Orlando Furioso

CANTO 15

AR­GU­MENT Round about Paris ev­ery where are spread The as­sail­ing hosts of Africa and Spain. As­tolpho home by Lo­gis­til­la sped, Binds first Calig­orantes with his chain; Next from Or­ri­lo’s trunk di­vides the head; With whom Sir Aquilant had warred in vain, And Gryphon bold: next San­sonet dis­cerns, Ill tid­ings of his la­dy Gryphon learns.

I Though Con­quest fruit of skill or for­tune be, To con­quer al­ways is a glo­ri­ous thing. ‘Tis true, in­deed, a bloody vic­to­ry Is to a chief less hon­our wont to bring; And that fair field is famed eter­nal­ly, And he who wins it mer­its wor­ship­ping, Who, sav­ing from all harm his own, with­out Loss to his fol­low­ers, puts the foe to rout.

II You, sir, earned wor­thy praise, when you o’er­bore The li­on of such might by sea, and so Did by him, where he guard­ed ei­ther shore From Fran­col­ino to the mouth of Po, That I, though yet again I heard him roar, If you were present, should my fear forego. How fields are fit­ly won was then made plain; For we were res­cued, and your foe­men slain.

III This was the Payn­im lit­tle skilled to do, Who was but dar­ing to his prop­er loss; And to the moat im­pelled his meiny, who One and all per­ished in the burn­ing fos­se. The mighty gulf had not con­tained the crew, But that, de­vour­ing those who sought to cross, Them in­to dust the flame re­duced, that room Might be for all with­in the crowd­ed tomb.

IV Of twen­ty thou­sand war­riors thith­er sent, Died nine­teen thou­sand in the fiery pit; Who to the fos­se de­scend­ed, ill con­tent; But so their lead­er willed, of lit­tle wit: Ex­tin­guished amid such a blaze, and spent By the de­vour­ing flame the Chris­tians lit. And Rodomont, oc­ca­sion of their woes, Ex­empt­ed from the mighty mis­chief goes:

V For he to the in­ner bank, by foes pos­sest, Across the ditch had vault­ed won­der­ous­ly: Had he with­in it been, among the rest, It sure had been his last as­sault. His eye He turns, and when the wild-​fires, which in­fest The in­fer­nal vale, he sees as­cend so high, And hears his peo­ple’s moan and dy­ing screams, With im­pre­ca­tions dread he Heav­en blas­phemes.

VI This while a band King Agra­mant had brought, To make a fierce as­sault up­on a gate: For while the cru­el bat­tle here was fought, Where­in so many suf­fer­ers met their fate, This hap­ly un­pro­vid­ed had he thought With fit­ting guard. Up­on the monarch wait King Bam­bi­ra­go, ‘mid his knights of price, And Baliv­er­so, sink of ev­ery vice.

VII And Corineus of Mul­ga, Pru­sion, The wealthy monarch of the blessed isles; Mal­abufer­zo, he who fills the throne Of Fez, where a per­pet­ual sum­mer smiles; And oth­er no­ble lords, and many a one Well-​armed and tried; and oth­ers ‘mid their files, Naked, and base, whose hearts in mar­tial fields Had found no shel­ter from a thou­sand shields.

VI­II But all things counter to the hopes en­sue Of Agra­mant up­on his side; with­in, In per­son, gird­ed by a gal­lant crew, Is Charle­magne, with many a pal­adin: Ogi­er the Duke, King Sala­mon, the two Gui­dos are seen, and ei­ther An­gelin; Bavaria’s duke, and Ganelon are here, Avi­no, Avo­lio, Otho, and Berlinghi­er.

IX And of in­fe­ri­or count with­al, a horde Of Lom­bards, French, and Ger­mans, with­out end; Who, ev­ery one, in pres­ence of his lord, To rank among the valiantest con­tend, This will I in an­oth­er place record; Who here a mighty duke per­force at­tend, Who signs to me from far, and prays that I Will not omit him in my his­to­ry.

X ‘Tis time that I should mea­sure back my way Thith­er, where I As­tolpho left of yore; Who, in long ex­ile, loathing more to stay, Burnt with de­sire to tread his na­tive shore; As hopes to him had giv­en the sober fay, Who quelled Al­ci­na by her bet­ter lore, She with all care would send the war­rior back By the se­curest and the freest track.

XI And thus by her a bar­que is fit­ted out; — A bet­ter gal­ley nev­er ploughed the sea; And Lo­gis­til­la wills, for aye in doubt Of hin­der­ance from Al­ci­na’s treach­ery, That good An­dron­ica, with squadron stout, And chaste Sophrosi­na, with him shall be, Till to the Ara­bi­an Sea, be­neath their care, Or to the Per­sian Gulf he safe re­pair.

XII By Scyth and In­di­an she prefers the peer Should coast, and by the Nabataean reign; Con­tent he, af­ter such a round, should veer For Per­sian gulf, or Erithraean main, Rather than for that Bo­re­al palace steer, Where an­gry winds aye vex the rude do­main: So ill, at sea­sons, favoured by the sun, That there, for months to­geth­er, light is none.

XI­II Next, when she all in readi­ness es­pied, Her li­cense to de­part the pru­dent fay Ac­cord­ed to the duke, first for­ti­fied With coun­sel as to things too long to say; And that he might no more by charms be stayed In place from whence he could not wend his way, Him with a use­ful book and fair pur­veyed, And ev­er for her love to wear it prayed.

XIV How man should guard him­self from mag­ic cheats The book in­struct­ed, which the fay be­stowed; At the end or the be­gin­ning, where it treats Of such, an in­dex and ap­pendix showed. An­oth­er gift, which in its good­ly feats All oth­er gifts ex­celled, to her he owed; This was a horn, which made what­ev­er wight Should hear its clang be­take him­self to flight.

XV I say, the horn is of such hor­rid sound, That, where­soe’er ’tis heard, all fly for fear; Nor in the world is one of heart so sound That would not fly, should he the bu­gle hear. Wind, thun­der, and the shock which rives the ground, Come not, in aught, the hideous clan­gour near. With thanks did the good En­glish­man re­ceive The gift, and of the fairy took his leave.

XVI Quit­ting the port and smoother waves, they stand To sea, with favour­ing wind which blows astern; And (coast­ing) round the rich and pop­ulous land Of odor­if­er­ous Ind the ves­sels turn, Open­ing a thou­sand isles on ei­ther hand, Scat­tered about that sea, till they dis­cern The land of Thomas; here the pi­lot veers His ready tiller, and more north­ward steers.

XVII As­tolpho, fur­row­ing that ocean hoar, Marks, as he coasts, the wealthy land at ease. Ganges amid the whiten­ing wa­ters roar, Nigh skirt­ing now the gold­en Cher­son­ese; Taprobana with Cori next, and sees The frith which chafes against its dou­ble shore; Makes dis­tant Cochin, and with favour­ing wind Is­sues be­yond the bound­aries of Ind.

XVI­II Scour­ing at large broad ocean, with a guide So faith­ful and se­cure, the cav­alier Ques­tions An­dron­ica, if from that side Named from the wes­ter­ing sun, of this our sphere, Bark, which with oars or can­vas stemmed the tide, On east­ern sea was wont­ed to ap­pear; — And could a wight, who loosed from In­di­an strand, Reach France or Britain, with­out touch­ing land.

XIX An­dron­ica to Eng­land’s duke replies: “Know that this earth is girt about with seas, And all to one an­oth­er yield sup­plies, Whether the cir­cling wa­ters boil or freeze: But, since the Aethiops’ land be­fore us lies, Ex­tend­ing south­ward many long de­grees. Across his wa­ters, some one has sup­posed A bar­ri­er here to Nep­tune in­ter­posed.

XX “Hence bark from this Lev­ant of Ind is none Which weighs, to shape her course for Eu­rope’s shore; Nor nav­igates from Eu­rope any one, Our Ori­en­tal re­gions to ex­plore; Fain to re­trace alike the course be­gun By the mid land, ex­tend­ing wide be­fore: Ween­ing (its lim­its of such length ap­pear) That it must join an­oth­er hemi­sphere.

XXI “But in the course of cir­cling years I view From far­thest lands which catch the west­ern ray, New Arg­onauts put forth, and Tiphys new Open­ing, till now an undis­cov­ered way. Oth­ers I see coast Afric, and pur­sue So far the ne­groes’ burn­ing shore, that they Pass the far sign, from whence, on his re­turn, The sun moves hith­er, leav­ing Capri­corn;

XXII “And find the lim­it of this length of land, Which makes a sin­gle sea ap­pear as two; Who, scour­ing in their frigates ev­ery strand, Pass Ind and Arab isles, or Per­sian through: Oth­ers I see who leave, on ei­ther hand, The banks, which stout Al­cides cleft in two, And in the man­ner of the cir­cling sun, To seek new lands and new cre­ations run.

XXI­II “The im­pe­ri­al flags and holy cross I know, Fixed on the ver­dant shore; see some up­on The shat­tered barks keep guard, and oth­ers go A-​field, by whom new coun­tries will be won; Ten chase a thou­sand of the fly­ing foe, Realms be­yond Ind sub­dued by Ar­ragon; And see all, where­soe’er the war­riors wend, To the fifth Charles’ tri­umphant cap­tains bend.

XXIV “That this way should be hid­den was God’s will Of old, and ere ’twas known long time should run; Nor will he suf­fer its dis­cov­ery, till The sixth and sev­enth cen­tu­ry be done. And he de­lays his pur­pose to ful­fil, In that he would sub­ject the world to one, The justest and most fraught with pru­dent lore Or em­per­ors, since Au­gus­tus, or be­fore.

XXV “Of Ar­ragon and Aus­tria’s blood I see On the left bank of Rhine a monarch bred; No sovereign is so famed in his­to­ry, Of all whose good­ly deeds are heard or read. As­traea reinthroned by him will be, — Rather re­stored to life, long seem­ing dead; And Virtues with her in­to ex­ile sent, By him shall be re­called from ban­ish­ment.

XXVI “For such desert, Heav­en’s boun­ty not alone De­signs he should the im­pe­ri­al gar­land bear, — Au­gus­tus’, Tra­jan’s, Mark’s, Severus’, crown; But that of ev­ery far­thest land should wear, Which here and there ex­tends, as yet un­known, Yield­ing no pas­sage to the sun and year; And wills that in his time Christ’s scat­tered sheep Should be one flock, be­neath one Shep­herd’s keep.

XXVII “And that this be ac­com­plished with more ease, Writ in the skies from all eter­ni­ty, Cap­tains, in­vin­ci­ble by lands and seas, Shall heav­en­ly Prov­idence to him sup­ply. I mark Her­nan­do Cortez bring, ‘mid these, New cities un­der Cae­sar’s dy­nasty, And king­doms in the Ori­ent so re­mote, That we of these in In­dia have no note.

XXVI­II “With Pros­pero Colon­na, puis­sant peer, A mar­quis of Pescara I be­hold; — A youth of Guas­to next, who ren­der dear Hes­pe­ria to the flow­er-​de-​luce of gold; I see pre­pared to en­ter the ca­reer This third, who shall the lau­rel win and hold; As a good horse be­fore the rest will dart, And first at­tain the goal, though last to start.

XXIX “I see such faith, such val­our in the deeds Of young Alphon­so (such his name) con­fest, He in his un­ripe age, — nor he ex­ceeds His sixth and twen­ti­eth year, — at Cae­sar’s hest, (A mighty trust) the im­pe­ri­al army leads: Sav­ing which, Cae­sar not alone the rest Of his fair em­pire saves, but may the world Re­duce, with en­signs by this chief un­furled.

XXX “As with these cap­tains, where the way by land Is free, he spreads the an­cient em­pire’s sway, So on the sea, which sev­ers Eu­rope’s strand From Afric, open to the south­ern day, When with good Do­ria linked in friend­ly band, Vic­to­ri­ous he shall prove in ev­ery fray. This is that An­drew Do­ria who will sweep From pi­rates, on all sides, your mid­land deep.

XXXI “Pom­pey, though he chased rovers ev­ery­where, Was not his peer; for ill the thievish brood Van­quished by him, in puis­sance, could com­pare With the most mighty realm that ev­er stood. But Do­ria singly will of the cor­sair With his own forces purge the briny flood: So that I see each con­ti­nent and isle Quake at his name, from Calpe to the Nile.

XXXII “Be­neath the faith, be­neath the war­rantry Of the re­doubt­ed chief, of whom I say, I see Charles en­ter fer­tile Italy, To which this cap­tain clears the monarch’s way; But on his coun­try, not him­self, that fee Shall he be­stow, which is his labour’s pay; And beg her free­dom, where him­self per­chance An­oth­er would to sovereign rule ad­vance.

XXXI­II “The pi­ous love he bears his na­tive land Hon­ours him more than any bat­tle’s gain Which Julius ev­er won on Afric’s strand, Or in thine isle, France, Thes­saly, or Spain. Nor great Oc­tavius does more praise com­mand, Nor An­tho­ny who joust­ed for the reign, With equal arms: in that the wrong out­weighs — Done to their na­tive land — their ev­ery praise.

XXXIV “Let these, and ev­ery oth­er wight who tries To sub­ject a free coun­try, blush for shame, Nor dare in face of man to lift his eyes, Where he hears An­drew Do­ria’s hon­oured name! To him I see Charles oth­er meed sup­plies; For he be­side his lead­ers’ com­mon claim, Be­stows up­on the chief the sump­tu­ous state, Whence Nor­man bands their pow­er in Puglia date.

XXXV “Not on­ly to this cap­tain cour­tesy Shall Charles dis­play, still lib­er­al of his store; But to all those who for the em­pery In his em­prizes have not spared their gore. Him to be­stow a town, — a realm — I see, Up­on a faith­ful friend, re­joic­ing more, And on all such as have good ser­vice done, Than in new king­dom and new em­pire won.”

XXXVI Thus of the vic­to­ries, by land and main, Which, when long course of years shall be com­plete, Charles’ wor­thy cap­tains for their lord will gain, An­dron­ica did with As­tolpho treat. This while, now loos­en­ing, tight­en­ing now, the rein On the east­ern winds, which blow up­on their feet, Mak­ing this serve or that, her com­rade stands; While the blasts rise or sink as she com­mands.

XXXVII This while they saw, as for their port they made, How wide the Per­sian sea ex­tends to sight; Whence in few days the squadron was con­veyed Nigh the famed gulf from an­cient Ma­gi hight; Here they found har­bourage; and here were stayed Their wan­der­ing barks, which stern to shore were dight. Se­cure from dan­ger from Al­ci­na’s wrath, The duke by land con­tin­ued hence his path.

XXXVI­II He pricks through many a field and for­est blind, By many a vale and many a moun­tain gray; Where rob­bers, now be­fore and now be­hind, Oft threat the peer by night or open day; Li­on and drag­on oft of poi­sonous kind, And oth­er sav­age mon­sters cross his way: But he no soon­er has his bu­gle wound, Than these are scared and scat­tered by the sound.

XXXIX Through Ara­by the blest he fares, where grow Thick­ets of myrrh, and gums odor­ous ooze, Where the sole phoenix makes her nest, al­though The world is all be­fore her where to choose; And to the aveng­ing sea which whelmed the foe Of Is­rael, his way the duke pur­sues; In which King Pharaoh and his host were lost: From whence he to the land of heroes crost.

XL As­tolpho along Tra­jan’s chan­nel goes, Up­on that horse which has no earth­ly peer, And moves so light­ly, that the soft sand shows No to­ken of the pass­ing cav­alier; Who prints not grass, prints not the driv­en snows, — Who dry-​shod would the briny bil­lows clear, And strains so nim­bly in the course, he wind And thun­der­bolt and ar­row leaves be­hind: –

XLI Erst Ar­galia’s cours­er, which was born From a close union of the wind and flame, And, nour­ished not by hay or heart­en­ing corn, Fed on pure air, and Ra­bi­can his name. His way the bear­er of the mag­ic horn Fol­low­ing, where Nile re­ceived that riv­er, came; But ere he at its out­let could ar­rive, To­wards him saw a pin­nace swift­ly drive.

XLII A her­mit in the poop the bark did guide With snowy beard de­scend­ing to mid breast; Who when from far the Pal­adin be spied, Him to as­cend his ready pin­nace prest. “My son, un­less thou loathest life, (he cried) And wouldst that Death to-​day thy course ar­rest, Con­tent thee in my bark to cross the wa­ter; For yon­der path con­ducts thee straight to slaugh­ter.

XLI­II “With­in six miles, no fur­ther, shalt thou light (Pur­sued the her­mit) on the bloody seat, Where dwells a gi­ant, hor­ri­ble to sight, Ex­ceed­ing ev­ery stature by eight feet. From him way­far­ing man or er­rant knight Would vain­ly hope with life to make re­treat; For some the felon quar­ters, some he flays, And some he swal­lows quick, and some he slays.

XLIV “He, ‘mid the cru­el hor­rors he in­tends, Takes plea­sure in a net, by cun­ning hands Con­trived, which near his man­sion he ex­tends; So well con­cealed be­neath the crum­bling sands, That whoso unin­struct­ed thith­er wends, Nought of the sub­tle mis­chief un­der­stands; And so the gi­ant scares him with his cries, That he with­in the toils in ter­ror flies;

XLV “Whom with loud laugh­ter, to his seat hard by He drags along, en­veloped in his snare; And knight and damsel views with equal eye, And for his pris­on­ers’ worth has lit­tle care. Then, hav­ing sucked their brains and life-​blood dry, Casts forth their bones up­on the desert lair; And round about his gries­ly palace pins, For hor­rid or­na­ment, their bloody skins.

XLVI “Take this, — my son, oh! take this oth­er way, Which thee will to the sea in safe­ty guide.” “I thank thee, holy fa­ther, for thy say, (To him the fear­less cav­alier replied) But can­not per­il against hon­our weigh, Far dear­er than my life. To the oth­er side Me vain­ly dost thou move to pass the wave; Rather for this I seek the gi­ant’s cave.

XLVII “I with dis­hon­our life to flight may owe; But worse than death loath thus to save my head. The worst that can be­fall me if I go, Is I my blood shall with the oth­ers shed: But if on me such mer­cy God be­stow, That I re­main alive, the gi­ant dead, Se­cure for thou­sands shall I make the ways; So that the greater good the risque o’er­pays.

XLVI­II “I per­il but the sin­gle life of one Against safe­ty of the count­less rest.” — “Go then in peace,” (the oth­er said). “my son, And to thy suc­cour, form among the blest, May God dis­patch the Archangel Michael down.” — And him, with that, the sim­ple her­mit blest. As­tolpho pricks along Nile’s rosy strand, More in his horn con­fid­ing than his brand.

XLIX Be­tween the mighty riv­er and the fen, A path up­on the sandy shore doth lie, Barred by the gi­ant’s soli­tary den Cut off from con­verse with hu­man­ity. About it heads and naked limbs of men Were fixed, the vic­tims of his cru­el­ty. Win­dow or bat­tle­ments was not, whence strung Might not be seen some wretched pris­on­er hung.

L As in hill-​farm or cas­tle, fenced with moat, The hunter, mind­ful what his dan­gers were, Aye fas­tens on his door the shag­gy coat And hor­rid paws and mon­strous head of bear; So showed the gi­ant those of great­est note, Who, thith­er brought, had per­ished in his snare. The bones of count­less oth­ers wide were spread, And ev­ery ditch with hu­man blood was red.

LI Calig­orant was stand­ing at the gate (For so was the de­spi­teous mon­ster hight); Who decked his house with corpses, as for state Some theirs with cloth of gold and scar­let dight. He scarce con­tained him­self for joy, so great His plea­sure, when the duke ap­peared in sight; For ’twas two months com­plete, a third was near, Since by that road had past a cav­alier.

LII To­wards the mar­ish, where green rush­es grow, He hastes, in­tend­ing from that covert blind To dou­ble on his un­sus­pect­ing foe, And is­sue on the cav­alier be­hind: For him to drive in­to the net, be­low The sand, the gries­ly gi­ant had de­signed; As oth­ers trapt he had been wont to see, Brought thith­er by their evil des­tiny.

LI­II When him the wary pal­adin es­pied, He stopt his cours­er, not with­out great heed, Lest he in­to the covert snare might tide, Fore­warned of this by the good her­mit’s rede. Here to his horn for suc­cour he ap­plied, Nor failed its wont­ed virtue in this need: It smote the gi­ant’s heart with such af­fright, That he turned back, and home­ward fled out­right.

LIV As­tolpho blew, still watch­ful of sur­prise, Ween­ing to see the en­gine sprung: fast flew The gi­ant, — as if heart as well as eyes The thief had lost, — nor whith­er­ward he knew: Such is his fear, he kens not as he flies, How is own covert mis­chief to es­chew: He runs in­to the net, which clos­ing round, Ham­pers the wretch, and drags him to the ground.

LV As­tolpho, who be­holds his bulky prey Fall bod­ily, drives thith­er at full speed, Se­cure him­self, and, bent — to make him pay The price of slaugh­tered thou­sands — quits his steed. Yet af­ter, deems a help­less wight to slay No val­our were, but rather foul mis­deed: For him, arms, neck, and feet, so close­ly tied, He could not shake him­self, the war­rior spied.

LVI With sub­tle thread of steel had Vul­can wrought The net of old, and with such cun­ning pain, He, who to break its weak­est mesh had sought, Would have be­stowed his time and toil in vain. It was with this he Mars and Venus caught, Who, hands and feet, were fet­tered by the chain: Nor did the jeal­ous hus­band weave the thread For aught, but to sur­prise that pair in bed.

LVII Mer­cury from the smith con­veyed the prize, Want­ing to take young Chlo­ris in the snare; Sweet Chlo­ris, who be­hind Au­ro­ra flies, At rise of sun, through fields of liq­uid air, And from her gath­ered gar­ment, through the skies, Scat­ters the vi­olet, rose, and lily fair. He for this nymph his toils so deft­ly set, One day, in air he took her with the net.

LVI­II The nymph (it seems) was tak­en as she flew, Where the great Aethiop riv­er meets the brine: The net was trea­sured in Cano­pus, through Suc­ces­sive ages, in Anu­bis’ shrine. Af­ter three thou­sand years, Calig­orant drew The sa­cred relict from the palace di­vine: Whence with the net the im­pi­ous thief re­turned, Who robbed the tem­ple and the city burned,

LIX He fixed it here, be­neath the sandy plain, In mode, that all the trav­ellers whom he chased Ran in­to it, and the en­gine was with pain Touched, ere it arms, and feet, and neck em­braced. From this the good As­tolpho took a chain, And with the gyve his hands be­hind him laced: His arms and breast he swad­dled in such guise, He could not loose him­self; then let him rise.

LX Af­ter, his oth­er knots un­fas­ten­ing, (For he was turned more gen­tle than a maid) As­tolpho, as a show, the thief would bring, By city, bor­ough-​town, and farm con­veyed; The net as well; than which no quain­ter thing Was ev­er by the file and ham­mer made. On him, like sumpter-​nag he laid the load, In tri­umph led, be­hind him, on his road.

LXI Him helm and shield he gives alike to bear, As to a valet; hence pro­ceeds the peer, Glad­den­ing the fear­ful pil­grim ev­ery where, Who joys to think, hence­forth his way is clear. So far an end does bold As­tolpho fare, He is to Mem­phis’ tombs al­ready near, — Mem­phis renowned for pyra­mids; in sight, He marks the pop­ulous Cairo op­po­site.

LXII Ran all the peo­ple in tu­mul­tuous tide, To see him drag the un­mea­sured wight along. “How can it be,” (each to his fel­low cried) “That one so weak could mas­ter one so strong?” Scarce can As­tolpho put the press aside, So close from ev­ery part their num­bers throng; While all ad­mire him as a cav­alier Of mighty worth, and make him good­ly cheer.

LXI­II Then Cairo was not such, as com­mon cry Pro­nounces in our age that cost­ly seat; — That eigh­teen thou­sand dis­tricts ill sup­ply Lodg­ing to those who in her mar­kets meet; — And though the hous­es are three sto­ries high, Num­bers are forced to sleep in the open street; And that the sol­dan has a palace there Of won­der­ous size, and pass­ing rich and fair;

LX­IV And there­in (Chris­tian rene­ga­does all) Keeps fif­teen thou­sand vas­sals, for his needs, Be­neath one roof sup­plied with bow­er and stall, Them­selves, and wives, and fam­ilies, and steeds. The duke de­sired to see the riv­er’s fall, And how far Nile in­to the sea pro­ceeds. At Dami­et­ta; where way­far­ing wight, He heard, was pris­on­er made or slain out­right.

LXV For at Nile’s out­let there, be­side his bed, A stur­dy thief was shel­tered in a tow­er, Alike the na­tive’s and the stranger’s dread, Wont even to Cairo’s gate the road to scow­er. Him no one could re­sist, and, it was said, That man to slay the felon had no pow­er. A hun­dred thou­sand wounds he had in strife Re­ceived, yet none could ev­er take his life.

LXVI To see if he could break the thread which tied The felon’s life, up­on his way the knight Set for­ward, and to Dami­et­ta hied, To find Or­ri­lo, so the thief was hight; Thence to the riv­er’s out­let past, and spied The stur­dy cas­tle on the mar­gin dight; Har­boured in which the en­chant­ed de­mon lay, The fruit of a hob­gob­lin and a fay.

LXVII He here Or­ri­lo and two knights in mail Found at fierce strife: the two ill held their own Against him; so Or­ri­lo did as­sail The war­like pair, al­though him­self alone; And how much ei­ther might in arms avail, Fame through the uni­ver­sal world had blown. Of Oliviero’s seed was ei­ther plant; Gryphon the white, and sable Aquilant.

LXVI­II The necro­mancer had this while (to say The truth) with van­tage on his side, be­gun The fight, who brought a mon­ster to the fray, Found on­ly in those parts, and wont to won Ashore or un­der wa­ter, and to prey, For food, on hu­man bod­ies; feed­ing on Poor mariners and trav­el­ling men, who fare, Of the im­pend­ing dan­ger, un­aware.

LX­IX The mon­ster, slaugh­tered by the brethren two, Up­on the sand be­side the haven lies; And hence no wrong they to Or­ri­lo do, As­sail­ing him to­geth­er in this guise. Him they dis­mem­bered of­ten and not slew: Now he, — be­cause dis­mem­bered, — ev­er dies; For he re­places leg or hand like wax, Which the good faul­chion from his body hacks.

LXX Gryphon and Aquilant by turns di­vide, Now to the teeth, now breast, the en­chant­ed wight. The fruit­less blow Or­ri­lo does de­ride, While the two baf­fled war­riors rage for spite. Let him who falling sil­ver has es­pied (Which mer­cury by alchymists is hight) Scat­ter, and re­unite each bro­ken mem­ber, Hear­ing my tale, what he has seen re­mem­ber.

LXXI If the thief’s head be sev­ered by the pair, He lights and stag­gers till he finds it; now Up­tak­en by the nose or by the hair, And fas­tened to the neck, I know not how. This some­times Gryphon takes, and whirled through air, Whelms in the stream; but boot­less is the throw: For like a fish can fierce Or­ri­lo swim; And safe­ly, with the head, re­gains the brim.

LXXII Two ladies, meet­ly clad in fair ar­ray, One damsel was in black and one in white, And who had been the oc­ca­sion of that fray, Stood by to gaze up­on the cru­el fight: Ei­ther of these was a be­nig­nant fay, Whose care had nour­ished one and the oth­er knight, Oliv­er’s chil­dren; when the babes for­lorn They from the claws of two huge birds had torn.

LXXI­II Since, from Gis­mon­da they had these con­veyed, Borne to a dis­tance from their na­tive sky. But more to say were need­less, since dis­plaid To the whole world has been their his­to­ry. Though the au­thor has the fa­ther’s name mis-​said; One for an­oth­er (how I know not, I) Mis­tak­ing. Now this fear­ful strife the pair Of war­riors waged at both the ladies’ prayer.

LXXIV Though it was noon in the hap­py is­lands, day Had van­ished in this clime, dis­placed by night; And, un­der­neath the moon’s un­cer­tain ray, And ill-​dis­cerned, were all things hid from sight; When to the fort Or­ri­lo took his way. Since both the sable sis­ter and the white Were pleased the fu­ri­ous bat­tle to de­fer, Till a new sun should in the hori­zon stir.

LXXV The duke, who by their en­signs, and yet more Had by the sight of many a vig­or­ous blow, Gryphon and Aquilant long time be­fore Ag­nized, to greet the brethren was not slow: And they, who in the peer, vic­to­ri­ous o’er The gi­ant, whom he led a cap­tive, know The BARON OF THE PARD, (so styled at court) Him to salute, with no less love re­sort.

LXXVI The ladies to re­pose the war­riors led To a fair palace near, their sump­tu­ous seat: Thence is­su­ing court­ly squire and damsel sped, Them with lit torch­es in mid-​way to meet. Their good­ly steeds they quit, there well best­ed, Put off their arms, and in a gar­den sweet Dis­cern the ready sup­per du­ly laid Fast by, where a re­fresh­ing foun­tain played.

LXXVII Here they bid bind the gi­ant on the green, Fast-​teth­ered by a strong and weighty chain To a tough oak, whose an­cient trunk they ween May well be proof against a sin­gle strain; With that, by ten good ser­jeants over­seen, Lest he by night get loose, and so the train As­sault and hap­ly harm; while care­less they With­out a guard and un­sus­pect­ing lay.

LXXVI­II At the abun­dant and most sump­tu­ous board, With cost­ly viands (its least plea­sure) fraught, The longest top­ic for dis­course af­ford Or­ri­lo’s prowess, and the mar­vel wrought; For head or arm dis­sev­ered by the sword, They (who up­on the re­cent won­der thought) Might think a dream to see him re-​unite, And but re­turn more fu­ri­ous to the fight.

LXXIX As­tolpho in his book had found ex­prest (That which pre­scribed a rem­edy for spell) How he who of one hair de­prived the pest On­ly could him in bat­tle hope to quell: But this plucked out or sheared, he from his breast Par­force the felon’s spir­it would ex­pell. So says the vol­ume; but in­structs not where, ‘Mid locks so thick­ly set, to find the hair.

LXXX The duke no less with hope of con­quest glows Than if the palm he has al­ready won; As he that hopes with small ex­pense of blows To pluck the hair, the wiz­ard-​wight un­done. Hence does he to the youth­ful pair pro­pose The bur­den of that en­ter­prize up­on Him­self to take: Or­ri­lo will he slay, If the two brethren nought the in­tent gain­say,

LXXXI But will­ing­ly to him these yield the em­prize, As­sured his toil will be be­stowed in vain; And now a new Au­ro­ra climbs the skies, And from his walls Or­ri­lo on the plain Drops, — and the strife be­gins — Or­ri­lo plies The mace, the duke the sword; he ‘mid a rain Of strokes would from the body at one blow Di­vorce the spir­it of the en­chant­ed foe:

LXXXII To­geth­er with the mace he lops the fist; And now this arm, now the oth­er falls to ground; Some­times he cleaves the corslet’s iron twist, And piece­meal shares and maims the felon round. Or­ri­lo re-​unites the por­tions missed, Found on the cham­pagne, and again is sound: And, though in­to a hun­dred frag­ments hewed, As­tolpho sees him, in a thought, re­newed.

LXXXI­II Af­ter a thou­sand blows, As­tolpho sped One stroke, above the shoul­ders and be­low The chin, which lopt away both helm and head: Nor lights the duke less swift­ly than his foe. Then grasps the hair de­filed with gore and red, Springs in a mo­ment on his horse, and lo! Up-​stream with it along Nile’s mar­gin hies, So that the thief can­not re­take the prize.

LXXXIV That fool, who had not marked the war­rior’s feat, Was search­ing in the dust to find his head; But when he heard the charg­er in re­treat, Who through the for­est with the plun­der fled, Leapt quick­ly in­to his own cours­er’s seat, And in pur­suit of bold As­tolpho sped. Fain had Or­ri­lo shout­ed “Ho­la! stay!” But that the duke had borne his mouth away:

LXXXV Yet pleased As­tolpho had not in like guise Borne off his heels, pur­sues with flow­ing rein. Him Ra­bi­can, who mar­vel­lous­ly flies, Dis­tances by a mighty length of plain. This while the wiz­ard’s head As­tolpho eyes From poll to front, above the eye­brows twain, Search­ing, in haste, if he the hair can see Which makes Or­ri­lo’s im­mor­tal­ity.

LXXXVI Amid in­nu­mer­able locks, no hair Straiter or crisper than the rest was seen. How then should good As­tolpho, in his care To slay the thief, so many choose be­tween? “To cut them all (he said) it bet­ter were.” And since he scis­sors lacked and ra­zor keen, He want­ing these, re­sort­ed to his glaive, Which cut so well, it might be said to shave.

LXXXVII And, hold­ing, by the nose, the sev­ered head, Close-​sheared it all, be­hind and eke be­fore. He found, among the rest, the fa­tal thread. Then pale be­came the vis­age, chang­ing sore, Turned up its eyes, and sig­nals sore and dread Of the last agony of na­ture wore; And the head­less body seat­ed in the sell, Shud­dered its last, and from the cours­er fell.

LXXXVI­II The duke re­turns where he the cham­pi­ons two And dames had left, the tro­phy in his hand, Which man­ifests of death the to­kens true; And shows the dis­tant body on the sand. I know not if they this with plea­sure view, Though him they wel­come with de­meanour bland: For the in­ter­cept­ed vic­to­ry might pain Per­chance in­flict up­on the en­vy­ing twain.

LXXXIX Nor do I think that ei­ther gen­tle fay With plea­sure could that bat­tle’s is­sue see: Since those kind dames, be­cause they would de­lay The dole­ful fate which short­ly was to be In France the brethren’s lot, had in that fray With fierce Or­ri­lo matched the war­riors free; And so to oc­cu­py the pair had cast, Till the sad in­flu­ence of the skies were past.

XC When to the castel­lan was cer­ti­fied In Dami­et­ta, that the thief was dead, He loosed a car­ri­er pi­geon, hav­ing tied Be­neath her wing a let­ter by a thread. She went to Cairo; and, to scat­ter wide The news, an­oth­er from that town was sped (Such is the us­age there); so, Egypt through, In a few hours the joy­ful tid­ings flew.

XCI As he had brought the ad­ven­ture to an end, The duke now sought the no­ble youths to stir, (Though of them­selves that way their wish­es tend, Nor they to whet that pur­pose need the spur) That they the Church from out­rage to de­fend, And rights of Charles, the Ro­man Em­per­or, Would cease to war up­on that East­ern strand, And would seek hon­our in their na­tive land.

XCII Gryphon and Aquilant thus bid adieu, One and the oth­er, to his la­dy fair; Who, though it sore­ly trou­bled them, ill knew How to re­sist the wish­es of the pair. The duke, to­geth­er with the war­like two, Turns to the right, re­solved to wor­ship, where God erst in­car­nate dwelt, the holy places, Ere he to cher­ished France his way re­traces.

XCI­II The war­riors to the left-​hand might in­cline, As plain­er and more full of pleas­ant cheer, Where still along the sea ex­tends their line; But take the right-​hand path, abrupt and drear; Since the chief city of all Pales­tine, By six days’ jour­ney, is, through this, more near. Wa­ter there is along this rugged track, And grass; all oth­er need­ful mat­ters lack.

XCIV So that, be­fore they en­ter on their road, All that is need­ful they col­lect, and lay Up­on the gi­ant’s back the bulky load, Who could a tow­er up­on his neck con­vey. The Holy Land a moun­tain-​sum­mit showed, At fin­ish­ing their rough and sal­vage way; Where HEAV­EN­LY LOVE a will­ing of­fer­ing stood, And washed away our er­rors with his blood.

XCV They, at the en­trance of the city, view A gen­tle stripling; and in him the three Ag­nize Sir San­sonet of Mec­ca, who Was, in youth’s flow­er, for sovereign chival­ry, For sovereign good­ness, famed the coun­try through, And wise be­yond his years: from pa­gan­ry Con­vert­ed by Or­lan­do to the truth, Who had, with his own hands, bap­tized the youth.

XCVI De­sign­ing there a for­ti­lage, in front Of Egypt’s caliph they the war­rior found; And with a wall two miles in length, the mount Of Cal­vary in­tend­ing to sur­round. Re­ceived with such a coun­te­nance, as is wont To be of in­ward love the surest ground, Them he con­duct­ed to his roy­al home, And, with all com­fort, har­boured in the dome.

XCVII As deputy, the saint­ed land he swayed, Con­ferred on him by Charle­magne, in trust, To him the En­glish duke a present made Of that so stur­dy and un­mea­sured beast, That it ten draught horse bur­dens had con­veyed; So mon­strous was the gi­ant, and next gave The net, in which he took the un­wieldy slave.

XCVI­II In quit­tance, San­sonet, his sword to bear, Gave a rich gir­dle to As­tolpho bold, And spurs for ei­ther heel, a cost­ly pair, With buck­lers and with row­els made of gold; Which (’twas be­lieved) the war­rior’s re­licts were, Who freed the damsel from that drag­on old; Spoils, which Sir San­sonet, with many more, From Jop­pa, when he took the city, bore

XCIX Cleansed of their er­rors in a monastery, From whence the odour of good works up­went, They of Christ’s pas­sion ev­ery mys­tery Con­tem­plat­ing, through all the church­es went; Which now, to our eter­nal in­famy, Foul Moor usurp; what time on strife in­tent, All Eu­rope rings with arms and mar­tial deeds, And war is ev­ery­where but where it needs.

C While grace the war­like three de­vout­ly sought, In­tent on par­don and on pi­ous lore, A Gre­cian pil­grim, known to Gryphon, brought Tid­ings, which ill the af­flict­ed cham­pi­on bore, From his long-​cher­ished vow and for­mer thought, Too for­eign, too re­mote; and these so sore In­flamed his trou­bled breast, and bred such care, They whol­ly turned aside his mind from prayer.

CI For his mis­for­tune, one of love­ly fea­ture Sir Gryphon wor­shipped, Orig­illa hight. Of fair­er vis­age and of bet­ter stature, Not one among a thou­sand meets the sight: But faith­less, and of such an evil na­ture, That thou mightst town and city search out­right, And con­ti­nent and is­land, far and near, Yet, nev­er, as I think, wouldst find her peer.

CII In Con­stan­tine’s im­pe­ri­al city, burned With a fierce fever, he had left the fair; And hoped to find her, to that place re­turned, Love­li­er than ev­er; and en­joy her there. But she to An­ti­och (as the war­rior learned) Had with an­oth­er le­man made re­pair; Think­ing, while such fresh youth was yet her own, ‘Twere not a thing to brook — to sleep alone.

CI­II Sir Gryphon, from the time he heard the news Had ev­er­more be­moaned him, day or night: What­ev­er plea­sure oth­er wight pur­sues Seems but the more to vex his trou­bled sprite. Let each re­flect, who to his mis­chief woos, How keen­ly tem­pered are Love’s darts of might, And, heav­ier than all ills, the tor­ment fell, In that he was ashamed his grief to tell.

CIV This: for that Aquilant had oft be­fore Re­proved him for the pas­sion which he nursed, And sought to ban­ish her from his heart’s core; — Her, who of all bad wom­en is the worst, He still had cen­sured, in his wis­er lore, If by his broth­er Aquilant ac­curst, Her Gryphon, in his par­tial love, ex­cus­es, For most­ly self-​con­ceit our sense abus­es.

CV It there­fore is his pur­pose, with­out say To Aquilant, alone to take the quest As far as An­ti­och, and bear her away, Who had borne off his heart-​core from his breast: To find him, who had made the dame his prey, And take such vengeance of him, ere he rest, As shall for aye be told. My next will tell How he ef­fect­ed this, and what be­fell.