Orlando Furioso

CANTO 11

AR­GU­MENT As­sist­ed by the mag­ic ring she wears, An­gel­ica evan­ish­es from view. Next in a damsel, whom a gi­ant bears Be­neath his arm, his bride Rogero true Be­holds. Or­lan­do to the shore re­pairs, Where the fell orc so many damsels slew; Olympia frees, and spoils the beast of life: Her af­ter­wards Ober­to takes to wife.

I Al­though a fee­ble rein, in mid ca­reer, Will oft suf­fice to stop coura­geous horse; ‘Tis sel­dom Rea­son’s bit will serve to steer De­sire, or turn him from his fu­ri­ous course, When plea­sure is in reach: like head­strong bear, Whom from the hon­eyed meal ’tis ill to force, If once he scent the tempt­ing mess, or sup A drop, which hangs up­on the lus­cious cup.

II What rea­son then Rogero shall with­hold From tak­ing with An­gel­ica de­light, — That gen­tle maid, there naked in his hold, In the lone for­est, and se­cure from sight? Of Bradamant he thinks not, who con­trolled His bo­som erst: and fool­ish were the knight, If think­ing of that damsel as be­fore, By this he had not set an equal store;

III Warmed by whose youth­ful beau­ties, the se­vere Xenocrates would not have been more chaste. The im­pa­tient Child had dropt both shield and spear, And hur­ry­ing now his oth­er arms un­cased; When, cast­ing down her eyes in shame and fear, The vir­tu­ous ring up­on her fin­ger placed, An­gel­ica de­scried, and which of yore From her Brunel­lo in Al­brac­ca bore.

IV This is the ring she car­ried in­to France, When thith­er first the damsel took her way; With her the broth­er, bear­er of the lance, Af­ter, the pal­adin, As­tolpho’s prey. With this she Malagi­gi’s spells and trance Made vain by Mer­lin’s stair; and on a day Or­lan­do freed, with many knights and good, From Drag­on­ti­na’s cru­el servi­tude:

V With this passed view­less from the tur­ret-​cell, Where her that bad old man had mewed; but why Re­count its dif­fer­ent won­ders, if as well You know the virtues of the ring as I? From her this even in her citadel, His monarch Agra­mant to sat­is­fy, Brunel­lo took: since where she had been crost By For­tune, till her na­tive realm was lost.

VI Now that she this up­on her hand sur­veys, She is so full of plea­sure and sur­prise, She doubts it is a dream, and, in amaze, Hard­ly be­lieves her very hand and eyes. Then soft­ly to her mouth the hoop con­veys, And, quick­er than the flash which cleaves the skies, From bold Rogero’s sight her beau­ty shrowds, As dis­ap­pears the sun, con­cealed in clouds.

VII Yet still Rogero gazed like wight dis­traught, And hur­ried here and there with fruit­less speed: But when he had re­called the ring to thought, Foiled and as­tound­ed, cursed his lit­tle heed. And now the van­ished la­dy, whom he sought, Of that un­grate­ful and dis­cour­te­ous deed Ac­cus­ing stood, where­with she had re­paid, (Un­fit­ting rec­om­pense) his gen­er­ous aid.

VI­II “Un­grate­ful damsel! and is this the pay You ren­der for the ser­vice done?” (said he) “Why rather would you steal my ring away Than have it as a wel­come gift from me? Not on­ly this, (but use me as you may) I, and my shield and cours­er, yours shall be; So you no more con­ceal your beau­teous cheer. Cru­el, though an­swer­ing not, I know you hear.”

IX So say­ing, like one blind, with boot­less care, Feel­ing his way about the fount he strayed. How of­ten he em­braced the emp­ty air, Hop­ing in this to have em­braced the maid! Mean­while, now far re­moved, the fly­ing fair Had halt­ed not, till to a cave con­veyed. Formed in a moun­tain was that har­bour rude; Spa­cious, and for her need sup­plied with food.

X ‘Twas here an aged herds­man, one who tend­ed A nu­mer­ous troop of mares, had made his won: These, seek­ing pas­ture, through the val­ley wend­ed, Where the green grass was fed by fresh­en­ing run: While stalls on ei­ther side the cave, de­fend­ed His charge from the op­pres­sive noon-​tide sun; An­gel­ica, with­in, that live­long day, Un­seen of pry­ing eyes, pro­longed her stay;

XI And about evening, when re­freshed with rest And food, she deemed her course she might re­new; In cer­tain rus­tic weeds her body dressed: How dif­fer­ent from those robes of red, or blue, Green, yel­low, pur­ple, her ac­cus­tomed vest, So var­ious in its fash­ion, shape, and hue! Yet her not so that habit mis­be­came, But that she looked the fair and no­ble dame.

XII Then Phillis’ and Neaera’s praise for­bear, And ye who sing of Amaryl­lis cease, Or fly­ing Galataea, not so fair, Tityrus and Melibaeus, with your peace! ‘Twas here the beau­teous la­dy took a mare, Which liked her best, of all that herd’s in­crease. Then, and then first con­ceived the thought, again To seek in the Lev­ant her antient reign.

XI­II This while Rogero, af­ter he had passed Long space in hope the maid might re-​ap­pear, Awak­ened from his fool­ish dream at last, And found she was not nigh, and did not hear. Then to re­mount his grif­fin-​cours­er cast, In earth and air ac­cus­tomed to ca­reer. But, hav­ing slipt his bit, the winged horse Had tow­ered and soared in air a freer course.

XIV To his first ill ad­di­tion grave and sore Was to have lost the bird of rapid wing, Which he no bet­ter than the mock­ery bore Put on him by the maid; but deep­er sting Than this or that, im­plants, and pains him more, The thought of hav­ing lost the pre­cious ring; Not for its pow­er so much, es­teemed above Its worth, as giv­en him by his la­dy love.

XV Af­flict­ed be­yond mea­sure, he, with shield Cast on his shoul­der, and new-​cased in mail, Left the sea-​side, and through a grassy field Pur­sued his way, to­wards a spa­cious vale: Where he be­held a path, by wood con­cealed, The widest and most beat­en in the dale. Nor far had wound the clos­est shades with­in, Ere on his right he heard a mighty din.

XVI He heard a din, and fear­ful clash­ing sound Of arms, and hur­ry­ing on with ea­ger pace ‘Twixt tree and tree, two fu­ri­ous cham­pi­ons found, Wag­ing fierce fight in close and straight­ened place: Who to each oth­er (war­ring on what ground I know not) nei­ther showed re­gard nor grace. The one a gi­ant was of haughty cheer, And one a bold and gal­lant cav­alier.

XVII Cov­ered with shield and sword, one, leap­ing, sped Now here now there, and thus him­self de­fend­ed, Lest a two-​hand­ed mace up­on his head Should fall, with which the gi­ant still of­fend­ed: — On the field lay his horse, al­ready dead. Rogero paused, and to the strife at­tend­ed: And straight his wish­es leant to­wards the knight, Whom he would fain see con­queror in the fight:

XVI­II Yet not for this would lend the cham­pi­on aid, But to be­hold the cru­el strife stood nigh. Lo! a two-​hand­ed stroke the gi­ant made Up­on the less­er war­rior’s casque, and by The mighty blow the knight was over­laid: The oth­er, when as­tound he saw him lie, To deal the foe his death, his helm un­tied, So that the war­rior’s face Rogero spied.

XIX Of his sweet la­dy, of his pass­ing fair, And dear­est Bradamant Rogero spies The love­ly vis­age of its hel­met bare; To­wards whom, to deal her death, the gi­ant hies: So that, ad­vanc­ing with his sword in air, To sud­den bat­tle him the Child de­fies, But he, who will not wait for new alarm, Takes the half-​life­less la­dy in his arm,

XX And on his shoul­der flings and bears away; As some­times wolf a lit­tle lamb will bear, Or ea­gle in her crooked claws con­vey Pi­geon, or such-​like bird, through liq­uid air. Rogero runs with all the speed he may, Who sees how need­ed is his suc­cour there. But with such strides the gi­ant scours the plain, Him with his eyes the knight pur­sues with pain.

XXI This fly­ing and that fol­low­ing, the two Kept a close path which widened still, and they Pierc­ing that for­est, is­sued forth to view On a wide mead­ow, which with­out it lay. — No more of this. Or­lan­do I pur­sue, That bore Cy­mosco’s thun­der-​bolt away; And this had in the deep­est bot­tom drowned, That nev­er more the mis­chief might be found.

XXII But with small boot: for the im­pi­ous en­emy Of hu­man na­ture, taught the bolt to frame, Af­ter the shaft, which dart­ing from the sky Pierces the cloud and comes to ground in flame, Who, when he tempt­ed Eve to eat and die With the ap­ple, hard­ly wrought more scathe and shame, Some deal be­fore, or in our grand­sires’ day, Guid­ed a necro­mancer where it lay.

XXI­II More than a hun­dred fath­om buried so, Where hid­den it had lain a mighty space, The in­fer­nal tool by mag­ic from be­low Was fished and born amid the Ger­man race; Who, by one proof and the oth­er, taught to know Its pow­ers, and he who plots for our dis­grace, The de­mon, work­ing on their weak­er wit, As last up­on its fa­tal pur­pose hit.

XXIV To Italy and France, on ev­ery hand The cru­el art among all peo­ple past: And these the bronze in hol­low mould ex­pand, First in the fur­nace melt­ed by the blast: Oth­ers the iron bore, and small or grand, Fash­ion the var­ious tube they pierce or cast. And bom­bard, gun, ac­cord­ing to its frame, Or sin­gle can­non this, or dou­ble, name.

XXV This sak­er, cul­ver­ine, or fal­con hight, I hear (all names the in­ven­tor has be­stowed); Which splits or shiv­ers steel and stone out­right, And, where the bul­let pass­es, makes a road. — Down to the sword, re­store thy weapons bright, Sad sol­dier, to the forge, a use­less load; And gun or car­bine on thy shoul­der lay, Who with­out these, I wot, shalt touch no pay.

XXVI How, foul and pesti­lent dis­cov­ery, Didst thou find place with­in the hu­man heart? Through thee is mar­tial glo­ry lost, through thee The trade of arms be­came a worth­less art: And at such ebb are worth and chival­ry, That the base of­ten plays the bet­ter part. Through thee no more shall gal­lantry, no more Shall val­our prove their prowess as of yore.

XXVII Through thee, alas! are dead, or have to die, So many no­ble lords and cav­aliers Be­fore this war shall end, which, Italy Af­flict­ing most, has drowned the world in tears, That, if I said the word, I err not, I, Say­ing he sure the cru­ellest ap­pears And worst, of na­ture’s im­pi­ous and ma­lign, Who did this hate­ful en­gine first de­sign:

XXVI­II And I shall think, in or­der to pur­sue The sin for ev­er, God has doomed to hell That cursed soul, amid the un­hap­py crew, Be­side the ac­cursed Ju­das there to dwell. But fol­low we the good Or­lan­do, who So burns to seek Ebu­da’s is­land fell, Whose foul in­hab­itants a mon­ster sate With flesh of wom­en, fair and del­icate.

XXIX But no less slow than ea­ger was the knight: The winds ap­pear, which still his course de­lay; Who, whether blow­ing on the left or right, Or poop, so faint­ly in his can­vas play, His bark makes lit­tle speed; and, spent out­right, The breeze which wafts her some­times dies away, Or blows so foul, that he is fain to steer An­oth­er course, or to the lee­ward veer.

XXX It was the will of Heav­en that he, be­fore The King of Ire­land, should not reach the land, The he with greater ease up­on that shore Might act what short­ly you shall un­der­stand. “Make for the isle. Now” (said he) “may’st thou moor,” (Thus is­su­ing to the pi­lot his com­mand), “And give me for my need the skiff; for I Will to the rock with­out more com­pa­ny.

XXXI “The biggest ca­ble that thou hast aboard, And biggest an­chor to my hands con­sign; Thou shalt per­ceive why thus my boat is stored, If I but meet that mon­ster of the brine.” He bade them low­er the pin­nace over­board, With all things that be­fit­ted his de­sign: His arms he left be­hind, ex­cept his blade, And singly for the rocky is­land made.

XXXII Home to his breast the count pulls ei­ther oar, With the is­land at his back, to which he wends, In guise that, crawl­ing up the sandy shore, The crooked crab from sea or marsh as­cends. It was the hour Au­ro­ra gay be­fore The ris­ing sun her yel­low hair ex­tends (His orb as yet half-​seen, half-​hid from sight) Not with­out stir­ring jeal­ous Tithon’s spite.

XXXI­II Ap­proach­ing to the naked rock as near As vig­or­ous hand might serve to cast a stone, He knew not if he heard, or did not hear A cry, so faint and fee­ble was the moan. When, turn­ing to the left, the cav­alier, His lev­el sight along the wa­ter thrown, Naked as born, bound to a stump, es­pied A dame whose feet were wet­ted by the tide.

XXXIV Be­cause she dis­tant is, and ev­er­more Holds down her face, he ill can her dis­cern: Both sculls he pulls amain, and nears the shore, With keen de­sire more cer­tain news to learn: But now the wind­ing beach is heard to roar, And wood and cave the mighty noise re­turn; The bil­lows swell, and, lo! the beast! who pressed, And nigh con­cealed the sea be­neath his breast.

XXXV As cloud from hu­mid vale is seen to rise, Preg­nant with rain and storm, which seems with­al To ex­tin­guished day, and charged with deep­er dyes Than night, to spread through­out this earth­ly ball, So swims the beast, who so much oc­cu­pies Of sea, he may be said to keep it all. Waves roar: col­lect­ed in him­self, the peer Looks proud­ly on, un­changed in heart and cheer.

XXXVI He, as one well re­solved in his in­tent, Moved quick­ly to per­form the feat he planned; And, for he would the damsel’s harm pre­vent, And would with that as­sail the beast at hand, Be­tween her and the orc the boat he sent, Leav­ing with­in the sheath his idle brand, An­chor and ca­ble next he takes in hold, And waits the foe with con­stant heart and bold.

XXXVII As soon as him the mon­ster has de­scried, And skiff at lit­tle in­ter­val, his throat The fish, to swal­low him, ex­pands so wide, That horse and horse­man through his jaws might float. Here Roland with the an­chor, and be­side (Un­less I am mis­tak­en) with the boat Plunged, and en­gulphed the part­ed teeth be­twixt, His an­chor in the tongue and palate fixt;

XXXVI­II So that the mon­ster could no longer drop Or raise his hor­rid jaws, which this ex­tends. ‘Tis thus who digs the mine is wont to prop The ground, and where he works the roof sus­pends, Lest sud­den ru­in whelm him from atop, While he in­cau­tious­ly his task in­tends. Roland (so far apart was ei­ther hook) But by a leap could reach the high­est crook.

XXXIX The prop so placed, Or­lan­do now se­cure That the fell beast his mouth no more can close, Un­sheathes his sword, and, in that cave ob­scure, Deals here and there, now thrusts, now tren­chant blows. As well as citadel, whose walls im­mure The as­sailants, can de­fend her from her foes, The mon­ster, ha­rassed by the war with­in, De­fends him­self against the Pal­adin.

XL Now floats the mon­strous beast, o’er­come with pain, Whose scaly flanks up­on the waves ex­pand; And now de­scends in­to the deep­est main, Scow­ers at the bot­tom, and stirs up the sand. The ris­ing flood ill able to sus­tain, The cav­alier swims forth, and makes for land. He leaves the an­chor fas­tened in his tongue, And grasps the rope which from the an­chor hung.

XLI So swim­ming till the is­land is at­tained, With this to­wards the rock Or­lan­do speeds: He hawls the an­chor home (a foot­ing gained), Pricked by whose dou­ble fluke, the mon­ster bleeds. The labour­ing orc to fol­low is con­strained, Dragged by that force which ev­ery force ex­ceeds; Which at a sin­gle sal­ly more achieves Than at ten turns the cir­cling wind­lass heaves.

XLII As a wild bull, about whose horn is wound The un­ex­pect­ed noose, leaps here and there, When he has felt the cord, and turns him round, And rolls and ris­es, yet slips not the snare; So from his pleas­ant seat and an­cient bound, Dragged by that arm and rope he can­not tear, With thou­sands of strange wheels and thou­sand slides, The mon­ster fol­lows where the ca­ble guides.

XLI­II This the red sea with rea­son would be hight To-​day, such streams of blood have changed its hue; And where the mon­ster lashed it in his spite, The eye its bot­tom through the waves might view. And now he splashed the sky, and dimmed the light Of the clear sun, so high the wa­ter flew. The noise re-​echo­ing round, the dis­tant shore And wood and hill re­bound the deaf­en­ing roar.

XLIV Forth from his grot­to aged Pro­teus hies, And mounts above the sur­face at the sound; And hav­ing seen Or­lan­do dive, and rise From the orc, and drag the mon­strous fish to ground, His scat­tered flock for­got, o’er ocean flies; While so the din in­creas­es, that, as­tound, Nep­tune bids yoke his dol­phins, and that day For dis­tant Aethiopia posts away.

XLV With Melicer­ta on her shoul­ders, weep­ing Ino, and Nerei­ds with di­shev­elled hair, The Glau­ci, Tri­tons, and their fel­lows, leap­ing They know not whith­er, speed, some here, some there. Or­lan­do draws to land, the bil­lows sweep­ing, That hor­rid fish, but might his labour spare: For, with the tor­ment worn, and trav­el sore, The brute, ex­haust­ed, died, ere dragged ashore.

XLVI Of the is­landers had trooped no pet­ty throng, To wit­ness that strange fight, who by a vain And mis­er­able su­per­sti­tion stung, Es­teemed such holy deed a work pro­fane; And said that this would be an­oth­er wrong To Pro­teus, and pro­voke his ire again; Make him his herds pour forth up­on the strand, And with the whole old war­fare vex the land;

XLVII And that it bet­ter were to sue for peace, First from the in­jured god, lest worse en­sue; And Pro­teus from his cru­el hate would cease, If they in­to the sea the of­fend­er threw. As torch to torch gives fire, and lights in­crease, Un­til the flame is spread the coun­try through, Even so from heart to heart the fury spread, Which in the waves would doom Or­lan­do dead.

XLVI­II These, armed with sling or bow, up­on the shore, And these sup­plied with spear or sword de­scend; And on each side, be­hind him and be­fore, Dis­tant and near, as best they can, of­fend. At such a bru­tal in­sult won­ders sore The peer, who sees that mis­chief they in­tend, In vengeance for the cru­el mon­ster slain, Whence he had glo­ry hoped, and praise to gain.

XLIX But as the us­age is of surly bear, By stur­dy Russ or Lithua­ni­an led, Lit­tle to heed the dogs in crowd­ed fair, Nor even at their yelps to turn his head, The clam­our of the churls as­sem­bled there Or­lan­do wit­nessed with as lit­tle dread; Who knew that he the rout which threat­ened death, Had pow­er to scat­ter at a sin­gle breath:

L And speed­ily he made them yield him place, When turned on them, he grasped his tren­chant blade. Mis­judg­ing of his worth, the fool­ish race Deemed that he would have short re­sis­tance made; Since him they saw no cov­er­ing buck­ler brace, Un­cuirassed, nor in oth­er arms ar­rayed; But knew not that, from head to foot, a skin More hard than di­amond cased the Pal­adin.

LI What by Or­lan­do oth­ers can­not do, The knight by oth­ers can; at half a score Of blows in all he thir­ty killed; by few He passed that mea­sure, if the strokes were more: And had al­ready turned him to un­do The naked la­dy, hav­ing cleared the shore, When oth­er larum sounds, and oth­er cries From a new quar­ter of the is­land rise.

LII While so the Pal­adin had kept in play The bar­barous is­landers, up­on that hand, The men of Ire­land, with­out let or fray, Had poured from many quar­ters on the strand: And now, with­out re­morse or pity, slay The in­hab­itants, through all the wast­ed land; And, was it jus­tice moved, or cru­el rage, Slaugh­ter with­out re­gard to sex or age.

LI­II Lit­tle or no de­fend­er the is­land-​crew At­tempt; in part as tak­en un­aware, In part that in the lit­tle place are few, And that those few with­out a pur­pose are. ‘Mid sack and fire, the wast­ed coun­try through, The is­landers are slain, and ev­er­where The walls are up­on earth in ru­in spread, Nor in the land is left a liv­ing head.

LIV As if the mighty tu­mult which he hears, And shriek and ru­in had con­cerned him nought, The naked rock the bold Or­lan­do nears, Where she was placed, to feed the mon­ster brought. He looks, and known to him the dame ap­pears, And more ap­pears, when nigher her he sought: Olympia she ap­pears, and is in­deed Olympia, whose faith reaped so ill a meed.

LV Wretched Olympia; whom, be­side the scorn Which Love put on her, For­tune too pur­sued, Who sent the cor­sairs fell, which her had born That very day to the is­land of Ebude. She Roland rec­ol­lects on his re­turn Land­ward; but, for the damsel naked stood, Not on­ly nought she to the war­rior said, But dared not raise her eyes, and dropt her head.

LVI Or­lan­do asks what evil des­tiny Her to that cru­el is­land had con­veyed From where she in as much fe­lic­ity Was with her con­sort left as could be said: “I know not (cried the weep­ing dame) if I Have thanks to ren­der thee for death de­layed, Or should lament me that, through means of thee, This day did not my woes con­clud­ed see.

LVII “I have to thank thee that from death, too dread And mon­strous, thy good arm de­liv­er­ance gave; Which would have been too mon­strous, had I fed The beast, and in his bel­ly found a grave: But can­not thank thee that I am not dead, Since death alone can me from mis­ery save, Well shall I thank thee for that wished re­lief, Which can de­liv­er me from ev­ery grief.”

LVI­II Next she re­lat­ed, with loud sobs and sighs, How her false spouse be­trayed her as she lay Asleep, and how of pi­rates made the prize, They bore her from the desert isle away. And, as she spake, she turned her in the guise Of Di­an, framed by artists, who pour­tray Her carved or paint­ed, as in liq­uid font She threw the wa­ter in Ac­taeon’s front.

LIX For, as she can, her waist she hides, and breast, More lib­er­al of flow­ing flank and reins. Roland de­sires his ship, to find a vest To cov­er her, de­liv­ered from her chains: While he is all in­tent up­on this quest, Ober­to comes; Ober­to, he that reigns O’er Ire­land’s peo­ple, who had un­der­stood How life­less lay the mon­ster of the flood;

LX And, swim­ming, how, amid the wa­tery roar, A knight a weighty an­chor in his throat Had fix’d, and so had dragged him to the shore, As men against the cur­rent track a boat. This while Ober­to comes; who, if his lore, Who told the tale, were true, de­sires to note; While his in­vad­ing army, far and wide, Ebu­da burn and waste on ev­ery side.

LXI Ober­to, though the Pal­adin to sight Was drip­ping, and with wa­ter foul and gore; With gore, that from the orc, emerged to light, Whom he had en­tered bod­ily, he bore, He for the coun­try knew the stranger knight As he pe­rused his face; so much the more, That he had thought when told the tid­ings, none Save Roland could such mighty fear have done;

LXII Knew him, be­cause a page of hon­our he Had been in France, and for the crown, his right Up­on his fa­ther’s death, had crossed the sea The year be­fore. So of­ten he the knight Had seen, and had with him held col­lo­quy, Their times of meet­ing had been in­fi­nite. He doffed his casque, with fes­tive wel­come pressed To­wards the count, and clasped him to the breast.

LXI­II Or­lan­do is no less re­joined to see The king, than is the king that cham­pi­on true. Af­ter with friend­ly cheer and equal glee Had once or twice em­braced the no­ble two, To Ober­to Roland told the treach­ery Which had been done the youth­ful dame, and who Had done it, — false Bireno — that among All men should least have sought to do her wrong.

LX­IV To him he told the many proofs and clear By which the dame’s af­fec­tion had been tried; And how she for Bireno kin and geer Had lost, and would in fine for him have died. And how he this could war­rant, and ap­pear To vouch for much, as wit­ness on her side. While thus to him her griefs Or­lan­do showed, The la­dy’s shin­ing eyes with tears o’er­flowed.

LXV Her face was such as some­times in the spring We see a doubt­ful sky, when on the plain A show­er de­scends, and the sun, open­ing His cloudy veil, looks out amid the rain. And as the nightin­gale then loves to sing From branch of ver­dant stem her dul­cet strain, So in her beau­teous tears his pin­ions bright Love bathes, re­joic­ing in the chrys­tal light.

LXVI The stripling heats his gold­en ar­row’s head At her bright eyes, then slacks the weapon’s glow In streams, which falls be­tween white flow­ers and red; And, the shaft tem­pered, strong­ly draws his bow, And roves at him, o’er whom no shield is spread, Nor iron rind, nor dou­ble mail be­low; Who, gaz­ing on her tress­es, eyes, and brow, Feels that his heart is pierced, he knows not how.

LXVII Olympia’s beau­ties are of those most rare, Nor is the fore­head’s beau­teous curve alone Ex­cel­lent, and her eyes and cheeks and hair, Mouth, nose, and throat, and shoul­ders; but, so down De­scend­ing from the la­dy’s bo­som fair, Parts which are wont to be con­cealed by gown, Are such, as hap­ly should be placed be­fore Whate’er this am­ple world con­tains in store.

LXVI­II In white­ness they sur­passed un­sul­lied snow, Smooth ivory to the touch: above were seen Two round­ing paps, like new-​pressed milk in show, Fresh-​tak­en from its crate of rush­es green; The space be­twixt was like the val­ley low, Which of­ten­times we see small hills be­tween, Sweet in its sea­son, and now such as when Win­ter with snows has new­ly filled the glen.

LX­IX The swelling hips and haunch­es’ sym­me­try, The waist more clear than mir­ror’s pol­ished grain, And mem­bers seem of Phidias’ turn­ery, Or work of bet­ter hand and nicer pain. As well to you of oth­er parts should I Re­late, which she to hide de­sired in vain. To sum the beau­teous whole, from head to feet, In her all love­li­ness is found com­plete.

LXX And had she in the Idaean glen un­veiled In an­cient days be­fore the Phry­gian swain, By how much heav­en­ly Venus had pre­vailed I know not, though her ri­vals strove in vain. Nor hap­ly had the youth for Spar­ta sailed, To vi­olate the hos­pitable reign; But said: “With Menelaus let He­len rest! No oth­er prize I seek, of this pos­sest”;

LXXI Or in Cro­tona dwelt, where the di­vine Zeux­is in days of old his work pro­ject­ed, To be the or­na­ment of Juno’s shrine, And hence so many naked dames col­lect­ed; And in one form per­fec­tion to com­bine, Some sep­arate charm from this or that se­lect­ed, He from no oth­er mod­el need have wrought. Since joined in her were all the charms he sought.

LXXII I do not think Bireno ev­er viewed Naked that beau­teous form; for sure it were He nev­er could have been so stern of mood, As to have left her on that desert lair. That Ire­land’s king was fired I well con­clude, Nor hid the flame that he with­in him bare. He strives to com­fort her, and hope in­still, That fu­ture good shall end her present ill.

LXXI­II And her to Hol­land promis­es to bear, And vows till she is to her state re­stored, And just and mem­orable vengeance there Achieved up­on her per­jured, traitor lord, He nev­er will un­ceas­ing war for­bear, Waged with all means that Ire­land can af­ford; And this with all his speed. He, up and down, Mean­time bids seek for fe­male vest and gown.

LXXIV Now will it need to send in search of vest Be­yond the sav­age is­land’s nar­row bound, Since thith­er ev­ery day in such came dressed, Some dame, to feed the beast, from coun­tries round. Nor long his fol­low­ers there pur­sued the quest, Ere many they of var­ious fash­ions found. So was Olympia clothed; while sad of mood Was he, not so to clothe her as he wou’d.

LXXV But nev­er silk so choice or gold so fine Did the in­dus­tri­ous Flo­ren­tine pre­pare, Nor whoso­ev­er broi­ders gay de­sign, Though on his task be spent time, toil, and care, Nor Lem­nos’ god, nor Pal­las’ art di­vine, Form rai­ment wor­thy of those limbs so fair, That King Ober­to can­not choose but he Re­calls them at each turn to mem­ory.

LXXVI To see that love so kin­dled by the dame, On many grounds Or­lan­do was con­tent; Who not alone re­joiced that such a shame Put up­on her, Bireno should re­pent; But, that in the de­sign on which he came, He should be freed from grave im­ped­iment. Not for Olympia thith­er had he made, But, were his la­dy there, to lend her aid.

LXXVII To him, that there she was not, soon was clear, But clear it was not if she had been there, Or no; since of those isles­men, far and near, One was not left the tid­ings to de­clare. The fol­low­ing day they from the haven steer, And all unit­ed in one squadron fare. The Pal­adin with them to Ire­land hies, From whence to France the war­rior’s pas­sage lies.

LXXVI­II Scarce­ly a day in Ire­land’s realm he spends: And for no prayers his pur­posed end for­bore: Love, that in quest of his liege-​la­dy sends The knight up­on this track, per­mits no more. De­part­ing, he Olympia rec­om­mends To the Irish monarch, who to serve her swore: Al­though this need­ed not; since he was bent More than be­hoved, her wish­es to con­tent:

LXXIX So levied in few days his war­like band, And (league with Eng­land’s kind and Scot­land’s made) In Hol­land and in Fries­land left no land To the false duke, so rapid was the raid. And to rebel against that lord’s com­mand His Zealand stirred; nor he the war de­layed, Un­til by him Bireno’s blood was spilt: A pun­ish­ment that ill atoned his guilt.

LXXX Ober­to takes to wife Olympia fair, And her of count­ess makes a puis­sant queen. But be the Pal­adin again our care, Who fur­rows , night and day, the bil­lows green, And strikes his sails in the same har­bour, where They to the wind erewhile un­furled had been All armed, he on his Brigli­adoro leaps, And leaves be­hind him winds and briny deeps.

LXXXI The rem­nant of the win­ter, he with shield And spear achieved things wor­thy to be shown, I ween; but these were then so well con­cealed, It is no fault of mine they are not blown; For good Or­lan­do was in fight­ing field, Prompter to do, than make his prowess known. Nor e’er was bruit­ed ac­tion of the knight, Save when some faith­ful wit­ness was in sight.

LXXXII That win­ter’s rem­nant he so passed that feat Of his was known not to the pub­lic ear; But when with­in that an­imal dis­creet Which Phryxus bore, the sun il­lumed the sphere, And Zephyrus re­turn­ing glad and sweet, Brought back with him again the bloom­ing year, The won­drous deeds Or­lan­do did in stow­er, Ap­peared with the new grass and dain­ty flow­er.

LXXXI­II From plain to hill, from cham­paign flat to shore, Op­pressed with grief and pain the Coun­ty fares, When a long cry, en­ter­ing a for­est hoar, — A load lament­ing smites up­on his ears. He grasps his brand and spurs his cours­er sore, And swift­ly pricks to­ward the sound he hears. But I shall at an­oth­er sea­son say What chanced, and may be heard in fu­ture lay.