Orlando Furioso

CANTO 10

AR­GU­MENT An­oth­er love as­sails Bireno’s breast, Who leaves one night Olympia on the shore. To Lo­gis­til­la’s holy realm ad­dressed, Rogero goes, nor heeds Al­ci­na more: Him, of that fly­ing cours­er re­pos­sest, The hip­pogryph on airy voy­age bore: Whence he the good Ri­nal­do’s levy sees, And next An­gel­ica be­holds and frees.

I Of all the loves, of all fi­deli­ty Yet proved, of all the con­stant hearts and true, Of all the lovers, in fe­lic­ity Or sor­row faith­ful found, a fa­mous crew, To Olympia I would give the first de­gree Rather than sec­ond: if this be not due, I well may say that hers no tale is told Of truer love, in present times or old.

II And this she by so many proofs and clear, Had made ap­par­ent to the Zealand lord, No wom­an’s faith more cer­tain could ap­pear To man, though he her open heart ex­plored: And if fair truth such spir­its should en­dear, And they in mu­tu­al love de­serve re­ward, Bireno as him­self, nay, he above Him­self, I say, should kind Olympia love.

III Not on­ly should he nev­er­more de­ceive Her for an­oth­er, were that wom­an she Who so made Eu­rope and wide Asia grieve, Or fair­er yet, if one more fair there be; But rather that quit her the light should leave, And what is sweet to taste, touch, hear, and see, And life and fame, and all be­side; if aught More pre­cious can in truth be styled, or thought.

IV If her Bireno loved, as she had loved Bireno, if her love he did re­pay With faith like hers, and still with truth un­moved, Veered not his shift­ing sail an­oth­er way; Or in­grate for such ser­vice — cru­el proved For such fair love and faith, I now will say; And you with lips com­prest and eye-​brows bent, Shall lis­ten to the tale for won­der­ment;

V And when you shall have heard the impi­ety, Which of such pass­ing good­ness was the meed, Wom­an take warn­ing from this per­fidy, And let none make a lover’s word her creed. Mind­less that God does all things hear and see, The lover, ea­ger his de­sires to speed, Heaps promis­es and vows, aye prompt to swear, Which af­ter­wards all winds dis­perse in air.

VI The promis­es and emp­ty vows dis­persed In air, by winds all dis­si­pat­ed go, Af­ter these lovers have the greedy thirst Ap­peased, with which their fevered palates glow. In this ex­am­ple which I of­fer, versed, Their prayers and tears to cred­it be more slow. Cheap­ly, dear ladies mine, is wis­dom bought By those who wit at oth­er’s cost are taught.

VII Of those in the first flow­er of youth be­ware, Whose vis­age is so soft and smooth to sight: For past, as soon as bred, their fan­cies are; Like a straw fire their ev­ery ap­petite. So the keen hunter fol­lows up the hare In heat and cold, on shore, or moun­tain-​height; Nor, when ’tis tak­en, more es­teems the prize; And on­ly hur­ries af­ter that which flies.

VI­II Such is the prac­tise of these striplings who, What time you treat them with aus­ter­ity, Love and re­vere you, and such homage do, As those who pay their ser­vice faith­ful­ly; But vaunt no soon­er vic­to­ry, than you From mis­tress­es shall ser­vants grieve to be; And mourn to see the fick­le love they owed, From you di­vert­ed, and else­where be­stowed.

IX I not for this (for that were wrong) opine That you should cease to love; for you, with­out A lover, like un­cul­ti­vat­ed vine, Would be, that has no prop to wind about. But the first down I pray you to de­cline, To fly the volatile, in­con­stant rout; To make your choice the riper fruits among, Nor yet to gath­er what too long has hung.

X A daugh­ter they have found (above was said) Of the proud king who ruled the Fries­land state; That with Bireno’s broth­er was to wed, As far as ru­mour tells; but to re­late The truth, a long­ing in Bireno bred The sight of food so pass­ing del­icate; And he to talk his palate deemed would be, For oth­er’s sake, a fool­ish cour­tesy.

XI The gen­tle damsel had not past four­teen, Was beau­ti­ful and fresh, and like a rose, When this first open­ing from its bud is seen, And with the ver­nal sun ex­pands and grows. To say Bireno loved the youth­ful queen Were lit­tle; with less blaze lit tin­der glows, Or ripened corn, wher­ev­er en­vi­ous hand Of foe amid the grain has cast a brand,

XII Than that which on Bireno’s bo­som fed, And to his mar­row burned; when, weep­ing sore The fate of her un­hap­py fa­ther dead, He saw her bathed in cease­less tears de­plore: And, as cold wa­ter, on the caul­dron shed, Shops short the bub­bling wave, which boiled be­fore; So was the rag­ing rife Olympia blew With­in his breast, ex­tin­guished by a new.

XI­II Nor feels Bireno mere sati­ety; He loathes her so, he ill en­dures her sight; And, if his hope he long de­ferred, will die: For oth­er such his fick­le ap­petite! Yet till the day pre­fixed to sat­is­fy His fond de­sire, so feigns the wary knight, Olympia less to love than to adore He seems, and but her plea­sure to ex­plore.

XIV And if the oth­er he too much ca­ress, Who can­not but ca­ress her, there are none See evil in the deed, but rather guess It is in pity, is in good­ness done: Since to raise up and com­fort in dis­tress Whom For­tune’s wheel beats down in change­ful run, Was nev­er blamed; with glo­ry of­ten­er paid; — So much the more, a young — a harm­less maid.

XV Almighty God! how fal­li­ble and vain Is hu­man judg­ment, dimmed by clouds ob­scure! Bireno’s ac­tions, im­pi­ous and pro­fane, By oth­ers are re­put­ed just and pure. Al­ready stoop­ing to their oars, the train Have loosed his ves­sel from the port se­cure, And with the duke and his com­pan­ions steer For Zealand through the deep, with meery cheer.

XVI Al­ready Hol­land and its head­lands all Are left astern, and now de­scried no more; Since to shun Fries­land they to lar­board hawl. And keep their course more nigh the Scot­tish shore: When they are over­tak­en by a squall, And drive three days the open sea be­fore: Up­on the third, when now, near even­tide, A bar­ren and un­peo­pled isle is spied.

XVII As soon as they were har­boured in a hight, Olympia land­ed and the board was spread; She there con­tent­ed, with the faith­less knight, Supt, un­sus­pect­ing any cause for dread. Thence, with Bireno, where a tent was pight In pleas­ant place, re­paired, and went to bed. The oth­ers of their train re­turned abroad, And rest­ed in their ship, in haven moored.

XVI­II The fear and late sea sor­row, which had weighed So long up­on the dame and broke her rest, The find­ing her­self safe in green­wood shade Re­moved from noise, and, for her tran­quil breast (Know­ing her lover was be­side her laid) No fur­ther thoughts, no fur­ther cares mo­lest, Olympia lap in slum­ber so pro­found, No shel­tered bear or dor­mouse sleeps more sound.

XIX The lover false, who, hatch­ing trea­son lies, Stole from his bed in si­lence, when he knew She slept: his clothes he in a bun­dle ties, Nor oth­er rai­ment on his body threw. Then is­su­ing forth from the pavil­ion hies, As if on new-​born wings, to­wards his crew; Who, roused, un­moor with­out a cry, as he Com­mands, and loosen thence and put to sea.

XX Be­hind the land was left; and there to pine Olympia, who yet slept the woods among; Till from her gild­ed wheels the frosty rhine Au­ro­ra up­on earth be­neath had flung; And the old woe, be­side the tum­bling brine, Lament­ing, hal­cyons mourn­ful des­cant sung; When she, ‘twixt sleep and wak­ing, made a strain To reach her loved Bireno, but in vain.

XXI She no one found: the dame her arm with­drew; She tried again, yet no one found; she spread Both arms, now here, now there, and sought anew; Now ei­ther leg; but yet no bet­ter sped. Fear ban­ished sleep; she oped her eyes: in view Was noth­ing: she no more her wid­owed bed Would keep, but from the couch in fury sprung, And head­long forth from the pavil­ion flung.

XXII And sea­ward ran, her vis­age tear­ing sore, Pre­sag­ing, and now cer­tain of her plight: She beat her bo­som, and her tress­es tore, And looked (the moon was shin­ing) if she might Dis­cov­er any thing be­side the shore; Nor, save the shore, was any thing in sight. She calls Bireno, and the cav­erns round, Pity­ing her grief, Bireno’s name re­bound.

XXI­II On the far shore there rose a rock; be­low Scooped by the break­er’s beat­ing fre­quent­ly: The cliff was hol­lowed un­der­neath, in show Of arch, and over­hung the foam­ing sea. Olympia (MIND such vigour did be­stow) Sprang up the frown­ing crest im­petu­ous­ly, And, at a dis­tance, stretched by favour­ing gale, Thence saw her cru­el lord’s de­part­ing sail.

XXIV Saw it, or seemed to see: for ill her eyes, Things through the air, yet dim and hazy, view. She falls, all-​trem­bling, on the ground, and lies With face than snow more cold and white in hue: But when she has again found strength to rise, Guid­ing her voice to­wards the bark which flew, Call­ing with all her might, the un­hap­py dame Calls of­ten on her cru­el con­sort’s name.

XXV Where un­avail­ing was the fee­ble note, She wept and clapt her hands in agony. “With­out its freight,” she cried, “thy ship does float. — Where, cru­el, dost thou fly so swift­ly? — Me Re­ceive as well: — small hin­der­ance to thy boat, Which bears my spir­it, would my body be.” And she her rai­ment wav­ing in her hand, Signed to the frigate to re­turn to land.

XXVI But the loud wind which, sweep­ing ocean, bears The faith­less stripling’s sail across the deep, Bears off as well the shriek, and moan, and prayers Of sad Olympia, sor­row­ing on the steep. Thrice, cru­el to her­self, the dame pre­pares From the high rock amid the waves to leap. But from the wa­ter lifts at length her sight, And there re­turns where she had passed the night.

XXVII Stretched on the bed, up­on her face she lay, Bathing it with her tears. “Last night in thee To­geth­er two found shel­ter,” did she say; “Alas! why two to­geth­er are not we At ris­ing? False Bireno! cursed day That I was born! What here re­mains to me To do? What can be done? — Alone, be­trayed — Who will con­sole me, who af­ford me aid?

XXVI­II “Nor man I see, nor see I work, which shows That man in­hab­its in this isle; nor I See ship, in which (a refuge from my woes), Em­bark­ing, I from hence may hope to fly. Here shall I starve; nor any one to close My eyes, or give me sepul­ture, be by, Save wolf per­chance, who roves this wood, a tomb Give me, alas! in his vo­ra­cious womb.

XXIX “I live in ter­ror, and ap­pear to see Rough bear or li­on is­sue even now, Or tiger, from be­neath the green­wood tree, Or oth­er beast with teeth and claws: but how Can ev­er cru­el beast in­flict on me, O cru­el beast, a fouler death than thou? Enough for them to slay me once! while I Am made by thee a thou­sand deaths to die.

XXX “But grant, e’en now, some skip­per hith­er fare, Who may for pity bear me hence away; And that I so es­chew wolf, li­on, bear, Tor­ture, and dearth, and ev­ery hor­rid way Of death; to Hol­land shall he take me, where For thee is guard­ed for­ti­lage and bay; Or take me to the land where I was born, If this thou hast from me by treach­ery torn?

XXXI “Thou, with pre­tence, from me my state didst wrest Of our con­nec­tion and of ami­ty; And quick­ly of my land thy troops pos­sest, To as­sure the rule un­to thy­self. Shall I Re­turn to Flan­ders where I sold the rest, Though lit­tle, up­on which I lived, to buy Thee need­ful suc­cour and from prison bear? Wretch, whith­er shall I go? — I know not where.

XXXII “Can I to Fries­land go, where I to reign As queen was called, and this for thee forewent; Where both my brethren and my sire were slain, And ev­ery oth­er good from me was rent? — Thee would I not, thou in­grate, with my pain Re­proach, not there­fore deal thee pun­ish­ment: As well as I, the sto­ry dost thou know; Now, see the meed thou dost for this be­stow!

XXXI­II “Oh! may I but es­cape the wild cor­sair, Nor tak­en be, and af­ter sold for slave! Rather than this may li­on, wolf, or bear, Tiger, or oth­er beast, if fiercer rave, Me with his claws and rush­es rend and tear, And drag my bleed­ing body to his cave.” So say­ing she her gold­en hair of­fends, And lock by lock the scat­tered tress­es rends.

XXXIV She to the shore’s ex­tremest verge anew, Toss­ing her head, with hair di­shev­elled, run; And seemed like maid be­side her­self, and who Was by ten fiends pos­sessed, in­stead of one; Of like the fran­tic Hecu­ba, at view Of mur­dered Poly­dore, her in­fant son; Fixed on a stone she gazed up­on the sea, Nor less than re­al stone seemed stone to be.

XXXV But let her grieve till my re­turn. To show Now of the Child I wish: his weary way Rogero, in the noon’s in­tens­est glow, Takes by the shore: the burn­ing sun­beams play Up­on the hill and thence re­bound; be­low Boils the white sand; while heat­ed with the ray, Lit­tle is want­ing in that jour­ney dire, But that the arms he wears are all on fire.

XXXVI While to the war­rior thirst and labour sore, Still toil­ing through that heavy sand, as he Pur­sued his path along the sun­ny shore, Were irk­some and dis­pleas­ing com­pa­ny, Be­neath the shad­ow of a tur­ret hoar, Which rose be­side the beach, amid the sea, He found three ladies of Al­ci­na’s court, As such dis­tin­guished by their dress and port.

XXXVII Re­clined on Alexan­dri­an car­pets rare The ladies joyed the cool in great de­light; About them var­ious wines in ves­sels were, And ev­ery sort of com­fit nice­ly dight; Fast by, and sport­ing with the rip­ple there, Lay, wait­ing on their needs, a pin­nace light, Un­til a breeze should fill her sail anew: For then no breath up­on the wa­ters blew.

XXXVI­II They, who be­held along the shift­ing sand Rogero wend, up­on his way in­tent, And saw thirst fig­ured on his lips, and scanned His trou­bled vis­age, all with sweat be­sprent, Be­gan to pray, `on what he had in hand He would not show his heart so deeply bent, But that he in the cool and grate­ful shade Would rest his weary limbs, be­side them laid.’

XXXIX To hold the stir­rup one ap­proach­ing near, Would aid him to alight: the oth­er bore A cup of chrys­tal to the cav­alier, With foam­ing wine, which raised his thirst the more; But to the mu­sic of their speech no ear He lent, who weened if he his way for­bore For any­thing, each lett would time sup­ply To Al­ci­na to ar­rive, who now was nigh.

XL Now so salt­pe­tre fine and sul­phur pure, Touched with the fiery spark, blaze sud­den­ly; Not so loud ocean raves, when the ob­scure Whirl­wind de­scends and camps in mid­dle sea, As view­ing thus the knight pro­ceed se­cure Up­on his jour­ney, and aware that he Scorns them, who yet be­lieve they beau­teous are, Kin­dled the third of those three damsels fair.

XLI As loud as she could raise her voice, she said, “Thou art not gen­tle, nor art thou a knight; And hast from oth­er arms and horse con­veyed: Which nev­er could be thine by bet­ter right. So be thy theft, if well I guess, ap­paid By death, which this may worthi­ly re­quite! Foul thief, churl, haughty in­grate, may I thee Burned, gib­bet­ed, or cut in quar­ters see!”

XLII Be­side all these and more in­ju­ri­ous cries, Which the proud damsel at the war­rior throws, Though to her taunts Rogero nought replies, Who weens small fame from such a con­test flows; She with her sis­ters to the frigate hies, Which waits them, and aboard the ten­der goes; And ply­ing fast her oars, pur­sues the knight Along the sandy beach, still kept in sight.

XLI­II On him with threat and curse she ev­er cried; Whose tongue col­lect­ed still fresh cause for blame. Mean­while, where to the love­li­er fairy’s side The pas­sage lay across a straight, he came; And there an an­cient fer­ry­man es­pied Put from the oth­er shore with punc­tu­al aim, As if fore­warned and well pre­pared, the seer Wait­ed the com­ing of the cav­alier.

XLIV The fer­ry­man put forth the Child to meet, To bear him to a bet­ter shore re­joic­ing: he Ap­peared as all be­nign and all dis­creet, If of the heart the face is war­ran­ty. Giv­ing God thanks, Rogero took his seat Aboard the bark, and passed the qui­et sea, Dis­cours­ing with that an­cient pi­lot, fraught With wis­dom, and by long ex­pe­ri­ence taught.

XLV He praised Rogero much, that he had fled In time from false Al­ci­na, and be­fore To him the dame had giv­en the chal­ice dread, Her lover’s fi­nal guer­don ev­er­more. Next that he had to Lo­gis­til­la sped, Where he should du­ly wit­ness holy lore, And beau­ty in­fi­nite and grace en­joy, Which feed and nour­ish hearts they nev­er cloy.

XLVI “Her shall you, struck with won­der­ment, re­vere,” (He said), “when first you shall be­hold the fay; But bet­ter con­tem­plate her lofty cheer, And you no oth­er trea­sure shall ap­pay. In this her love from oth­er dif­fers; fear And hope in oth­er on the bo­som prey: In hers De­sire de­mands not aught be­side, And with the bless­ing seen is sat­is­fied.

XLVII “You shall in no­bler stud­ies be pro­fessed, Tu­tored by her, than bath and cost­ly fare, Song, dance, and per­fumes; as how fash­ioned best, Your thoughts may tow­er more high than hawks in air; And how some of the glo­ry of the blest You here may in the mor­tal body share.” So speak­ing, and yet dis­tant from the shore, To the safe bank ap­proached the pi­lot hoar.

XLVI­II When he be­holds forth-​is­su­ing from the strand, A fleet of ships, which all to­wards him steer. With these came wronged Al­ci­na, with a band Of many vas­sals, gath­ered far and near; To risk the ru­in of her­self and land, Or re­pos­sess the thing she held so dear. Love, no light cause, in­cites the dame ag­grieved, Nor less the bit­ter in­jury re­ceived.

XLIX Such choler she had nev­er felt be­fore As that which now up­on her bo­som fed: And hence she made her fol­low­ers ply the oar Till the white foam on ei­ther bank was shed The deaf­en­ing noise and din o’er sea and shore, By echo ev­ery where re­peat­ed, spread, “Now — now, Rogero, bare the mag­ic shield, Or in the strife be slain, or base­ly yield”:

L Thus Lo­gis­til­la’s pi­lot; and be­side, So say­ing, seized the pouch, where­in was dight The buck­ler, and the cov­er­ing torn aside, Ex­posed to open view the shin­ing light. The en­chant­ed splen­dor, flash­ing far and wide, So sore of­fends the ad­ver­saries’ sight, They from their ves­sels drop amazed and blind, Tum­bling from prow be­fore, and poop be­hind.

LI One who stood sen­try on the citadel De­scried the navy of the in­vad­ing dame, And back­wards rang the cas­tle larum-​bell, Whence speedy suc­cours to the haven came. The ar­tillery rained like storm, whose fury fell On all who would Rogero scathe and shame: So that such aid was brought him in the strife, As saved the war­rior’s lib­er­ty and life.

LII Four ladies are ar­rived up­on the strand, Thith­er by Lo­gis­til­la sped in haste: Leagued with the valiant An­rondi­ca stand Frone­sia sage, Di­cil­la good, and chaste Sofrosi­na, who, as she has in had More than the oth­ers, ‘mid the fore­most placed, Con­spic­uous flames. Forth is­sues from the fort A match­less host, and files to­wards the port.

LI­II Be­neath the cas­tle, safe from wind and swell, Of many ships and stout, a squadron lay; Which, in the har­bour, at a sound from bell, — A word, were fit for ac­tion, night or day; And thus by land and sea was bat­tle, fell And fu­ri­ous, waged on part of ei­ther fay: Whence was Al­ci­na’s realm turned up­side down, Of which she had usurped her sis­ter’s crown.

LIV Oh! of how many bat­tles the suc­cess Is dif­fer­ent from what was hoped be­fore! Not on­ly failed the dame to re­pos­sess, As thought, her lover fly­ing from her shore, But out of ships, even now so num­ber­less, That am­ple ocean scarce the navy bore, From all her ves­sels, to the flames a prey, But with one bark es­caped the wretched fay.

LV Al­ci­na flies; and her sad troop around Rout­ed and tak­en, burnt or sunk, re­mains To have lost Rogero, sor­row more pro­found Wakes in her breast than all her oth­er pains; And she in bit­ter tears for ev­er drowned, Of the Child’s loss by night and day com­plains; And bent to end her woes, with many a sigh, Of­ten laments her that she can­not die.

LVI No fairy dies, or can, while over­head The sun shall burn, or heav­en pre­serve their stile, Or Clotho had been moved to cut her thread, Touched by such grief; or, as on fu­ner­al pile Fair Di­do, she be­neath the steel had bled; Or, hap­ly, like the gor­geous Queen of Nile, In mor­tal slum­ber would have closed her eye: But fairies can­not at their plea­sure die.

LVII Re­turn we, where eter­nal fame is due, Leav­ing Al­ci­na in her trou­ble sore: I speak of val­or­ous Rogero, who Had dis­em­barked up­on the safer shore. He turned his back up­on the wa­ters blue, Giv­ing God thanks for all with pi­ous lore; And on dry ground now land­ed, made re­pair To­wards the lofty cas­tle plant­ed there.

LVI­II Than this a stronger or more bright in show Was nev­er yet be­fore of mor­tal sight, Or af­ter, viewed; with stones the ram­parts glow More rich than car­bun­cle or di­amond bright. We of like gems dis­course not here be­low, And he who would their na­ture read aright Must thith­er speed: none such else­where, I ween, Ex­cept per­haps in heav­en above, are seen.

LIX What gives to them su­pe­ri­or­ity O’er ev­ery oth­er sort of gem, con­fessed, Is, man in these his very soul may see; His vices and his virtues see ex­pressed. Hence shall he af­ter heed no flat­tery, Nor yet by wrong­ful cen­sure be de­pressed. His form he in the lu­cid mir­ror eyes, And by the knowl­edge of him­self grows wise.

LX Their rays, which im­itate the sun­shine, fill All round about with such a flood of light, That he who has them, Phoe­bus, may at will Cre­ate him­self a day, in thy de­spite. Nor on­ly mar­vel­lous the gems; the skill Of the ar­ti­fi­cer and sub­stance bright So well con­tend for mas­tery, of the two, ‘Tis hard to judge where pref­er­ence is due.

LXI On arch­es raised, where­on the fir­ma­ment Seemed to re­pose as props, so fair in show Are love­ly gar­dens, and of such ex­tent, As even would be hard to have be­low. Clus­ter­ing ‘twixt lu­cid tow­er or bat­tle­ment, Green odor­if­er­ous shrubs are seen to grow, Which through the sum­mer and the win­ter shoot, And teem with beau­teous blos­som and ripe fruit.

LXII Nev­er in any place such good­ly tree Is grown, ex­cept with­in these gar­dens fine; Or rose, or vi­olet of like qual­ity, Lilies, or ama­ranth, or jes­samine. Else­where it seems as if fore­doomed to be Born with one sun, to live and to de­cline, Up­on its wid­owed stalk the blos­som dies, Sub­ject to all the changes of the skies.

LXI­II But here the ver­dure still is per­ma­nent, Still per­ma­nent the eter­nal blos­soms are; Not that kind na­ture, in her gov­ern­ment, So nice­ly tem­pers here the ge­nial air, But that, un­need­ing any in­flu­ence lent By plan­et, Lo­gis­til­la’s zeal and care Ev­er keep fast (what may ap­pear a thing Im­pos­si­ble) her own per­pet­ual spring.

LX­IV That such a gen­tle lord had sought her rest, Did much the pru­dent Lo­gis­til­la please, And she com­mand­ed he should be carest, And all should seek to do him cour­te­sies. Some­time had Sir As­tolpho been her guest, Whom with a joy­ful heart Rogero sees. There in few days re­sort­ed all the crew, Changed by Melis­sa to their shapes anew.

LXV When they a day or more their weari­ness Had eased, Rogero sought the pru­dent fay; With him the duke As­tolpho, who no less De­sired to mea­sure back his west­ern way. Melis­sa was for both em­bas­sadress, And for the war­like pair, with hum­ble say To favour, warn and help them, prayed the dame; So that they might re­turn from whence they came.

LXVI “I” (said the fay) “will think up­on this need, And in two days the pair will ex­pe­dite.” Then thought how good Rogero she should speed. And af­ter­wards how aid the En­glish knight. She wills the first shall, on the grif­fin steed, To the Aqui­tani­an shores di­rect his flight; But first will fash­ion for the fly­ing-​horse A bit, to guide him and re­strain his course.

LXVII She shows him what to do, if he on high Would make him soar, or down to earth would bring, And what, would he in cir­cles make him fly, Or swift­ly speed, or pause up­on the wing. And all that skil­ful horse­men use to try Up­on plain ground, be­neath her tu­tor­ing, Rogero learned in air, and gained do­min­ion Over the grif­fin-​steed of soar­ing pin­ion.

LXVI­II When at all points Rogero was pre­pared, He bade farewell to the pro­tect­ing fay, For ev­er to the lov­ing knight en­deared, And is­sued from her realm up­on his way. I first of him, who on his jour­ney fared In hap­py hour, and af­ter­wards shall say Of the En­glish knight, who spent more time and pain Seek­ing the friend­ly court of Charle­magne.

LX­IX Rogero thence de­parts; but as be­fore Takes not the way he took in his de­spite, When him above the sea the cours­er bore, And sel­dom was the land be­neath in sight. But taught to make him beat his wings and soar, Here, there, as liked him best, with docile flight, Re­turn­ing, he an­oth­er path pur­sued; As Ma­gi erst, who Herod’s snare es­chewed.

LXX Borne hith­er, good Rogero, leav­ing Spain, Had sought, in lev­el line, the In­di­an lands, Where they are wa­tered by the East­ern main; Where the two fairies strove with hos­tile bands. He now re­solved to vis­it oth­er reign Than that where Ae­olus his train com­mands; And fin­ish so the round he had be­gun, Cir­cling the world be­neath him like the sun.

LXXI Here the Catay, and there he Man­giane, Pass­ing the great Quin­say be­held; in air Above Imavus turned, and Ser­icane Left on the right; and thence did ev­er bear From the north Scythi­ans to the Hyr­ca­ni­an main: So reached Sar­ma­tia’s dis­tant land; and, where Eu­rope and Asia’s part­ed climes di­vide, Russ, Prus­sian, he and Pomera­ni­an spied.

LXXII Al­though the Child by ev­ery wish was pressed Quick­ly to seek his Bradamant, yet he With taste of rov­ing round the world pos­sest, Would not de­sist from it, till Hun­gary He had seen; and Po­lacks, Ger­mans, and the rest Should in his wide ex­tend­ed cir­cuit see, In­hab­it­ing that hor­rid, north­ern land; And came at last to Eng­land’s far­thest strand.

LXXI­II Yet think not, sir, that in so long a flight, The war­rior is for ev­er on the wing. Who lodges, housed in tav­ern ev­ery night, As best as can, through his ca­pa­cious ring. So nights and days he pass­es: such de­light Prospects to him of land and ocean bring. Ar­rived one morn nigh Lon­don-​town, he stopt; And over Thames the fly­ing cours­er dropt.

LXXIV Where he in mead­ows to the city nigh Saw troops of men at arms, and foot­men spread; Who, to the drum and trum­pet march­ing by, Di­vid­ed in­to good­ly bands, were led Be­fore Ri­nal­do, flow­er of chival­ry; He that (if you re­mem­ber it) was said To have been sent by Charle­magne, and made His en­voy to these parts in search of aid.

LXXV Rogero came ex­act­ly as the show Of that fair host was made with­out the town, And of a knight the oc­ca­sion sought to know; But from the grif­fin-​horse first light­ed down: And he who cour­te­ous was, in­formed him how Of king­doms hold­ing of the British crown, En­glish, Scotch, Irish, and the Is­lands nigh, Those many ban­ners were, up­reared on high:

LXXVI And added, hav­ing end­ed this dis­play Of arms, the troops would file to­wards the strand, Where ves­sels an­chored in the har­bour lay, Wait­ing to bear them to an­oth­er land. “The French be­seiged, re­joice in this ar­ray, And hope (he said) de­liv­er­ance through the band. But that I may of all in­form you well, I of each troop shall sep­arate­ly tell.

LXXVII “Lo! where yon mighty ban­ner plant­ed stands, Which pards and flow­er-​de-​luces does un­fold, That our great cap­tain to the wind ex­pands, Un­der whose en­sign are the rest en­rolled: The war­rior’s name, renowned through­out these lands, Is Leonet­to, flow­er of all the bold; Lan­cast­er’s duke, and nephew to the king, Valiant in war, and wise in coun­selling.

LXXVI­II “That next the roy­al gon­falon, which stirred By flut­ter­ing wind, is borne to­wards the mount, Which on green field, three pin­ions of a bird Bears agent, speaks Sir Richard, War­wick’s count. The Duke of Glouces­ter’s bla­zon is the third, Two antlers of a stag, and de­mi-​front; The Duke of Clarence shows a torch, and he Is Duke of York who bears that ver­dant tree.

LXXIX “Up­on the Duke of Nor­folk’s gon­falon You see a lance in­to three pieces broke; The thun­der on the Earl of Kent’s; up­on Pem­broke’s a grif­fin; un­der­neath a yoke; In Es­sex’s, con­joined, two snakes are shown: By yon­der lift­ed bal­ance is be­spoke The Duke of Suf­folk; and Northum­bria’s Earl A gar­land does on azure field un­furl.

LXXX “Arun­del’s Earl is yon­der cav­alier, Whose ban­ner bears a founder­ing bark! In sight The next, is Berke­ley’s no­ble Mar­quis; near Are March and Rich­mond’s Earls: the first on white Shows a cleft mount; a palm the sec­ond peer; A pine amid the waves the lat­ter knight. The next of Dorset and Southamp­ton’s town, Are earls; this bears a car, and that a crown.

LXXXI “The valiant Ray­mond, Earl of De­von, bears The hawk, which spreads her wings above her nest; While or and sable he of Worces­ter wears: Der­by’s a dog, a bear is Ox­ford’s crest. There, as his badge, a cross of chrys­tal rears Bath’s wealthy prelate, camped among the rest. The bro­ken seat on dusky field, next scan, Of Som­er­set’s good duke, Sir Ari­man.

LXXXII “Forty-​two thou­sand muster in ar­ray, The men at arms and mount­ed archers there. By a hun­dred I mis­reck­on not, or they, The fight­ing foot­men, twice as many are. Those en­signs yel­low, brown, and green, sur­vey, And that striped blue and black. The foot re­pair Each to his sep­arate flag where these are spread; By God­frey, Hen­ry, Her­mant, Ed­ward, led.

LXXXI­II “The first is the Duke of Buck­ing­ham; and he, The next, is Hen­ry, Earl of Sal­is­bury; Old Her­mant Aber­ga’nny hold in fee, That Ed­ward is the Earl of Shrews­bury. In those who yon­der lodge, the En­glish see Camped east­ward; and now west­ward turn your eye, Where you shall thir­ty thou­sand Scots, a crew Led by their monarch’s son, Zerbino, view.

LXXXIV “The li­on ‘twixt two uni­corns be­hold Up­on the stan­dard of the Scot­tish king! Which has a sword of sil­ver in its hold. There camps his son: of all his fol­low­ing Is none so beau­teous: na­ture broke the mould In which she cast him, af­ter fash­ion­ing Her work: Is none in whom such chival­ry And val­our shines. The Duke of Roth­say he!

LXXXV “Be­hold the Earl of Hunt­ley’s flag dis­play Up­on an azure field a gild­ed bar: In that a leop­ard in the toils sur­vey, The bear­ing of the no­ble Duke of Mar. With many birds, and many colours gay, See Al­cabrun’s, a valiant man in war; Who nei­ther duke, nor count, nor mar­quis hight, Is in his sav­age coun­try first of right.

LXXXVI “The Duke of Strath­forth shows the bird, who strains His dar­ing eyes to keep the sun in view; The Earl Lur­canio, that in An­gus reigns, A bull, whose flanks are torn by deer­hounds two. See there the Duke of Al­bany, who stains His en­sign’s field with colours white and blue. The Earl of Buchan next his ban­ner bears, In which a drag­on vert a vul­ture tears.

LXXXVII “Her­man, the lord of Forbes, con­ducts that band, And stripes his gon­falon with black and white; With Er­rol’s earl up­on his bet­ter hand, Who on a field of green dis­plays a light. Now see the Irish, next the lev­el land, In­to two squadrons or­dered for the fight. Kil­dare’s re­doubt­ed earl com­mands the first; Lord Desmond leads the next, in moun­tains nursed.

LXXXVI­II “A burn­ing pine by Kil­dare is dis­played; By Desmond on white field a crim­son bend. Nor on­ly Eng­land, Scot­land, Ire­land, aid King Charle­magne; but to as­sist him wend The Swede and Norse, and suc­cours are con­veyed From Thule, and the far­thest Ice­land’s end. All lands that round them lie, in fine, in­crease His host, by na­ture en­emies to peace.

LXXXIX “Is­sued from cav­ern and from for­est brown, They six­teen thou­sand are, or lit­tle less; Vis­age, legs, arms, and bo­som over­grown With hair, like beasts. Lo! yon­der, where they press About a stan­dard white, the lev­el down Of lances seems a bristling wilder­ness. Such Moray’s flag, the sav­age squadron’s head, Who means with Moor­ish blood to paint it red.”

XC What time Rogero sees the fair ar­ray, Whose bands to suc­cour rav­aged France pre­pare, And notes and talks of en­signs they dis­play, And names of British lords, to him re­pair One and an­oth­er, crowd­ing to sur­vey His cours­er, sin­gle of its kind, or rare: All thith­er has­ten, won­der­ing and as­tound, And com­pass­ing the war­rior, form a round.

XCI So that to raise more won­der in the train. And to make bet­ter sport, as him they eyed, Rogero shook the fly­ing cours­er’s rein, And light­ly with the row­els touched his side: He to­wards heav­en, up­ris­ing, soared amain, And left be­hind each gaz­er stu­pe­fied. Hav­ing from end to end the En­glish force So viewed, he next for Ire­land shaped his course;

XCII And saw fab­ulous Hi­ber­nia, where The good­ly, saint­ed el­der made the cave, In which men cleansed from all of­fences are; Such mer­cy there, it seems, is found to save. Thence o’er that sea he spurred, through yield­ing air, Whose briny waves the less­er Britain lave; And, look­ing down, An­gel­ica de­scried In pass­ing, to the rock with fet­ters tied;

XCI­II Bound to the naked rock up­on the strand, In the isle of tears; for the isle of tears was hight, That which was peo­pled by the in­hu­man band, So pass­ing fierce and full of foul de­spite; Who (as I told above) on ev­ery hand Cruized with their scat­tered fleet by day or night; And ev­ery beau­teous wom­an bore away, Des­tined to be a mon­ster’s evil prey:

XCIV There but that morn­ing bound in cru­el wise; Where (to de­vour a liv­ing damsel sped) The orc, that mea­sure­less sea-​mon­ster, hies, Which on abom­inable food is fed. How on the beach the maid be­came the prize Of the ra­pa­cious crew, above was said, Who found her sleep­ing near the en­chanter hoar, Who her had thith­er brought by mag­ic lore.

XCV The cru­el and in­hos­pitable crew To the vo­ra­cious beast the dame ex­pose Up­on the sea-​beat shore, as bare to view As na­ture did at first her work com­pose. Not even a veil she had, to shade the hue Of the white lily and ver­mil­lion rose, Which min­gled in her love­ly mem­bers meet, Proof to De­cem­ber-​snow and Ju­ly-​heat.

XCVI Her would Rogero have some stat­ue deemed Of al­abaster made, or mar­ble rare, Which to the rugged rock so fas­tened seemed By the in­dus­tri­ous sculp­tor’s cun­ning care, But that he saw dis­tinct a tear which streamed Amid fresh-​open­ing rose and lily fair, Stand on her bud­ding paps be­neath in dew, And that her gold­en hair di­shev­elled flew.

XCVII And as he fas­tened his on her fair eyes, His Bradamant he called to mind again. Pity and love with­in his bo­som rise At once, and ill he can from tears re­frain: And in soft tone he to the damsel cries, (When he has checked his fly­ing cours­er’s rein) “O la­dy, wor­thy but that chain to wear, With which Love’s faith­ful ser­vants fet­tered are,

XCVI­II “And most un­wor­thy this or oth­er ill, What wretch has had the cru­el­ty to wound And gall those snowy hands with livid stain, Thus painful­ly with grid­ing fet­ters bound?” At this she can­not choose but show like grain, Of crim­son spread­ing on an ivory ground; Know­ing those se­cret beau­ties are es­pied, Which, how­so­ev­er love­ly, shame would hide;

XCIX And glad­ly with her hands her face would hood, Were they not fas­tened to the rugged stone: But with her tears (for this at least she could) Be­dewed it, and es­sayed to hold it down. Sob­bing some while the love­ly damsel stood; Then loosed her tongue and spake in fee­ble tone; But end­ed not; ar­rest­ed in mid-​word, By a loud noise which in the sea was heard.

C Lo! and be­hold! the un­mea­sured-​beast ap­pears, Half surg­ing and half hid­den, in such sort As sped by roar­ing wind long carack steers From north or south, to­wards her des­tined port. So the sea mon­ster to his food re­pairs: And now the in­ter­val be­tween is short. Half dead the la­dy is through fear en­dured, Ill by that oth­er’s com­fort re­as­sured.

CI Rogero over­hand, not in the rest Car­ries his lance, and beats, with down­right blow, The mon­strous orc. What this re­sem­bled best, But a huge, writhing mass, I do not know; Which wore no form of an­imal ex­prest, Save in the head, with eyes and teeth of sow. His fore­head, ‘twixt the eyes, Rogero smites, But as on steel or rock the weapon lights.

CII When he per­ceives the first of no avail, The knight re­turns to deal a bet­ter blow; The orc, who sees the shift­ing shad­ow sail Of those huge pin­ions on the sea be­low, In fu­ri­ous heat, deserts his sure re­gale On shore, to fol­low that de­ceit­ful show: And rolls and reels be­hind it, as it fleets. Rogero drops, and oft the stroke re­peats.

CI­II As ea­gle, that amid her down­ward flight, Sur­veys amid the grass a snake un­rolled, Or where she smoothes up­on a sun­ny height, Her ruf­fled plumage, and her scales of gold, As­sails it not where prompt with poi­sonous bite To hiss and creep; but with se­cur­er hold Gripes it be­hind, and ei­ther pin­ion clangs, Lest it should turn and wound her with its fangs;

CIV So the fell orc Rogero does not smite With lance or faul­chion where the tush­es grow, But aims that ‘twixt the ears his blow may light; Now on the spine, or now on tail be­low. And still in time de­scends or soars up­right, And shifts his course, to cheat the veer­ing foe: But as if beat­ing on a jasper block, Can nev­er cleave the hard and rugged rock.

CV With such­like war­fare is the mas­tiff vext By the bold fly in Au­gust’s time of dust, Or in the month be­fore or in the next, This full of yel­low spikes and that of must; For ev­er by the cir­cling plague per­plext, Whose sting in­to his eyes or snout is thrust: And oft the dog’s dry teeth are heard to fall; But reach­ing once the foe, he pays for all.

CVI With his huge tail the trou­bled waves so sore The mon­ster beats, that they as­cend heav­en-​high; And the knight knows not if he swim, or soar Up­on his feath­ered cours­er in mid sky; And oft were fain to find him­self ashore: For, if long time the spray so thick­ly fly, He fears it so will bathe his hip­pogryph, That he shall vain­ly cov­et gourd or skiff.

CVII He then new coun­sel took, and ’twas the best, With oth­er arms the mon­ster to pur­sue; And lift­ing from his shield the cov­er­ing vest, To daz­zle with the light his blast­ed view. Land­ward to­wards the rock-​chained maid he pressed, And on her lit­tle fin­ger, lest a new Mis­chance should fol­low, slipt the ring, which brought The en­chant­ment of the mag­ic shield to nought.

CVI­II I say the ring, which Bradamant, to free Rogero, from Brunel­lo’s hand had rent, And which, to snatch him from Al­ci­na, she Had next to In­dia by Melis­sa sent. Melis­sa (as be­fore was said by me), In aid of many used the in­stru­ment; And to Rogero this again had born; By whom ’twas ev­er on his fin­ger worn.

CIX He gave it now An­gel­ica; for he Feared lest the buck­ler’s light should be im­paired, And willed as well those beau­teous eyes should be De­fend­ed, which had him al­ready snared. Press­ing be­neath his paunch full half the sea, Now to the shore the mon­strous whale re­paired: Firm stood Rogero, and the veil un­done, Ap­peared to give the sky an­oth­er sun.

CX He in the mon­ster’s eyes the ra­di­ance throws, Which works as it was wont in oth­er time. As trout or grayling to the bot­tom goes In stream, which moun­taineer dis­turbs with lime; So the en­chant­ed buck­ler over­throws The orc, re­versed among the foam and slime. Rogero here and there the beast as­tound Still beats, but can­not find the way to wound.

CXI This while the la­dy begs him not to bray Longer the mon­ster’s rugged scale in vain. “For heav­en’s sake turn and loose me” (did she say, Still weep­ing) “ere the orc awake again. Bear me with thee, and drown me in mid-​way. Let me not this foul mon­ster’s food re­main.” By her just plaint Rogero moved, fore­bore, Un­tied the maid, and raised her from the shore.

CXII Up­on the beach the cours­er plants his feet, And goad­ed by the row­el, tow­ers in air, And gal­lops with Rogero in mid seat, While on the croup be­hind him sate the fair; Who of his ban­quet so the mon­ster cheat; For him too del­icate and dain­ty fare. Rogero turns and with thick kiss­es plies The la­dy’s snowy breast and sparkling eyes.

CXI­II He kept no more the way, as he be­fore Pro­posed, for com­pass­ing the whole of Spain: But stopt his cours­er on the neigh­bour­ing shore Where less­er Britain runs in­to the main. Up­on the bank there rose an oak­wood hoar, Where Philomel for ev­er seemed to plain; I’ the mid­dle was a mead­ow with a foun­tain, And, at each end, a soli­tary moun­tain.

CX­IV ‘Twas here the wish­ful knight first checked the rein, And drop­ping in the mead­ow, made his steed Furl, yet not shut so close, his wings again, As he had spread them wide for bet­ter speed. Down lights Rogero, and for­bears with pain From oth­er leap; but this his arms im­pede: His arms im­pede; a bar to his de­sire, And he must doff them would he slake the fire.

CXV Now here, now there, con­fused by dif­fer­ent throng, Rogero did his shin­ing arms un­do: Nev­er the task ap­peared to him so long; For where he loosed one knot, he fas­tened two. But, sir, too long con­tin­ued is this song, And hap­ly may as well have wea­ried you; So that I shall de­lay to oth­er time, When it may bet­ter please, my te­dious rhyme.