Orlando Furioso

CANTO 16

AR­GU­MENT Gryphon finds traitorous Orig­illa nigh Dam­as­cus city, with Mar­tano vile. Slaugh­tered the Sara­cens and Chris­tians lie By thou­sands and by thou­sands heaped this while; And if the Moor out­side of Paris die, With­in the Sarzan so de­stroys each pile, Such slaugh­ter deals, that greater ill than this Nev­er be­fore has been ex­prest, I wiss.

I Love’s penal­ties are man­ifold and dread: Of which I have en­dured the greater part, And, to my cost, in these so well am read, That I can speak of them as ’twere my art. Hence if I say, or if I ev­er said, (Did speech or liv­ing page my thoughts im­part) “One ill is grievous and an­oth­er light.” Yield me be­lief, and deem my judg­ment right.

II I say, I said, and, while I live, will say, “He, who is fet­tered by a wor­thy chain, Though his de­sire his la­dy should gain­say, And, ev­ery way averse, his suit dis­dain; Though Love de­prive him of all praised pay, Af­ter long time and trou­ble spent in vain, He, if his heart be placed well worthi­ly, Needs not lament though he should waste and die.”

III Let him lament, who plays a slav­ish part, Whom two bright eyes and love­ly tress­es please: Be­neath which beau­ties lurks a wan­ton heart With lit­tle that is pure, and much of lees. The wretch would fly; but bears in him a dart, Like wound­ed stag, whichev­er way he flees; Dares not con­fess, yet can­not quench, his flame, And of him­self and worth­less love has shame.

IV The youth­ful Gryphon finds him in this case, Who sees the er­ror which he can­not right; He sees how vile­ly he his heart does place On faith­less Orig­ille, his vain de­light: Yet evil use doth sovereign rea­son chase, And free will is sub­dued by ap­petite. Though a foul mind the la­dy’s ac­tions speak, Her, where­soe’er she is, must Gryphon seek.

V Re­sum­ing the fair his­to­ry, I say, Out of the city he in se­cret rode; Nor to his broth­er would his plan be­wray, Who oft on him had vain re­proof be­stowed: But to the left t’wards Ramah shaped his way, By the most lev­el and most easy road. Him six days’ jour­ney to Dam­as­cus brought, Whence, set­ting out anew, he An­ti­och sought.

VI He nigh Dam­as­cus met the lover, who Per­fid­ious Orig­illa’s heart pos­sest, And matched in evil cus­toms were the two, Like stalk and flow­er: for that in ei­ther’s breast Was lodged a fick­le heart; the dame un­true, And he a traitor whom she loved the best. While both the lovers hid their na­ture base, To oth­ers’ cost, be­neath a cour­te­ous face.

VII As I re­late to you, the cav­alier Came on huge cours­er, trapped with mick­le pride; With faith­less Orig­ille, in gor­geous gear, With gold em­broi­dered, and with azure dyed. Two ready knaves, who serve the war­rior, rear The knight­ly helm and buck­ler at his side; As one who with fair pomp and sem­blance went To­wards Dam­as­cus, to a tour­na­ment.

VI­II Dam­as­cus’ king a splen­did fes­ti­val Had in these days bid solemn­ly pro­claim; And with what pomp they could, up­on his call, Thith­er, in shin­ing arms, the cham­pi­ons came. At Gryphon’s sight the har­lot’s spir­its fall, Who fears that he will work her scathe and shame; And knows her lover has not force and breath To save her from Sir Gryphon, threat­en­ing death;

IX But like most cun­ning and au­da­cious quean, Al­though she quakes from head to foot with fear, Her voice so strength­ens, and so shapes her mien, That in her face no signs of dread ap­pear, Hav­ing al­ready made her le­man ween The trick de­vised, she feigns a joy­ous cheer, To­wards Sir Gryphon goes, and for long space Hangs on his neck, fast-​locked in her em­brace.

X She, af­ter suit­ing with much suavi­ty The ac­tion to the word, sore weep­ing, cried: “Dear lord, is this the guer­don due to me, For love and wor­ship? that I should abide Alone one live long year, de­prived of thee, — A sec­ond near — and, yet up­on thy side No grief? — and had I borne for thee to stay, I know not if I should have seen that day.

XI “When I from Nicosia thee ex­pect­ed (When thou wast jour­ney­ing to the ple­nar court) To cheer me, — left with fever sore in­fect­ed, And in the dread of death, — I heard re­port That thou wast gone to Syr­ia; and de­ject­ed By that ill tid­ing, suf­fered in such sort, I, all un­able to pur­sue thy quest, Had nigh with this right hand trans­fixt my breast.

XII “But for­tune, by her dou­ble boun­ty, shows She guards me more than thou: me to con­vey She sent my broth­er here, who with me goes, My hon­our safe in his pro­tect­ing stay; And this en­counter with thee now be­stows, Which I above all oth­er bless­ings weigh, And in good time; for hadst thou longer stayed, My lord, I should have died of hope de­layed.”

XI­II The wicked wom­an, full of sub­tle­ty (Worse than a fox in crafty hardi­hood) Pur­sues, and so well shapes her his­to­ry, She whol­ly throws the blame on Gryphon good; Makes him be­lieve that oth­er not to be Her kin alone, but of her flesh and blood, Got by one fa­ther; — and so puts up­on The knight, that he less cred­its Luke and John.

XIV Nor he the fraud of her, more false than fair, On­ly for­bore with just re­proach to pay; Nor on­ly did the threat­ened stranger spare, Who was the lover of that la­dy gay; But deemed to ex­cuse him­self suf­fi­cient were, Turn­ing some por­tion of the blame away; And as the re­al broth­er she pro­fest, Un­ceas­ing­ly the la­dy’s knight carest;

XV And to Dam­as­cus, with the cav­alier Re­turned, who to Sir Gryphon made re­port, That Syr­ia’s wealthy king, with sump­tu­ous cheer, With­in that place would hold a splen­did court; And who, bap­tized or in­fi­del, ap­pear There at his tour­ney (of what­ev­er sort), With­in the city and with­out, as­sures From wrong, for all the time the feast en­dures.

XVI Yet I of Orig­illa’s treach­ery Shall not so stead­fast­ly pur­sue the lore, Who, famed not for one sin­gle per­fidy, Thou­sands and thou­sands had be­trayed be­fore, But that I will re­turn again to see Two hun­dred thou­sand wretched men or more Burnt by the rag­ing wild-​fire, where they spread, About the walls of Paris, scathe and dread.

XVII I left you where king Agra­mant pre­pared To storm a gate, and to the as­sault was gone: This he had hoped to find with­out a guard; And work else­where to bar the way was none. For there, in per­son, Charles kept watch and ward With many, prac­tised war­riors ev­ery one; Two An­ge­lines, two Gui­dos, An­ge­li­er, Avi­no, Avo­lio, Otho, and Berlinghi­er.

XVI­II One and the oth­er host its worth, be­fore Charles and king Agra­mant, de­sire to show, Where praise, where rich­es are, they think, in store For those that do their du­ty on the foe. But such were not the atchieve­ments of the Moor As to re­pair the loss; for, to his woe, Full many a Sara­cen the cham­paign prest; Whose fol­ly was a bea­con to the rest.

XIX The fre­quent darts a storm of hail ap­pear, Which from the city-​wall the Chris­tians fling; The deaf­en­ing clam­ours put the heav­ens in fear, Which, from our part, and from that oth­er, ring. But Charles and Agra­mant must wait; for here I of the Mars of Africa will sing, King Rodomont, that fierce and fear­ful man, That through the mid­dle of the city ran.

XX I know not, sir, if you the ad­ven­ture dread Of that so dar­ing Moor to mind re­call, The lead­er, who had left his peo­ple dead, Be­tween the sec­ond work and out­er wall; Up­on those limbs the raven­ing fire so fed, Was nev­er sight more sad! — I told with­al, How vault­ing o’er that hin­drance at a bound, He cleared the moat which girt the city round.

XXI When he was known the thick­en­ing crowd among, By the strange arms he wore and scaly hide, There, where the aged sires and fee­bler throng. Lis­tened to each new tale on ev­ery side; Heav­en-​high groan, moan, and lamen­ta­tion rung, And loud they beat their lift­ed palms and cried: While those who had the strength to fly aloof, Sought safe­ty not from house or tem­ple’s roof.

XXII But this the cru­el sword con­cedes to few, So bran­dished by that Sara­cen ro­bust; And here, with half a leg dis­sev­ered, flew A foot, there head di­vid­ed from the bust: This cleft across, and that be­hold him hew, From head to hips, so strong the blow and just. While, of the thou­sands wound­ed by the Moor, Is none that shows an hon­est scar be­fore.

XXI­II What by weak herd, in fields of Hir­cany, The tiger does, or In­di­an Ganges near, Or wolf, by lamb or kid, on heights which lie On Ty­pheus’ back, the cru­el cav­alier Now ex­ecutes on those, I will not, I Call pha­lanx­es or squadrons, but a mere Rab­ble, that I should term a race for­lorn, Who but de­served to die ere they were born.

XXIV Of all he cuts, and thrusts, and maims, and bleeds, There is not one who looks him in the face. Through­out that street, which in a straight line leads Up to St. Michael’s bridge, so thronged a space, Rodomont, ter­ri­ble and fear­ful, speeds, Whirling his bloody brand, nor grants he grace, In his ca­reer, to ser­vant or to lord; And saint and sin­ner feel alike the sword.

XXV Re­li­gion can­not for the priest be­speak Mer­cy, nor in­no­cence avail the child: Nor gen­tly beam­ing eyes, nor ver­meil cheek, Pro­tect the bloom­ing dame or damsel mild. Age smites its breast and flies: while bent to wreak Vengeance, the Sara­cen, with gore de­filed, Shows not his val­our more than cru­el rage, Heed­less alike of or­der, sex, and age.

XXVI Nor the im­pi­ous king alone with hu­man blood, — Lord of the im­pi­ous he — his hand dis­tains, But even on walls so sore­ly vents his mood, He fires fair hous­es, and pol­lut­ed fanes. The hous­es al­most all were made of wood, Then (as ’tis told) and this, by what re­mains, May be be­lieved; for yet in Paris we Six out of ten no bet­ter build­ed see.

XXVII Though flames de­mol­ish all things far and wide, This ill ap­pears his fu­ri­ous hate to slake: Where’er the payn­im has his hands ap­plied, He tum­bles down a roof at ev­ery shake. My lord, be­lieve, you nev­er yet es­pied Bom­bard in Pad­ua, of so large a make, That it could rend from wall of bat­tered town What, at a sin­gle pull, the king plucked down.

XXVI­II While the ac­cursed man, amid the rout, So warred with fire and sword, if at his post, King Agra­mant had prest it from with­out, The am­ple city had that day been lost. But he was hin­dered by the war­rior stout, Who came from Eng­land with the ad­vanc­ing host, Com­posed of En­glish and of Scotch al­lied, With Si­lence and the An­gel for their guide.

XXIX It was God’s will, that while through town and tow­er The fu­ri­ous Rodomont such ru­in spread, Thith­er ar­rived Ri­nal­do, Cler­mont’s flow­er. Three leagues above, he o’er the riv­er’s bed Had cast a bridge; from whence his En­glish pow­er To the left-​hand by crooked ways he led; That, mean­ing to as­sail the bar­barous foes, The stream no ob­sta­cle might in­ter­pose.

XXX Ri­nal­do had, with Ed­ward, sent a force, Six thou­sand strong, of archer in­fantry, And sped, with Ari­man, two thou­sand horse Of light­est sort; and foot and cav­al­ry Sought Paris by those roads, which have their course Di­rect­ly to, and from, the Pi­card sea; That by St. Mar­tin’s and St. Denys’ gate, They might con­vey the aid the burghers wait.

XXXI Ri­nal­do sent with these the bag­gage train And car­riages, with which his troops were stored; And fetch­ing, with the forces that re­main, A com­pass, he the up­per way ex­plored. He bridge, and boat, and means to pass the Seine, Had with him; for it here was ill to ford. He past his army, broke the bridges down, And rank’d in line the bands of ei­ther crown.

XXXII But hav­ing first the peers and cap­tains wheeled About him in a ring, the cav­alier Mount­ed the bank which over­topt the field, So much, that all might plain­ly see and hear; And cried, “My lords, you should thanks­giv­ing yield, With lift­ed hands, to God, who brought you here; Through whom, o’er ev­ery na­tion, you may gain Eter­nal glo­ry, bought with lit­tle pain.

XXXI­II “Two princes, by your means, will res­cued be, If you re­lieve those city gates from siege; Him, your own king, whom you from slav­ery And death to save, a sub­ject’s vows oblige; And a famed em­per­or, of more majesty Than ev­er yet in court was served by liege, And with them oth­er kings, and dukes, and peers, And lords of oth­er lands, and cav­aliers.

XXXIV “So that one city sav­ing, not alone Will the Parisians bless your help­ing hand, Who, sad­der than for sor­rows of their own, Timid, af­flict­ed, and dis­heart­ened stand; And their un­hap­py wives and chil­dren moan, Which share in the same per­il, and the band Or vir­gins, ded­icate to heav­en­ly spouse, Lest this day frus­trate see their holy vows;

XXXV — “I say, this city saved from dead­ly wound, Not on­ly will Parisians hold you dear; But habi­tants of all the coun­tries round: Nor speak I on­ly of the na­tions near; For city there is none on Chris­tian ground. But what has cit­izens be­lea­guered here; So that to you, for van­quish­ing the foe, More lands than France will obli­ga­tion owe.

XXXVI “If him the an­cients with a crown en­dued, Who saved one cit­izen by wor­thy deed, For res­cu­ing such a count­less mul­ti­tude, What rec­om­pense shall be your wor­thy meed? But if, from jeal­ousy or sloth, so good And holy, en­ter­prise should ill suc­ceed, Be­lieve me, on­ly while these walls en­dure, Is Italy or Al­mayn’s realm se­cure;

XXXVII “Or any oth­er part, where men adore Him, who for us up­on the cross was hung; Nor think that dis­tance saves you from the Moor, Nor deem your is­land strong, the waves among. For if, from far Gibral­tar’s straits of yore, And old Al­cides’ pil­lars, sailed the throng, To bear off plun­der from your sea-​girt strands, What will they do when they pos­sess our lands?

XXXVI­II “And, if in this fair en­ter­prise ar­rayed, No gain, no glo­ry served you as a guide, A com­mon debt en­joins you mu­tu­al aid, Mil­itant here up­on one Church’s side. More­over, let not any be afraid, Our bro­ken foe­men will the as­sault abide; Who seem to me ill-​taught in war­like art, A fee­ble rab­ble with­out arms or heart.”

XXXIX Such rea­sons, and yet bet­ter for, that need Might good Ri­nal­do in his speech in­fer; And with quick phrase and voice, to valiant deed The high-​mind­ed barons and bold army stir; And this was but to goad a will­ing steed (As the old proverb says) who lacks no spur. He moved the squadrons, hav­ing closed his speech, Soft­ly, be­neath their sep­arate ban­ners, each.

XL He, with­out clam­our, with­out any noise. So moves his triple host, their flags be­low. Zerbino, march­ing by the stream, en­joys The hon­our first to as­sail the bar­barous foe; The pal­adin the Irish­men em­ploys More in­land, with a wider wheel to go. Thus Eng­land’s horse and foot, the two be­tween, Led by the Duke of Lan­cast­er, are seen.

XLI The pal­adin rode on, along the shore, When he had put the war­riors in their way, And, pass­ing by their squadrons, pricked be­fore Valiant Zerbino and his whole ar­ray, Un­til he reached the quar­ters of the Moor, Where Oran’s king, and king So­bri­no lay; Who, half-​a-​mile re­moved from those of Spain, Post­ed up­on that side, ob­served the plain.

XLII With such a faith­ful es­cort for­ti­fied And sure, the Chris­tians who had thith­er wound, With Si­lence and the An­gel for their guide, No longer could stand mute or keep their ground: But hear­ing now the foe, with shouts de­fied Their host, and made the shrilling trum­pets sound; And with loud clam­ours, which Heav­en’s con­cave fill, Sent through the payn­im’s bones a dead­ly chill.

XLI­II Ri­nal­do spurs be­fore the troops com­bined His foam­ing cours­er, and his weapon rests; And a full bow-​shot leaves the Scots be­hind: So all de­lay the im­pa­tient peer mo­lests. As of­ten­times an ed­dy­ing gust of winds Is­sues, ere yet the hor­rid storm in­fests, So sal­ly­ing swift­ly from the fol­low­ing herd, Ri­nal­do forth up­on Ba­iar­do spurred.

XLIV As the as­pect of the pal­adin of France, The wa­ver­ing Moor­ish files be­tray their fear; And, trem­bling in their hands, is seen the lance, Their thighs and stir­rups quiv­er­ing, like the spear. King Pu­lian on­ly marks the knight’s ad­vance, Know­ing Ri­nal­do not, un­changed in cheer; Nor think­ing such a cru­el shock to meet, Gal­lops against him on his cours­er fleet.

XLV He stoops up­on the weapon which he strains, Whole and col­lect­ed for the mar­tial game: Then to his horse aban­don­ing the reins, And goad­ing with both spurs the cours­er, came. Up­on the oth­er side no val­our feigns, But shows, by do­ings, what he is in name; — With what rare grace and match­less art he wars, The son of Ay­mon, rather son of Mars.

XLVI Well-​matched in skill, they aimed their cru­el blows, With lances at each oth­er’s heads ad­drest; Ill matched, in arms and val­our, were the foes, For this past on, and that the cham­paigne prest. More cer­tain proof of worth, when war­riors close, There needs than knight­ly lance, well placed in rest; But For­tune even more than Val­our needs, Which ill, with­out her sav­ing suc­cour, speeds.

XLVII With the good spear new lev­elled in his fist, At Oran’s king be­hold Ri­nal­do dart. Of bulk, and bone, and sinew, to re­sist The monarch was, but ill sup­plied with heart. And his might pass for a fair stroke in list, Though plant­ed in the buck­ler’s nether part. Let those ex­cuse it who refuse to ad­mire, Since the good pal­adin could reach no high­er.

XLVI­II Nor did the buck­ler so the weapon stay, Though made of palm with­in, and steel with­out, But that it pierced the paunch, and made a way To let that mean and ill matched spir­it out. The cours­er, who had deemed that all the day He must so huge a bur­den bear about, Thanked in his heart the war­rior, who well met, Had thus pre­served him from so sore a sweat.

XLIX Ri­nal­do, hav­ing broke his rest­ed spear, So wheels his horse, he seems equipt with wings; Who, turn­ing swift­ly with the cav­alier, Amid the clos­est crowd, im­petu­ous springs. Com­posed of brit­tle glass the arms ap­pear Where Sir Ri­nal­do red Fus­ber­ta swings. Nor tem­pered steel is there, nor corslet thick, Which keeps the sword from bit­ing to the quick.

L Yet few the tem­pered plates or iron pins With which en­coun­ters that de­scend­ing brand; But tar­gets, some of oak and some of skins, And quilt­ed vest and tur­ban’s twist­ed band. Light­ly such drap­ery good Ri­nal­do thins, And cleaves, and bores, and shears, on ei­ther hand; Nor bet­ter from his sword es­capes the swarm, Than grass from sweep­ing scythe, or grain from storm.

LI The fore­most squadron had been put to flight, When thith­er the van­guard Zerbino led. Forth prick­ing from the fol­low­ing crowd, in sight Ap­peared, with lev­elled lance, their youth­ful head: With no less fury those who trooped to fight Be­neath his ban­ner, to the com­bat sped; Like li­ons, like so many wolves, who leap In fury to the as­sault of goat or sheep.

LII Both spurred their cours­ers on, with rest­ed lance, When ei­ther war­rior to his foe was near; And that short in­ter­val, that small ex­panse, Of plain, be­tween, was seen to dis­ap­pear. Was nev­er wit­nessed yet a stranger dance! For the Scots on­ly ply the mur­der­ous spear; On­ly the scat­tered payn­ims slaugh­tered lie, As if con­duct­ed thith­er but to die.

LI­II It seemed as if each cow­ard payn­im grew More cold than ice, each Scot more fierce than flame. The Moors be­lieved that with Ri­nal­do’s thew And mus­cle for­ti­fied, each Chris­tian came. So­bri­no quick­ly moved his or­dered crew, Nor stayed till her­ald should his call pro­claim: Bet­ter were they than those which went be­fore, For cap­tain, ar­mour, and for mar­tial lore.

LIV Less worth­less men of Africa were they, Though ill had they been deemed of much avail. Ill har­nessed, and worse trained to mar­tial fray, Forth­with King Dar­dinel, the foe to as­sail, Moved up his host, him­self in hel­met gay, And sheath­ing all his limbs in plate and mail. The fourth di­vi­sion I be­lieve was best, Which, un­der Isoli­er, to bat­tle prest.

LV Thra­so, this while, the valiant Duke of Mar, Glad in the tu­mult, for the cav­aliers Who muster in his train, up­lifts the bar, And to the lists of fame his fol­low­ing chears, When Isoli­er, with horse­men of Navarre, En­tered in that fierce fray he sees and hears. Next Ar­io­dantes moved his chival­ry, Who was of late made Duke of Al­bany.

LVI The deep sonorous trum­pet’s bel­low­ing, And sound of drum, and bar­barous in­stru­ment, Com­bined with twang of bow, and whiz of sling, Wheel and ma­chine, and stone from en­gine sent, And (what more loud than these ap­peared to ring) Tu­mult, and shriek, and groan, and loud lament, Com­posed a di­rer whole than what of­fends The neigh­bour­ing tribes where deaf­en­ing Nile de­scends.

LVII The ar­rows’ dou­ble show­er the am­ple sky With wide-​ex­tend­ed shade is seen to shrowd; Breath, smoke of sweat and dust as­cend on high, And seem to stamp in air a murky cloud. By turns each host gives way, and you might spy, Now chas­ing, now in flight, the self-​same crowd; And here some wight, be­side his foe­man slain, Or lit­tle dis­tant, pros­trate on the plain.

LVI­II When, ha­rassed with fa­tigue, a wea­ried crew With­draw, fresh files their fel­lows re­in­force: Men, here and there, the wast­ed ranks re­new; Here march sup­plies of foot, and there of horse: Her man­tle green for robe of crim­son hue Earth shifts, en­san­guined where the war­riors course: And there were azure flow­ers and yel­low sprung, Now slaugh­tered men lie stretched their steeds among.

LIX Zerbino was more won­ders seen to do Than ev­er stripling of his age, he strowed The ground with heaps of dead, and over­threw The payn­im num­bers which about him flowed. The valiant Ar­io­dantes to his new- En­trust­ed squadron mighty prowess showed; Fill­ing with dread and won­der, near and far, The squadrons of Castile and of Navarre.

LX Che­lin­do and Mosco (bas­tards were the twain Of Cal­abrun, late king of Ar­ragon), And one es­teemed among the valiant train, Calami­dor, of Bar­cel­lona’s town, Leav­ing their stan­dards, in the hope to gain, By young Zerbino’s death, a glo­ri­ous force, And wound­ed in his flanks the prince’s horse.

LXI Pierced by three lances lay the cours­er strong, But bold Zerbino quick­ly rose anew; And, ea­ger to avenge his charg­er’s wrong, The as­sailants, where he sees them, will pur­sue. Zerbino at Mosco first, that over­hung Him, in the hope to make him pris­on­er, flew, And pierced him in the flank; who from his sell, Pal­lid and cold, up­on the cham­paign fell.

LXII When him so killed, as ’twere by stealthy blow, Che­lin­do viewed, to avenge his broth­er slain, He charged, in­tent the prince to over­throw; But he seized fast his cours­er by the rein, And, thence to rise not, laid the charg­er low, Des­tined no more to feed on hay or grain; For at one stroke, so match­less was his force, Zerbino cleft the rid­er and his horse.

LXI­II When that fell blow Calami­dor es­pied, He turned the bri­dle short to speed away, But him with down­right cut Zerbino plied Be­hind, and cried with­al, “Stay, traitor, stay.” Nor from its aim the sword-​stroke wan­dered wide, Though from the mark it went somedeal astray; The fal­chion missed the rid­er as he fled, But reached the horse’s croup, and stretched him dead,

LX­IV He quits the horse, and thence for safe­ty crawls; But he with lit­tle boot es­capes his foe; For him Duke Thra­so’s horse o’er­turns and mawls, Op­prest the pon­der­ous cours­er’s weight be­low. Where the huge crowd up­on Zerbino falls, Ar­io­dantes and Lur­canio go; And with them many a cav­alier and count, Who do their best Zerbino to re­mount.

LXV Then Ar­tal­ico and Margano knew The force of Ar­io­dantes’ cir­cling brand: While Casimir and En­earco rue More deeply yet the puis­sance of his hand. Smote by the knight, es­caped the for­mer two; The oth­ers were left dead up­on the strand. Lur­canio shows what are his force and breath; Who charges, smites, o’er­turns, and puts to death.

LXVI Sir, think not that more in­land on the plain The war­fare is less mor­tal than along The stream, nor that the troops be­hind re­main Which to the duke of Lan­cast­er be­long. He valiant­ly as­sailed the flags of Spain, And long in even scale the bat­tle hung. For Horse and Foot, and Cap­tains of those bands, On ei­ther side, could deft­ly ply their hands.

LXVII For­ward Sir Ol­drad pricks and Fier­amont; This Glo­ces­ter’s duke, and York’s the oth­er knight; With them con­joined is Richard, War­wick’s count, And the bold duke of Clarence, Hen­ry hight. These Fol­li­con and Matal­ista front, And Bari­cond, with all they lead to fight. Alme­ria this, and that Grana­da guides, And o’er Mar­jor­ca Bari­cond pre­sides.

LXVI­II Well matched awhile the Chris­tian and the Moor Ap­peared, with­out ad­van­tage in the fray. Not this, now that gave ground, like corn be­fore The light and fick­le breeze which blows in May: Or as the sea which rip­ples on the shore, Still comes and goes, nor keeps one cer­tain way, When hol­low For­tune thus had sport­ed long, She proved dis­as­trous to the payn­im throng.

LX­IX The duke of Glo­ces­ter Matal­ista bold As­sailed this while, and hur­tled from his sell; Fier­amont Fol­li­con o’er­turned and rolled, In the right shoul­der smit, on earth as well. The ad­vanc­ing En­glish ei­ther payn­im hold, And bear their pris­on­ers off to dun­geon cell. This while, Sir Bari­cond is, in the strife, By Clarence’s bold duke de­prived of life.

LXX Hence ’tis among the Moors amaze­ment all, While hence the Chris­tians take such heart and pride, The bands do nought but quit their ground and fall, And break their or­der on the Payn­im side, What time the Chris­tian troops come on, and gall Their fly­ing rants, which nowhere will abide: And had not one ar­rived to aid their host. The Payn­im camp had on that side been lost.

LXXI But Fer­rau, who till this time ev­er nigh Mar­sil­ius, scarce had quit­ted him that day, When half de­stroyed he marked his chival­ry, And saw that baf­fled ban­ner born away, Pricked his good cours­er forth, in time to spy, (Where mid those squadrons hottest waxed the fray) With his head sev­ered in a gries­ly wound, Olym­pio de la Ser­ra fall to ground:

LXXII A stripling he, who such sweet mu­sick vent­ed, Ac­cord­ed to the horned lyre’s soft tone; That at the dul­cet melody re­lent­ed The hear­er’s heart, though hard­er than a stone. Hap­py! if, with such ex­cel­lence con­tent­ed, He had pur­sued so fair a fame alone, And loathed shield, quiver, hel­met, sword and lance; Des­tined by these to die a youth in France.

LXXI­II When bold French be­held his cru­el plight, For whom he love and much es­teem pro­fest, He felt more pity at the dole­ful sight Than, ‘mid those thou­sands slain, for all the rest. And smote the foe who slew him with such might, That he his helm di­vid­ed from the crest; Cut front, eyes, vis­age, and mid bo­som through, And cast him down amid the slaugh­tered crew.

LXXIV Nor stops he here, nor leaves a corslet whole, Nor helm un­bro­ken, where his sword is plied, Of this the front or cheek, of that the poll, The arm of oth­er foe his strokes di­vide; And he, of these di­vorc­ing body and soul, Re­stores the wa­ver­ing bat­tle on that side; Whence the dis­heart­ened and ig­no­ble throng Are scat­tered wide, and broke, and driv­en along.

LXXV In­to the med­ley pricks King Agra­mant, De­sirous there his bloody course to run; With him King Baliv­er­zo, Faru­rant, Sori­dan, Bam­bi­ra­go, Pru­sion; And next so many more of lit­tle vaunt, Whose blood will form a lake ere day be done, That I could count each leaf with greater ease When au­tumn of their man­tle strips the trees.

LXXVI Agra­mant from the wall a nu­mer­ous band Of horse and foot with­draws, and sends the ar­ray Be­neath the king of Fez, with a com­mand Be­hind the Moor­ish tents to make his way, And those of Ire­land in their march with­stand, Whom he sees hur­ry­ing with what haste they may, And with wide wheel and spa­cious com­pass wind, To fall up­on the payn­im camp be­hind.

LXXVII The king of Fez up­on this ser­vice prest; For all de­lay might sore his work im­pede. This while King Agra­mant unites the rest, And parts the troops who to the bat­tle speed. He sought him­self the riv­er, where he guessed The Moor­ish host might most his pres­ence need; And, from that quar­ter, had a couri­er prayed, By King So­bri­no sent, the monarch’s aid.

LXXVI­II He more than half his camp be­hind him led, In one deep pha­lanx. At the mighty sound Alone, the Scots­men trem­bled, and in dread Aban­doned hon­our, or­der, and their ground: Lur­canio, Ar­io­dantes, and their head, Zerbino, there alone the tor­rent bound; And hap­ly he, who was afoot, had died, But that in time his need Ri­nal­do spied.

LXXIX Else­where the pal­adin was mak­ing fly A hun­dred ban­ners: while the cav­alier So chased the quail­ing Sara­cens, the cry Of young Zerbino’s per­il smote the ear; For, sin­gle and afoot, his chival­ry Amid the Africans had left the peer. Ri­nal­do turned about and took his way Where he be­held the Scots in dis­ar­ray.

LXXX He plants his cours­er, where their squadrons yield To the fierce payn­ims, and ex­claims: “Where go Your bands, and why so base­ly quit the field, Yield­ing so vile­ly to so vile a foe? Be­hold the promised tro­phies, spear and shield, Spoils which your load­ed church­es ought to show! What praise! what glo­ry! that alone, and reft Of his good horse, your monarch’s son is left!

LXXXI He from a squire re­ceives a lance, and spies King Pru­sion lit­tle dis­tant, sovereign Of the Al­varac­chi­ae, and against him hies; Whom he un­hors­es, dead up­on the plain. So Agri­calt, so Bam­bi­ra­go dies; And next sore wound­ed is Sir Sori­dane; Who had been slain as well amid the throng, If good Ri­nal­do’s lance had proved more strong.

LXXXII That weapon bro­ken, he Fus­ber­ta rears, And smites Sir Ser­pen­tine, him of the star. Though charmed from mis­chief are the cav­alier’s Good arms, he falls as­tound­ed by the jar, And thus Ri­nal­do round Zerbino clears The field so wide­ly, where those cham­pi­ons war, That with­out more dis­pute he takes a horse Of those, who mas­ter­less, at ran­dom, course.

LXXXI­II That he in time re­mount­ed it was well, Who hap­ly would not, if he more de­layed: For Agra­mant at once, and Dar­dinel, So­bri­no, and Bal­as­tro thith­er made; But he, who had in time re­gained the sell, Wheeled, here and there his horse, with bran­dished blade, Dis­patch­ing in­to hell the mixt ar­ray, That how men live above their ghosts might say.

LXXXIV The good Ri­nal­do, who to over­throw The strongest of the foe­man cov­ets still, At Agra­mant di­rects a dead­ly blow, — Who seems too pass­ing-​proud, and greater ill Works there, than thou­sand oth­ers of the foe — And spurs his horse, the Moor­ish chief to spill. He smote the monarch, broad­side charged the steed, And man and horse re­versed up­on the mead.

LXXXV What time, with­out, in such de­struc­tive frays Hate, Rage, and Fury, all of­fend by turns, In Paris Rodomont the peo­ple slays, And cost­ly house, and holy tem­ple burns: While Charles else­where an­ther du­ty stays, Who noth­ing hears of this, nor aught dis­cerns. He, in the town, re­ceives the British band, Which Ed­ward and Sir Ari­man com­mand.

LXXXVI To him a squire ap­proached, who pale with dread, Scarce drew his breath, and cried: “Oh, well away! Alas! alas!” (and thus he of­ten said, Ere he could ut­ter aught be­side). “To-​day, To-​day, sire, is the Ro­man em­pire sped, And Christ to the hea­then makes his flock a prey. A fiend from air to-​day has dropt, that none Hence­forth may in this city make their won.

LXXXVII “Sa­tan (in sooth, it can no oth­er be) De­stroys and ru­ins the un­hap­py town. Turn, and the curl­ing wreaths of vapour see, From the red flames which wan­der up and down; List to those groans, and be they war­rantry Of the sad news thy ser­vant now makes known! One the fair city wastes with sword and fire, Be­fore whose venge­ful fury all re­tire.”

LXXXVI­II Even such as he, who hears the tu­mult wide, And clat­ter of church-​bells, ere he es­py The rag­ing fire, con­cealed from none be­side Him­self, to him most dan­ger­ous, and most nigh; Such was King Charles; who heard, and then de­scried The new dis­as­ter with his very eye. Hence he the choic­est of his meiny steers Thith­er, where he the cry and tu­mult hears.

LXXXIX With many peers and chiefs, who wor­thi­est are, Sum­moned about him, Charle­magne is gone: He bids di­rect his stan­dards to the square Whith­er the payn­im had re­paired; hears groan And tu­mult, spies the hor­rid to­kens there Of cru­el­ty, sees hu­man mem­bers strown. — No more — Let him re­turn an­oth­er time, Who will­ing­ly will lis­ten to this rhyme.