierce Or­lan­do was up­on his foe Faster than ar­row flies from bend­ed bow:

LXXX And, what be­fore he could not, when pos­sest Of his good cours­er, now afoot will do. His speed out­goes all thought in ev­ery breast, Ex­ceeds all cre­dence, save in those who view. The tyrant short­ly joined, he on the crest Smote at his head so well, he cleft it through; And to the neck di­vid­ed by the blow, Sent it, to shake its last on earth be­low.

LXXXI Lo! in the fright­ed city oth­er sound Was heard to rise, and oth­er crash of brands, From troop, who, thith­er in his guid­ance bound, Fol­lowed Bireno’s cousin from his lands: Who, since the un­guard­ed gates he open found, In­to the city’s heart had poured his bands; Where the bold pal­adin had struck such fear, He with­out let might scour it far and near.

LXXXII In rout the peo­ple fly, who can­not guess Who these may be, or what the foes de­mand: But, when this man and that by speech and dress As Zealand-​men dis­tin­guish­es the band, Carte blanche they prof­fer, and the chief ad­dress, Bid­ding him range them un­der his com­mand; Against the Fries­lan­ders to lend him aid, Who have their duke in loath­some prison stayed.

LXXXI­II To Fries­land’s king that peo­ple ha­tred bore With all his fol­low­ing: who their an­cient lord Had put to death, and who by them yet more, As evil and ra­pa­cious, was ab­horred. Or­lan­do in­ter­posed with kind­ly lore, As friend of both, the par­ties to ac­cord: By whom, so joined, no Fries­lan­der was left But was of life or lib­er­ty bereft.

LXXXIV They would not wait to seek the dun­geon-​key, But break­ing-​down the gate, their en­trance made; Bireno to the count with cour­tesy And grate­ful thanks the ser­vice done re­paid. Thence they, to­geth­er with large com­pa­ny, Went where Olympia in her ves­sel stayed: For so was the ex­pect­ing la­dy hight, To whom that is­land’s crown be­longed of right.

LXXXV She who had thith­er good Or­lan­do brought, Not hop­ing that he would have thriv­en so well; — Enough for her, if by her mis­ery bought, Her spouse were res­cued from the tyrant’s cell! — Her, full of love and loy­al homage, sought The peo­ple one and all: Twere long to tell How she ca­ressed Bireno, he the maid, — What thanks both lovers to the coun­ty paid.

LXXXVI The peo­ple, throned in her pa­ter­nal reign, Re­place the in­jured dame, and feal­ty swear: She on the duke, to whom in sol­id chain Love with eter­nal knot had linked the fair, The em­pire of her­self and her do­main Con­ferred: He, called away by oth­er care, Left in the cousin’s guardian care this while His fortress­es, and all the sub­ject isle.

LXXXVII Since he to vis­it Zealand’s duchy planned, His faith­ful con­sort in his com­pa­ny; And thence, up­on the king of Fries­land’s land, Would try his for­tune (as he said), for he A pledge, he rat­ed high­ly, had in hand, Which seemed of fair suc­cess the war­ran­ty, The daugh­ter of the king: who here for­sak­en, With many oth­ers had been pris­on­er tak­en.

LXXXVI­II To a younger broth­er, her, the duke pre­tends, To be con­joined in wed­lock, he con­veyed. The Ro­man sen­ator thence part­ing wends Up­on the very day Bireno weighed; But he to noth­ing else his hand ex­tends Of all the many, many prized made, Save to that en­gine, found amid the plun­der, Which in all points I said re­sem­bled thun­der.

LXXXIX Not with in­tent, in his de­fence to bear What he had tak­en, of the prize pos­sest; For he still held it an un­gen­er­ous care To go with van­tage on what­ev­er quest: But with de­sign to cast the weapon where It nev­er more should liv­ing wight mo­lest; And, what was ap­per­tain­ing to it, all Bore off as well, the pow­der and the ball.

XC And thus, when of the tidesway he was clear, And in the deep­est sea his bark de­scried, So that no longer dis­tant signs ap­pear Of ei­ther shore on this or the oth­er side, He seized the tube, and said: “That cav­alier May nev­er vail through thee his knight­ly pride, Nor base be rat­ed with a bet­ter foe, Down with thee to the dark­est deep be­low!

XCI “O loathed, O cursed piece of en­gin­ery, Cast in Tartare­an bot­tom, by the hand Of Beelze­bub, whose foul ma­lig­ni­ty The ru­in of this world through thee has planned! To hell, from whence thou came, I ren­der thee.” So said, he cast away the weapon: fanned Mean­while, with flow­ing sheet, his frigate goes, By wind, which for the cru­el is­land blows.

XCII Such was the pal­adin’s de­sire to ex­plore If in the place his miss­ing la­dy were; Whom he prefers the unit­ed world be­fore, Nor can an hour of life with­out her bear. He fears, if he set foot on Ire­land’s shore, Some oth­er chance may in­ter­rupt him there: So that he af­ter have in vain to say, “Why hast­ed I no faster on my way?”

XCI­II Nor he in Eng­land nor in Ire­land port Will make, nor on the coast that’s op­po­site. But let him go, the naked archer’s sport, Sore smit­ten in the heart! — ere I in­dite Yet more of him, to Hol­land I re­sort, And you to hear me com­pa­ny in­vite. For well I wot that you as well as me ‘Twould grieve that bridal should with­out us be.

XCIV Sump­tu­ous and fair the bridal there is made; But nei­ther yet so sump­tu­ous nor so fair As it will be in Zealand, it is said: But ’tis not my de­sign you should re­pair Thith­er; since by new ac­ci­dents de­layed The feast will be, of which be it my care, In oth­er strain, the tid­ings to re­port; If you to hear that oth­er strain re­sort.