Orlando Furioso

CANTO 13

AR­GU­MENT The Count Or­lan­do of the damsel bland Who loves Zerbino, hears the piteous woes. Next puts to death the felons with his hand Who pent her there. Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter goes, Seek­ing Rogero, where so large a band The old At­lantes’ mag­ic walls en­close. Her he im­pounds, de­ceived by fic­tions new. Agra­mant ranks his army for re­view.

I Those an­cient cav­aliers right hap­py were, Born in an age, when, in the gloomy wood, In val­ley, and in cave, where­in the bear, Ser­pent, or li­on, hid their sav­age brood, They could find that, which now in palace rare Is hard­ly found by judges proved and good; Wom­en, to wit, who in their fresh­est days Of beau­ty worthi­ly de­serve the praise.

II Above I told you how a gen­tle maid Or­lan­do had dis­cov­ered un­der ground, And asked, by whom she thith­er was con­veyed? Pur­su­ing now my tale, I tell, how drowned In grief (her speech by many a sob de­layed), The damsel fair, in sweet and soft­est sound, Sum­ming them with what brevi­ty she might, Her ills re­count­ed to Anglantes’ knight.

III “Though I am sure,” she said, “O cav­alier, To suf­fer pun­ish­ment for what I say; Be­cause I know, to him who pens me here, This wom­an quick­ly will the fact dis­play; I would not but thou shouldst the sto­ry hear. — And let my wretched life the for­feit pay! For what can wait me bet­ter than that he, My gaol­er, should one day my death de­cree?

IV “Lo! I am Is­abel, who once was styled The daugh­ter of Gal­li­cia’s hap­less king: I said aright who was; but now the child (No longer his) of care and suf­fer­ing: The fault of Love, by whom I was be­guiled; For against him alone this charge I bring. Who sweet­ly, at the first, our wish ap­plauds, And weaves in se­cret but de­ceit and frauds.

V “Whilom I lived, con­tent in For­tune’s smile, Rich, blame­less, fair, and young; to sad re­verse Con­demned, I now am wretched, poor, and vile, And in worse case, if any yet be worse. But it is fit­ting, I to thee this while From their first root my trou­bles should re­hearse. And it will soothe me, though of thee I bor­row No help, that thou com­pas­sion­ate my sor­row.

VI “My fa­ther in his city of Bay­onne, (To-​day will be twelve months) a tour­ney dight; Hence, led by spread­ing ru­mour to our town, To joust, from dif­fer­ent lands came many a knight; Mid these (was it his man­ifest renown, Or was it love which so de­ceived my sight) Praise in my eyes alone Zerbino won, Who was the mighty king of Scot­land’s son.

VII “When him I af­ter in the field es­pied, Per­form­ing won­drous feats of chival­ry, I was sur­prised by Love, ere I de­scried That free­dom in my Love, so rash a guide, I lay this unc­tion to my phan­ta­sy, That no un­seem­ly place my heart pos­sest, Fixed on the wor­thi­est in the world and best.

VI­II “In beau­ty and in val­our’s boast above Those oth­er lords the Scot­tish prince stood high. He showed me, and, I think, be bore me love, And left no less an ar­dent flame than I. Nor lacked there one who did be­tween us move, To speak our com­mon wish­es fre­quent­ly, So could we still in heart and mind unite, Al­though dis­joined from one an­oth­er’s sight.

IX “Hence, when con­clud­ed was the fes­tal show, And to his home Zerbino was re­turned, If thou know’st what is love, thou well may’st know How night and day I for the war­rior yearned; And was as­sured, no less on him did prey The flame, that in his con­stant bo­som burned. He, save a way to have me with him, nought For so­lace of his rest­less pas­sion sought.

X “For dif­fer­ent faith for­bade him (on my side I was a sara­cen, a Chris­tian he) To ask me of my fa­ther as a bride, By stealth he pur­posed to elope with me. Amid green fields, our wealthy town be­side, I had a gar­den, seat­ed by the sea, Up­on the pleas­ant shore; from whence the eye Might ocean and the hills about de­scry.

XI “A fit­ting place to ef­fect what dif­fer­ent creed And law for­bade us, he es­teemed this site, And showed the or­der tak­en for the deed, Which was to make our fu­ture life’s de­light; And how, near San­ta Martha, for our need, A bark was with arm’d men in am­bush dight, Un­der Sir Odor­ic of Bis­cay’s com­mand; A lead­er he, ap­proved by sea and land!

XII “Un­able in his per­son this to do, For by his fa­ther he was forced to wend In suc­cour of the king of France, in lieu This Odor­ic for the pur­pose he would send; Cho­sen, of all his faith­ful friends and true, As his most faith­ful and his truest friend: And such had been, if ben­efits could bind And good­ly deeds the friend­ship of mankind.

XI­II “At the time fixed to bear me thence away, This chief would an­chor on the des­tined ground. — And thus it was ar­rived the wished for day, Then I of them was in my gar­den found. Sir Odor­ic, at night, with fair ar­ray Of valiant men, by land and sea renowned, In the near riv­er from his bark de­scends, And thence in si­lence to my gar­den wends.

XIV “To the pitched bark with me his par­ty sped, Be­fore the city knew what was at hand; Some of the house, dis­armed and naked, fled, And some were slain; while of the help­less band, With me, an­oth­er part was cap­tive led. So was I sev­ered from my na­tive land, Hop­ing in brief Zerbino to pos­sess, I can­not tell thee with what hap­pi­ness.

XV “Scarce­ly was Mon­gia by our gal­ley dou­bled, Ere a squall took us on the lar­board side, Which round about the clear hori­zon trou­bled, And stirred and tost heav­en-​high the foam­ing tide. Smote with a north-​west wind, next, ocean bub­bled, Which on her oth­er beam the ves­sel plied: This ev­er­more in­creas­es, with such force, Star­board or lar­board, boots not which our course.

XVI “It steads not to strike sail, nor lash the mast, Low­ered on the gang-​board, nor our cas­tles fell; The bark, in our de­spite, is hur­ried fast To­wards the point­ed rocks about Rochelle: Save He, above, as­sist us at the last, The cru­el storm will us ashore im­pel; Driv­en thith­er by ill wind with might­ier speed Than ev­er bow-​string gave to whistling reed.

XVII “Our per­il well does the Bis­cayan note, And tries what of­ten has an evil end; Low­ers down the gal­ley’s skiff, and, when afloat, De­scends in­to it, and makes me de­scend: Two fol­low, and a troop would throng the boat, Did not the first pre­vent them, and de­fend The en­trance with their naked faul­chions; we Sev­er the rope forth­with, and put to sea.

XVI­II “Driv­en land­ward, on the shore we safe­ly light Who in the skiff em­barked; while of our band The rest in the split ves­sel sink out­right; Our goods sea-​swal­lowed all. Up­on the strand To Eter­nal Love, To Good­ness In­fi­nite, I of­fer up my thanks, with out­stretched hand, That I was doomed not ‘mid the wa­tery roar To per­ish, nor be­hold Zerbino more.

XIX “Though I had left on ship­board mat­ters rare, And pre­cious in their na­ture, gem and vest, So I might hope Zerbino’s lot to share, I was con­tent the sea should have the rest. No dwelling on the beach ap­pears, nor there Is any path­way seen, by foot­steps pressed; On­ly a hill, whose woody top is beat By cease­less winds, the wa­ters bathe its feet.

XX “Here the fell tyrant Love, aye prompt to range, And faith­less to his ev­ery promise still, Who watch­es ev­er how he may de­range And mar our ev­ery rea­son­able will, Con­verts, with woe­ful and dis­as­trous change, My com­fort to de­spair, my good to ill: For he, in whom Zerbino put his trust, Cooled in his loy­al faith, and burned with lust.

XXI “Whether he his de­sire had nursed at sea, And had not dared ex­hib­it it be­fore; Or that it sprung from op­por­tu­ni­ty, Sug­gest­ed by that soli­tary shore; With­out more pause, in that lone desert, he Would sate his greedy pas­sion; but for­bore Till he of one could rid him, of the twain, Who in the boat with us had scaped the main.

XXII “A man of Scot­land he, Al­mo­nio hight, Who to Zerbino seemed great faith to bear; And as a per­fect war­rior by the knight, Praised, when to Odor­ic giv­en, his trust to share: To him (the Spaniard said) it were a slight If I un­to Rochelle afoot should fare; And prayed, that he be­fore would thith­er speed, And for­ward thence some hack­ney, for my need.

XXI­II “Al­mo­nio, who in this sus­pects no ill, Forth­with, be­fore our par­ty, wends his way To the town, hid­den by the wood­ed hill, And which not more than six miles dis­tant lay. To the oth­er fi­nal­ly his wicked will Sir Odor­ic took courage to dis­play; As well be­cause he could not rid him thence, As that in him he had great con­fi­dence.

XXIV “He that re­mained with us, of whom I said Be­fore, Core­bo was of Bil­bao hight, Who with him un­der the same roof was bred From in­fan­cy, and the un­grate­ful wight Deemed that the thought he har­boured in his head, He could im­part in safe­ty to the knight, Who would pre­fer, ne­glect­ed of his trust, The plea­sure of his friend to what was just.

XXV “Not with­out high dis­dain Core­bo heard (Who kind and cour­te­ous was) the Bis­cayneer, And termed him traitor; and by deed and word With­stood the pur­pose of his foul com­peer. This mighty wrath in ei­ther war­rior stirred; In sign where­of their naked brands they rear. At sight of their drawn swords, in pan­ic, I Turn short­ly through the gloomy wood to fly.

XXVI “Sir Odor­ic in war well taught and bred, Gained in few blows such van­tage in the fray, He left Core­bo on the field for dead, And, fol­low­ing in my steps, pur­sued my way. Love lent to him (un­less I am mis­led) Pin­ions, that he might over­take his prey; And many a prayer and gloz­ing flat­tery taught, Where­with I to com­pli­ance might be wrought.

XXVII “But all in vain, for I was fixed and bent, Rather than sate his ill de­sire, to die. When men­ace had by him been vain­ly spent, And ev­ery prayer and ev­ery flat­tery, He would by open force his will con­tent; Nor boots it aught that I en­treaties try; — Of his lord’s faith in him the wretch re­mind, And how my­self I to his hands re­signed.

XXVI­II “When I per­ceived that fruit­less was my prayer, And that I could not hope for oth­er aid; For he as­sailed me like a fam­ished bear, With hands and feet I fierce re­sis­tance made, As he more bru­tal waxed, and plucked his hair, And with my teeth and nails his vis­age flayed: This while I vent such lamentable cries, The clam­our echoes to the star­ry skies.

XXIX “Were they by chance con­duct­ed, or my shriek, Which might have well been heard a league around, (Or, was it they were wont the shore to seek, When any ves­sel split or ran aground) I saw a crowd ap­pear up­on the peak, Which, to the sea de­scend­ing, to­wards us wound. Them the Bis­cayan say, and at the sight Aban­doned his de­sign, and turned to flight.

XXX “This rab­ble, sir, against that treach­er­ous man Comes to my aid; but in such guise, that I The home­ly saw, of falling from the pan In­to the fire be­neath, but ver­ify. ‘Tis true so lost I was not, nor that clan Ac­cursed with minds of such in­iq­ui­ty, That they to vi­olate my per­son sought; Though noth­ing good or vir­tu­ous on them wrought:

XXXI “But that they knew, for me pre­served a maid, As yet I am, they high­er price might crave. Eight months are past, the ninth ar­rived, since, stayed By them, alive I lan­guish in this grave. All hope is lost of my Zerbino’s aid: For from their speech I gath­er, as a slave, I am bartered to a mer­chant for his gold; By whom I to the sul­tan shall be sold.”

XXXII The gen­tle damsel so her tale pur­sues, While sobs and sighs oft in­ter­pos­ing break Her soft an­gel­ic voice, which might in­fuse Com­pas­sion in­to asp, or ven­omed snake. What time she so her piteous grief re­news, Or hap­ly does her bit­ter an­guish slake, Some twen­ty men the gloomy cav­ern fill; This armed with hunt­ing-​spear, and that with bill.

XXXI­II With squint­ing look and dark, and but one eye, The lead­er of the troop, of brutish cheer Was he, the fore­most of the com­pa­ny; By a blow blind­ed, which from nose to ear Had cleft his jaw: when he did so de­scry Seat­ed be­side the maid, that cav­alier, He turned about and said: “Lo! in the net An­oth­er bird for whom it was not set!”

XXXIV Then to the Coun­ty cried: “I nev­er knew A man more op­por­tune my wants to stead; I know not whether any one to you Per­chance may have an­nounced my press­ing need Of such fair arms, — or you con­jec­tured true, — As well as of that good­ly sable weed. You ver­ily ar­rived in sea­son are My needs (pur­sued the losel) to re­pair.”

XXXV With bit­ter smile, up­start­ing on his feet, Or­lan­do to the ruf­fi­an made re­ply: “Thou at a price at which no chap­man treat, Un­marked in mer­chant’s books, these arms shalt buy.” With that he snatched a brand, which, full of heat And smoke, was smoul­der­ing in the chim­ney nigh, Threw it, and smote by chance the knave half blind, Where with the nose the meet­ing brows con­fined.

XXXVI The brand dis­charged by him, hit ei­ther brow, But most severe­ly on the left did smite; For that ill fea­ture per­ished by the blow, Which was the thief’s sole min­is­ter of light. Nor is the stroke con­tent to blind the foe; Un­sat­ed, save it reg­is­ter his sprite Among those damned souls, whom Charon keeps, With their com­pan­ions, plunged in boil­ing deeps.

XXXVII A spa­cious ta­ble in mid cav­ern stood, Two palms in thick­ness, in its fig­ure square; Propt on one huge, ill fash­ioned food and rude, Which held the thief and all who har­boured there. Even with such free­dom as his dart of wood We mark the nim­ble Spaniard launch through air, The heavy ta­ble Roland seized and threw, Where, crowd­ed close to­geth­er, stood the crew.

XXXVI­II One had his bel­ly crushed, and one his breast; An­oth­er head or arm, or leg and thigh. Whence some were slain out­right, and maimed the rest, While he who was least in­jured sought to fly. ‘Tis so some­times, with heavy stone op­pressed, A knot of slimy snakes is seen to lie, With bat­tered heads and loins where, win­ter done, They lick their scales, re­joic­ing in the sun.

XXXIX I could not say what mis­chiefs these of­fend; One dies, and one de­parts with­out its tail; An­oth­er crip­pled can­not move an-​end, And wrig­gling wreathes its length with­out avail: While this, whom more pro­pi­tious saints be­friend, Safe through the grass drags off its slimy trail. Dire was the stroke; yet should no won­der breed, Since good Or­lan­do’s arm achieved the deed.

XL Those whom the board had lit­tle maimed or nought, (Turpin says there were sev­en) in craven wise, Their safe­ty in their feet, yet vain­ly, sought; For to the cav­ern’s door Or­lan­do hies. And hav­ing them with­out re­sis­tance caught, Fast with a rope their hands be­hind them ties; A rope, which in the cav­ern on the ground, Con­ve­nient for his pur­pose he had found.

XLI He af­ter drags them bound with­out the cave, Where an old ser­vice-​tree its shad­ow throws. Or­lan­do lops the branch­es with his glaive, And hangs the thieves, a ban­quet for the crows: Nor chain and crook for such a deed did crave: For ready hooks the tree it­self be­stows, To purge the world; where by the chin up-​hung, These, on the branch­es, bold Or­lan­do strung.

XLII The an­cient wom­an, the as­sas­sin’s friend, Es­capes when she per­ceives that all are dead, And, thread­ing that green labyrinth with­out end, Laments, and plucks the hair from off her head, By fear im­pelled, through paths which sore of­fend Her feet, till she, be­side a riv­er’s bed, En­coun­ters with a war­rior: but to say Who was the stranger cham­pi­on I de­lay;

XLI­II And turn to her, who to the count ap­plied, Pray­ing he would not leave her there alone, And vowed to fol­low whith­er he would guide. Or­lan­do her con­soles in cour­te­ous tone: And thence, when, with a wreath of ros­es tied About her brows, and robed in pur­ple gown, On wont­ed jour­ney white Au­ro­ra starts, The pal­adin with Is­abel de­parts.

XLIV With­out en­coun­ter­ing aught that might ap­pear Wor­thy of note, they wend­ed many a day; And fi­nal­ly the twain a cav­alier, As pris­on­er led, en­coun­tered by the way. Who shall be told; but, tale to you as dear Now calls me from the beat­en path away; — Of Ay­mon’s daugh­ter, — whom I left above, Lan­guid and lost in all the pains of love.

XLV The beau­teous la­dy who de­sires in vain, Rogero should not his re­turn de­lay, Lies in Mar­seilles, from whence the payn­im train She ha­rass­es, nigh each re­turn­ing day; (What time they rob­bing aye, by hill and plain, Scow­er fruit­ful Langue­doc and Provence gay) And the true du­ty ex­ecutes aright Of a sage lead­er and a valiant knight.

XLVI The time long past, she, ly­ing in that place, Had hoped that her Rogero would ap­pear, She, not be­hold­ing him in all that space, Of many evil chances lived in fear. One day, mid oth­ers that her woe­ful case The la­dy wept alone, to her drew near The dame, who with that heal­ing ring made sound The bo­som rankling with Al­ci­na’s wound.

XLVII When her she saw, with­out her love re­turned, (Such time elapsed, her mis­sion in­com­plete), Sore trem­bling, faint, and pale, her heart so yearned, She scarce had strength to stand up­on her feet. But the en­chantress kind, when she dis­cerned Her fear, ad­vanced with smiles the maid to meet; And to con­sole her such glad vis­age wore As mes­sen­ger who joy­ful tid­ings bore.

XLVI­II “Fear not for thy Rogero: he is well And safe (she cried), and ev­er wor­ships thee, As wont­ed; but thy foe, that wiz­ard fell, Him yet again de­prives of lib­er­ty. And it be­hoves thee now to climb the sell, Would’st thou poss­es him, and to fol­low me; For if thou wen­dest with me, I will lead Whith­er, by thee Rogero shall be freed.”

XLIX And next pur­sued, re­lat­ing to her all The frauds and mag­ic of At­lantes hoar, That wear­ing her fair face, who seemed the thrall Of an ill gi­ant, him had through the door Of gold, en­ticed in­to the en­chant­ed hall, And af­ter dis­ap­peared, the youth be­fore; And told how dames and cav­aliers he cheats Who thith­er make re­sort, with like de­ceits.

L See­ing the sage, all think they see a squire, Com­pan­ion, la­dy-​love, or ab­sent friend; What­ev­er is each sev­er­al wight’s de­sire: Since to our scope our wish­es nev­er tend. Hence search­ing ev­ery where, them­selves they tire With labour sore, and frus­trate of their end; And can­not, (so De­sire and Hope de­ceive), With­out the miss­ing good, that palace leave.

LI “As soon as thou (pur­sued the dame) art near The place where he has built the mag­ic seat, Re­sem­bling thy Rogero in his cheer And ev­ery look, At­lantes thee shall meet, And make him­self by his ill art ap­pear As suf­fer­ing from some stronger arm de­feat; That thou may’st aid him in the per­il feigned, And thus among those oth­ers be de­tained.

LII “To the end thou may’st es­cape his am­bush, where So many and so many, thus be­trayed, Have fall­en; though he Rogero seem, be­ware To lend him faith, who will de­mand thine aid: Nor, when the sage presents him­self, for­bear To take his worth­less life with lift­ed blade. Nor think to slay Rogero with the blow, But him who works thee still such cru­el woe.

LI­II “Hard will it seem to slay, full well I know, The wight, in whom Rogero you de­scry: But, for truth is not in the ly­ing show, Trust not to sight where mag­ic blears the eye. Fix, ere with me you to the for­est go, To change not when the traitorous foe is nigh: For nev­er shall with you Rogero wive, If weak­ly you the wiz­ard leave alive.”

LIV The val­or­ous maid with the in­tent to slay The false en­chanter, on her plan de­cides, Snatch­es her arms, and fol­lows on her way Melis­sa sage, in whom she so con­fides, And thus, by fruit­ful field or for­est gray, Her by forced jour­neys that en­chantress guides; And stud­ies to be­guile their weary course Ev­er, as best she may, with sweet dis­course:

LV And as the fairest top­ic of all those Which might be grate­ful to the damsel’s ear, Her fu­ture off­spring and Rogero’s chose (A race of demigods) in prince and peer. For as Melis­sa all the se­crets knows Of the eter­nal gods who rule our sphere, The good en­chantress can dis­cov­er all Which should in many ages hence be­fall.

LVI “Oh! my best guide.” ex­claimed the damsel bold To the weird-​wom­an that to aid her came, “As thou hast many years be­fore fore­told Men who shall glo­ri­fy my race and name, So now I pray thee, la­dy, to un­fold The praise and virtues of some no­ble dame, If from my lin­eage any such shall rise.” To whom Melis­sa cour­te­ous­ly replies:

LVII “Chaste dames of thee de­scend­ed I sur­vey, Moth­ers of those who wear im­pe­ri­al crown, And mighty kings; the col­umn and the stay Of glo­ri­ous realms and hous­es of renown. And as thy sons will shine in arms, so they Will no less fame de­serve in fe­male gown, With piety and sovereign pru­dence graced, And no­ble hearts, in­com­pa­ra­bly chaste.

LVI­II “And if at length, I should re­late to thee The praise of all who from thy root as­cend, Too long my tale would hold, nor do I see Whom I could pass, where all to fame pre­tend. But from a thou­sand I some two or three Will choose, be­cause my tale may have an end. Why was not in the cave thy wish made known, Where I their shad­ows might as well have shown?

LIX “To hear of one of thy famed race pre­pare, Whom lib­er­al stud­ies and good works en­gage; Of whom, I know not well, if she more fair May be en­ti­tled, or more chaste and sage; The no­ble-​mind­ed Is­abel, who, where It stands on Min­cius’ bank, in oth­er age Shall gild the town, of Oc­nus’ moth­er hight, With her own glo­ri­ous rays by day and night;

LX “Where, with her wor­thi­est con­sort she will strain, In hon­oured and in splen­did ri­val­ry, Which best shall prize the virtues’ good­ly train, And widest ope the gates to cour­tesy. If he by Taro, and in Naples’ reign, (’Tis said), from Gauls de­liv­ered Italy, ‘Twill be replied. Pene­lope the chaste, As such, was not be­neath Ulysses placed.

LXI “Great things and many thus I sum in few Of this brave dame, and oth­ers leave be­hind: Which when I from the vul­gar herd with­drew, Sage Mer­lin from the hol­low stone di­vined. For I should leave old Ty­phis out of view, If on such sea I launched be­fore the wind: And with this fin­ish my prophet­ic strain, — All bless­ings on her head the skies will rain.

LXII “With her shall be her sis­ter Beat­rice, Whose for­tunes well shall with her name ac­cord; Who, while she lives, not on­ly shall not miss What good the heav­ens to those be­low af­ford, But make, with her, par­tak­er of her bliss, First among wealthy dukes, her cher­ished lord; Who shall, when she from hence re­ceives her call, In­to the low­est depth of mis­ery fall.

LXI­II “Vis­con­tis’ ser­pents will be held in dread, And Mo­ro and Sforza, while this dame shall be, From Hy­per­bore­an snows to bil­lows red; From Ind to hills, which to a dou­ble sea Af­ford a pas­sage; and, the la­dy dead, To the sore mis­chief of all Italy, Will with the In­sub­ri in­to slav­ery fall; And men shall sovereign wis­dom for­tune call.

LX­IV “Oth­er the same il­lus­tri­ous name will bear, And who will flour­ish many years be­fore. Pan­non­ia’s gar­land one of these shall wear. An­oth­er ma­tron on the Au­so­ni­an shore, When she shall be re­leased from earth­ly care, Men will among the blessed saints adore; With in­cense will ap­proach the dame di­vine, And hang with vo­tive im­ages her shrine.

LXV “The oth­ers I shall pass in si­lence by, For ’twere too much (as said be­fore) to sound Their fame: though each might well de­serve, that high Hero­ic trump should in her praise be wound. Hence the Bian­cas and Lu­cre­tias I And Con­stances and more re­serve; who found, Or else re­pair, up­on Ital­ian land, Il­lus­tri­ous hous­es with sup­port­ing hand.

LXVI “Thy race, which shall all else in this ex­cel, In the rare for­tune of its wom­en thrives; Nor of its daugh­ters’ hon­our more I tell Than of the lofty virtue of its wives: And that thou may’st take note of this as well, Which Mer­lin said of thy de­scen­dents’ lives, (Hap­ly that I the sto­ry might nar­rate) This I no lit­tle cov­et to re­late.

LXVII “Of good Richar­da first shall be my strain, Mir­ror of chasti­ty and for­ti­tude, Who, young, re­mains a wid­ow, in dis­dain Of for­tune: (that which oft awaits the good) Ex­iles, and cheat­ed of their fa­ther’s reign, She shall be­hold the chil­dren of her blood Wan­der­ing in­to the clutch­es of their foe; Yet find at last a quit­tance for her woe.

LXVI­II “Nor sprung from the an­cient root of Aragon, I of the gor­geous queen will silent be; Than whom more pru­dent or more chaste is none, Renowned in Greek or Latin his­to­ry; Nor who so for­tu­nate a course will run, Af­ter that, by di­vine elec­tion, she Shall with the good­ly race of princes swell, Alphon­so, Hyp­po­lite, and Is­abel.

LX­IX “The pru­dent Eleanour is this: a spray Which will be graft­ed on thy hap­py tree. What of the fruit­ful stepchild shall I say, Who in suc­ces­sion next to her I see, Lu­cre­tia Bor­gia? who, from day to day, Shall wax in beau­ty, virtue, chasti­ty, And for­tune, that like youth­ful plant will shoot, Which in­to yield­ing soil has struck its root.

LXX “As tin by sil­ver, brass by gold, as Corn- Pop­py be­side the deeply-​crim­son­ing rose, Wil­low by lau­rel ev­er­green, as shorn Of light, stained glass by gem that rich­ly glows, — So by this dame I hon­our yet un­born, Each hith­er­to dis­tin­guished ma­tron shows; For beau­ty and for pru­dence claim­ing place, And all praise-​wor­thy ex­cel­lence and grace.

LXXI “And above ev­ery oth­er no­ble praise, Which shall dis­tin­guished her alive or dead, Is that by her shall be, through king­ly ways, Her Her­cules and oth­er chil­dren led; Who thus the seeds of worth in ear­ly days, To bloom in coun­cil and in camp, will shed. For long wine’s savour lingers in the wood Of the new ves­sel, whether bad or good.

LXXII “Nor the step-​daugh­ter of this no­ble dame, Will I, Re­na­ta, hight of France, for­get, Of Louis born, twelfth monarch of his name, And Bre­tagne’s pride; all virtues ev­er yet Be­stowed on wom­an, since the rud­dy flame Has warmed, or wa­ter had the pow­er to wet, Or over­head the cir­cling heav­ens have rolled, Unit­ed in Re­na­ta I be­hold.

LXXI­II ” ‘Twere long to tell of Al­da de San­sogna, Or of Celano’s count­ess in this string, Or Blanche Maria, stiled of Cat­alo­nia; Or her, the daugh­ter of Si­cil­ia’s king, Or of the beau­teous Lip­pa de Bologna, Or more, with whose renown the world shall ring, To speak whose sep­arate praise with fit­ting lore, Were to at­tempt a sea with­out a shore.”

LXXIV When of the larg­er por­tion of her seed The king en­chantress at full ease had told, And oft and oft re­hearsed, amid the rede, What arts Rogero to the wiz­ard’s hold Had drawn, Melis­sa halt­ed near the mead Where stood the man­sion of At­lantes old, Nor would ap­proach the mag­ic dome more nigh, Lest her the false ma­gi­cian should es­py.

LXXV And yet again ad­vised the mar­tial maid, (Coun­sel she had a thou­sand times be­stowed) Then left, Nor Bradamant through green­wood shade More than two miles in nar­row path had rode, Be­fore, by two fierce gi­ants over­laid, She saw a knight, who like Rogero showed, So close­ly pressed, and labour­ing sore for breath, That he ap­peared well nigh re­duced to death.

LXXVI When she be­held him in such per­ilous strait, Who of Rogero all the to­kens wore, She quick­ly lost the faith she nour­ished late, Quick­ly her ev­ery fair de­sign for­bore. She weens Melis­sa bears Rogero hate, For some new in­jury un­heard be­fore: And with un­heard of hate and wrong, her foe Would by her hand de­stroy who loves him so.

LXXVII She cried, “And is not this Rogero, who Aye present to my heart, is now to sight? If ’tis not him whom I ag­nize and view. Whom e’er shall I ag­nize or view aright? Why should I oth­er’s judg­ment deem more true Than the be­lief that’s war­rant­ed by sight? Even with­out eyes, and by my heart alone, If he were near or dis­tant, would be shown.”

LXXVI­II While so the damsel thinks, a voice she hears, Which, like Rogero’s, seems for aid to cry; At the same time, the worsted knight ap­pears To slack the bri­dle and the row­els ply: While at full speed the goad­ed cours­er clears His ground, pur­sued by ei­ther en­emy. Nor paused the dame, in fol­low­ing them who sought His life, till to the en­chant­ed palace brought.

LXXIX Of which no soon­er has she past the door, Than she is cheat­ed by the com­mon show. Each crooked way or straight her feet ex­plore With­in it and with­out, above, be­low; Nor rests she night or day, so strong the lore Of the en­chanter, who has or­dered so, She (though they still en­counter and con­fer) Knows not Rogero, nor Rogero her.

LXXX But leave we Bradamant, nor grieve, O ye Who hear, that she is pris­oned by the spell, Since her in fit­ting time I shall set free, And good Rogero, from the dome as well, As taste is quick­ened by va­ri­ety, So it ap­pears that, in the things I tell, The wider here and there my sto­ry ranges, It will be found less te­dious for its changes.

LXXXI Meseems that I have many threads to clear In the great web I labour ev­er­more; And there­fore be ye not dis­pleased to hear How, all dis­lodged, the squadrons of the Moor, Threat­en­ing the gold­en lines loud, ap­pear In arms, the roy­al Agra­mant be­fore: Who bids for a re­view his army post, Will­ing to know the num­bers of his host.

LXXXII For be­sides horse and foot, in the cam­paign Sore thinned, whose num­bers were to be sup­plied, Had many cap­tains, and those good, of Spain, Of Libya, and of Aethiopia, died; And thus the na­tions, and the var­ious train, Wan­dered with­out a ruler or a guide. To give to each its head and or­der due, The am­ple camp is mus­tered in re­view.

LXXXI­II To fill the squadrons rav­aged by the sword, In those fierce bat­tles and those con­flicts dread, This to his Spain, to his Africa that lord, Sent to re­cruit, where well their files they fed; And next dis­tribut­ed the payn­im horde Un­der their prop­er cap­tains, ranged and led. I, with your leave, till oth­er strain, de­lay The or­der of the muster to dis­play.