Orlando Furioso

CANTO 18

AR­GU­MENT Gryphon is venged. Sir Man­dri­car­do goes In search of Argi­er’s king. Charles wins the fight. Marphisa No­randi­no’s men o’erthrows. Due pains Mar­tano’s cow­ardice re­quite. A favour­ing wind Marphisa’s gallery blows, For France with Gryphon bound and many a knight. The field Medoro and Clori­dano tread, And find their monarch Dar­dinel­lo dead.

I High mind­ed lord! your ac­tions ev­er­more I have with rea­son laud­ed, and still laud; Though I with style in­apt, and rus­tic lore, You of large por­tion of your praise de­fraud: But, of your many virtues, one be­fore All oth­ers I with heart and tongue ap­plaud, — That, if each man a gra­cious au­di­ence finds, No easy faith your equal judg­ment blinds.

II Of­ten, to shield the ab­sent one from blame, I hear you this, or oth­er, thing ad­duce; Or him you let, at least, an au­di­ence claim, Where still one ear is open to ex­cuse: And be­fore doom­ing men to scaith and shame, To see and hear them ev­er is your use; And ere you judge an­oth­er, many a day, And month, and year, your sen­tence to de­lay.

III Had No­ran­dine been with your care en­dued, What he by Gryphon did, he had not done. Prof­it and fame have from your rule ac­crued: A stain more black than pitch he cast up­on His name: through him, his peo­ple were pur­sued And put to death by Oliv­ero’s son; Who at ten cuts or thrusts, in fury made, Some thir­ty dead about the wag­gon laid.

IV Whith­er fear drives, in rout, the oth­ers all, Some scat­tered here, some there, on ev­ery side, Fill road and field; to gain the city-​wall Some strive, and smoth­ered in the mighty tide, One on an­oth­er, in the gate­way fall. Gryphon, all thought of pity laid aside, Threats not nor speaks, but whirls his sword about, Well veng­ing on the crowd their ev­ery flout.

V Of those who to the por­tal fore­most fleed, The read­iest of the crowd their feet to ply, Part, more in­tent up­on their prop­er need Than their friends’ per­il, raise the draw-​bridge high: Part, weep­ing and with death­like vis­age, speed, Nor turn their eyes be­hind them as they fly: While, through the am­ple city, out­cry loud, And noise, and tu­mult ris­es from the crowd.

VI Two nim­ble Gryphon seizes, mid the train, When to their woe the bridge is raised; of one, Up­on the field the war­rior strews the brain, Which he bears out on a hard grind­ing stone; Seized by the breast, the oth­er of the twain Over the city-​wall by him is thrown, Fear chills the towns­men’s mar­row, when they spy The luck­less wretch de­scend­ing from the sky.

VII Many there were who feared in their alarms, Lest o’er the wall Sir Gryphon would have vault­ed; Nor greater pan­ic seized up­on those swarms, Than if the sol­dan had the town as­sault­ed. The sound of run­ning up and down, of arms, Of cry of Muezzins, on high ex­alt­ed; Of drums and trum­pets, heav­en, ‘twould seem, re­bound­ed, And, that the world was by the noise con­found­ed.

VI­II But I will to an­oth­er time de­lay, What chanced on this oc­ca­sion, to re­count. ‘Tis meet I fol­low Charles up­on his way, Hur­ry­ing in search of fu­ri­ous Rodomont, Who did the monarch’s suf­fer­ing peo­ple slay. I said, with him, the dan­ger to af­front, Went Na­mus, Oliv­er, the Dan­ish peer, Avi­no, Avo­lio, Otho and Berlinghi­er.

IX Eight lances’ shock, that eight such war­riors guide, Which all at once against the king they rest, En­dured the stout and scaly ser­pent’s hide, In which the cru­el Moor his limbs had drest. As a bar­que rights it­self, — the sheet un­tied, Which held its sail, — by grow­ing wind op­prest; So speed­ily Sir Rodomont arose, Though a hill had been up­root­ed by the blows.

X Rainier and Gui­do, Richard, Sa­lomon, Ivan, Ughet­to, Turpin, and the twain — An­gi­olin, An­ge­li­er — false Ganel­lon, And Mark and Matthew from St. Michael’s plain, With the eight of whom I spake, all set up­on The foe, with Ed­ward and Sir Ari­mane; Who lead­ing suc­cours from the En­glish shore, Had lodged them in the town short time be­fore.

XI Not so, well-​keyed in­to the sol­id stone, Groans up­on Alpine height the cas­tle good, When by rude Bore­as’ rage or Eu­rus’ strown, Up­torn are ash and fir in moun­tain wood, As groans Sir Rodomont, with pride o’erblown, In­flamed with anger and with thirst of blood: And, as the thun­der and the light­ning’s fire Fly cou­pled, such his vengeance and his ire.

XII He at his head took aim who stood most nigh; Ughet­to was the mis­er­able wight, Whom to the teeth he clove, and left to die; Though of good tem­per was his hel­met bright. As well the oth­ers many strokes let fly At him, him­self; which all the war­rior smite, But harm (so hard the drag­on’s hide) no more, Than nee­dle can the sol­id anvil score.

XI­II All the de­fences, round, aban­doned are, The un­peo­pled city is aban­doned all; For, where the dan­ger is the greater, there The many give their aid, at Charles’ call: Through ev­ery street they hur­ry to the square, Since fly­ing nought avails, from work and wall. Their bo­soms so the monarch’s pres­ence warms, That each again takes courage, each takes arms.

XIV As when with­in the close­ly-​fas­tened cage Of an old li­oness, well used to fight, An un­tamed bull is pris­oned, to en­gage The sav­age mon­ster, for the mob’s de­light; The cubs, who see him crest­ing in his rage, And round the den loud-​bel­low­ing, to the sight Of the huge beast’s enor­mous horns un­used, Cow­er at a dis­tance, timid and con­fused;

XV But if the moth­er spring at him, and hang, Fix­ing her cru­el tusks in­to his ear, Her whelps as well will blood their greedy fang, And, bold in her de­fence, as­sail the steer: One bites his paunch, and one his back: so sprang That band up­on the payn­im cav­alier. From roof and win­dow, and from place more nigh, Poured in a cease­less show­er, the weapons fly.

XVI Of cav­aliers and foot­men such the squeeze, That hard­ly can the place the press con­tain: They clus­ter there as thick as swarm­ing bees, Who thith­er from each pas­sage troop amain. So that, were they un­armed, and with more ease Than stalks or turnips he could cleave the train, Ill Rodomont in twen­ty days would clear The gath­er­ing crowd, unit­ed far and near.

XVII Un­know­ing how him­self from thence to free, The payn­im by this game is an­gered sore, Who lit­tle thins the gath­er­ing rab­blery, Stain­ing the ground with thou­sands slain or more; And all the while, in his ex­trem­ity, Finds that his breath comes thick­er than be­fore; And sees he can­not pierce the hos­tile round, Un­less he thence es­cape while strong and sound.

XVI­II The monarch rolls about his hor­rid eyes, And sees that foes all out­lets bar­ri­cade; But, at the cost of count­less en­emies, A path shall quick­ly by his hand be made. Where Fury calls him, lo! the felon hies, And bran­dish­es on high his tren­chant blade, To as­sail the new­ly en­tered British band, Which Ed­ward and Sir Ari­man com­mand.

XIX He who has seen the fence, in well-​thonged square, (Against whose stakes the ed­dy­ing crowd is born) By wild bull bro­ken, that has had to bear, Through the long day, dogs, blows, and cease­less scorn; Who hunts the scat­tered peo­ple here and there, And this, or that, now hoists up­on his horn; Let him as such, or fiercer yet, ac­count, When he breaks forth, the cru­el Rodomont.

XX At one cross-​blow fif­teen or twen­ty foes He hews, as many leaves with­out a bead, At cross or down­right-​stroke; as if he rows Trash­es in vine­yard or in wil­low-​bed, At last all smeared with blood the payn­im goes, Safe from the place, which he has heaped with dead; And where­soe’er he turns his steps, are left Heads, arms, and oth­er mem­bers, maimed and cleft.

XXI He from the square re­tires in such a mode, None can per­ceive that dan­ger him ap­pals; But, dur­ing this, what were the safest road, By which to sal­ly, he to thought re­cals. He comes at last to where the riv­er flowed Be­low the isle, and past with­out the walls. In dar­ing men at arms and mob in­crease, Who press him sore, nor let him part in peace.

XXII As the high-​couraged beast, whom hunters start In the wild No­made or Mas­sil­ian chace, Who, even in fly­ing, shows his no­ble heart, And threat­en­ing seeks his lair with slug­gish pace; From that strange wood of sword, and spear, and dart, Turns Rodomont, with ac­tion noth­ing base; And still im­ped­ed by the galling foe, Makes for the riv­er with long steps and slow.

XXI­II He turned up­on the rab­ble-​rout who bayed Be­hind him, thrice or more, by anger driv­en, And stained anew his fal­chion, by whose blade More than a hun­dred dead­ly wounds were giv­en. But rea­son, fi­nal­ly, his fury stayed Be­fore the bloody car­nage stank to heav­en; And he, with bet­ter coun­sel, from the side Cast him­self down in­to Seine’s foam­ing tide.

XXIV Athwart the cur­rent swam, with arms and all, As if by corks up­born, the cav­alier. Though thou An­taeus bred’st, and Han­ni­bal, O Africa! thou nev­er bred’st his peer! — When now across the stream, with­out the wall, He turned, and saw the roy­al town ap­pear, — To have tra­versed all the city moved his ire, Leav­ing it un­de­stroyed by sword or fire;

XXV And him so sore­ly anger stung and pride, Thith­er he thought a sec­ond time to go; And from his in­most bo­som groaned and sighed, Nor would de­part un­til he laid it low. But he saw one along the riv­er-​side Ap­proach, who made him rage and hate forego; Strait shall you hear who ’twas, ap­proached the king, But first I have to say of oth­er thing.

XXVI I have of haughty Dis­cord now to say, To whom the archangel Michael gave com­mand, To heat to en­mi­ty and fierce af­fray The best of Agra­mant’s be­sieg­ing band. She went that evening from the abbey gray, Her task com­mit­ting to an­oth­er’s hand; — Left it to Fraud to feed, till her re­turn, The war, and make the fires she kin­dled burn;

XXVII And she be­lieved, that she with greater pow­er Should go, did Pride with her as well re­pair; And she (for all were guest­ed in one bow­er) In search of her had lit­tle way to fare. Pride went with her; but, that in hall or tow­er, A vicar too her charge might du­ly bear, She for those days she ab­sent thought to be, For her lieu­tenant left Hypocrisy.

XXVI­II The im­pla­ca­ble Dis­cord went, and with the dame, (Com­pan­ion of the en­ter­prise, was Pride) Up­on her road; and found that, by the same, Was jour­ney­ing to the payn­im camp, be­side, Com­fort­less Jeal­ousy, with whom there came A lit­tle dwarf, at­tend­ing as a guide; Who erst had been sent for­ward with ad­vice To Sarza’s king, by beau­teous Do­ral­ice.

XXIX When she fell in­to Man­dri­car­do’s hand, (I have be­fore re­count­ed when and where) She had in se­cret giv­en the dwarf com­mand, He to the king should with the tid­ings fare; By whom she hoped not vain­ly would be scanned The tale her mes­sen­ger was charged to bear, But won­der­ous deeds be done for her re­lief, With sad and sig­nal vengeance on the thief.

XXX Jeal­ousy had that lit­tle dwarf es­pied, And kenned the rea­son of his mis­sion too, And joined him, jour­ney­ing with him side by side, Deem­ing that she there­in a part might do. Dis­cord, with plea­sure, Jeal­ousy de­cried, But with more joy, when she the oc­ca­sion knew Which thith­er brought the dame, who much (she wist) Might in the task she had in hand as­sist.

XXXI Of means to em­broil the Sarzan and the son Of Agri­can, she deems her­self pos­sest. A cer­tain mode to en­rage these two is won; And oth­er means may work up­on the rest. She thith­er with the dwarfish page is gone, Where the fierce Pa­gan in his clutch had prest Proud Paris, and they reached the riv­er strand, Ex­act­ly as the felon swam to land.

XXXII As soon as the re­doubt­ed Rodomont Knew in the dwarf the couri­er of his dame, He all his rage ex­tin­guished, cleared his front, And felt his courage bright­en in­to flame. All else he deems the couri­er may re­count, Save that a wight had wrought him scaith and shame, And cries (en­coun­ter­ing him with chear­ful brow) “How fares our la­dy? with­er sent art thou?”

XXXI­II “Nor mine nor thine that la­dy will I say, Who is an­oth­er’s thrall,” the dwarf replied. “We, on our road, en­coun­tered yes­ter­day A knight, who seized and bore away the bride.” Jeal­ousy, up­on this, took up the play, And, cold as asp, em­braced the king: her guide Pur­sued his tale, re­lat­ing how the train, Their mis­tress tak­en, by one man were slain.

XXXIV Her flint and steel, fell Dis­cord, as he said, Took forth, and some­while ham­mered on the stone. Pride, un­der­neath, the ready tin­der spread, And the quick fire was in a mo­ment blown: This on the payn­im’s soul so fierce­ly fed, He could not find a rest­ing place: ‘mid groan And sob he storms, with hor­rid face and eye, Which threat the el­ements and am­ple sky.

XXXV As tiger rages, who in vain de­scends In­to her den, and finds her­self alone, And, cir­cling all the cav­ern, com­pre­hends, At last, that her beloved young are gone; To ire, to rage like hers his wrath ex­tends: Nor night the king re­gards, nor rock, nor stone, Nor stream: — Nor length of way nor storm ar­rest The speed with which he on the plun­der­er prest.

XXXVI So rag­ing, to the pigmy dwarf who bore The news, ex­claimed the king, “Now hence away!” Nor horse he waits, nor car­riage, nor, be­fore De­part­ing, deigns to his a word to say. He hur­ries with such speed, that not with more The lizard darts at noon across the way. Horse had he none, but be he whose he might, Would make his own the first which came in sight.

XXXVII Dis­cord at this, who read his se­cret thought, Ex­claimed, as she looked smil­ing­ly on Pride, Through her he to a cours­er should be brought, By which new cause of strife should be sup­plied; And, that by him no oth­er might be caught, She from his path would keep all steeds be­side; And knew al­ready where the prize to seek. — But her I leave, again of Charles to speak.

XXXVI­II When, on the Sara­cen’s de­par­ture, spent, About King Charles, was the con­sum­ing flame, He ranged his troops anew: some war­riors went To strength­en fee­ble posts which suc­cours claim; The rest against the Sara­cens are sent, To give the foe check­mate and end the game; And from St. Ger­man’s to Saint Vic­tor’s gates, He pours the host, which on his sig­nal waits.

XXXIX He these at Saint Mar­cel­lus’ gate, where lay, Out­stretched a large cir­cum­fer­ence of plain, Bade one an­oth­er wait, in one ar­ray, To re­unite against the payn­im train. In­flam­ing ev­ery one to smite and slay, In guise, that for a record should re­main, He made the var­ious troops fall in be­low Their ban­ners, and the bat­tle-​sig­nal blow.

XL Agra­mant has re­mount­ed in his sell, While this is do­ing in his foe’s de­spite, And with the stripling who loved Is­abel, Is wag­ing per­ilous and fear­ful fight. Lur­canio with So­bri­no strives as well; Ri­nal­do a troop en­coun­ters, whom the knight, With Val­our and with For­tune for his guide, Charges, and breaks, and routs on ev­ery side.

XLI While so the bat­tle stands, king Charle­magne Falls on the rear guard of the payn­im foe, Where bold Mar­sil­ius halts the flow­er of Spain, And forms the host, his roy­al flag be­low. On these king Charle­magne im­pels his train, Who, foot with horse to flank, against them go. While so the deaf­en­ing drum and trum­pet sounds, ‘Twould seem the spa­cious world the din re­bounds.

XLII The Saracenic squadrons had be­gun To bend, and all the army of the Moor Had turned, dis­or­dered, bro­ken, and un­done, Nev­er to be ar­rayed or ral­lied more, But that Grando­nio stood, and Fal­siron, Tried of­ten­times in greater ill be­fore, With Ser­pen­tine and Balu­gantes proud, And the renowned Fer­rau, who cried aloud:

XLI­II “O valiant men,” he — “O com­pan­ions,” cries, “O brethren, stand, and yet your place main­tain; Like cob­web-​threads our cru­el en­emies Will find their works, if we our part sus­tain. What this day For­tune of­fers to our eyes, If now we con­quer, see the praise, the gain! — If con­quered, see the ut­ter loss and shame Which will for ev­er wait up­on your name!”

XLIV He in this time a mighty lance had spanned, And spurred at once against Sir Berlinghi­er, Who Ar­galif­fa guid­ed with his hand, And broke his hel­met’s frontal with the spear, Cast him on earth, and with the cru­el brand Un­horsed per­haps eight oth­er war­riors near. His mighty strokes dis­charg­ing, at each blow, He ev­er laid at least one horse­man low.

XLV In oth­er part, Ri­nal­do, in his mood, Has slain more en­emies than I can say, Be­fore the war­like knight no or­der stood; You might have seen the am­ple camp give way. No less Zerbino and Lur­canio good Do deeds, which will be told in ev­ery day; This, with a thrust, has bold Bal­as­tro slain, That Fi­naduro’s helm has cleft in twain.

XLVI The first was of the Alzer­ban army head, Ruled by Tar­doc­co some short time be­fore; The oth­er one the valiant squadrons led Of Saphi, and Mo­roc­co, and Zamor. “Where, ‘mid the payn­ims,” might to me be said, “Is knight whose sword can cleave or lance can gore?” But step by step I go, and as I wind My way, leave none who mer­its praise be­hind.

XLVII Zu­mara’s king is not for­got­ten here, Dar­dinel, who Sir Dul­phin of the mount, Claude of the wood, and Hu­bert, with the spear, (Of Mir­ford he) and Elio did dis­mount, And, with the faul­chion, Stam­ford’s cav­alier, Sir Anselm, Ray­mond and Sir Pin­na­mont From Lon­don-​town; though valiant were the twain; Two stunned, one wound­ed, the four oth­ers slain.

XLVI­II Yet will his squadron not so firm­ly stand, Mau­gre the val­our which his deeds dis­play, So firm­ly, as to wait the Chris­tian band, In num­ber less, but stead­ier in ar­ray, More used to joust and man­age of the brand, And all things ap­per­tain­ing to the gray. Set­ta and Mo­roc­co turned, and, seized with dread, Zu­mara and Ca­naries’ isles­men fled.

XLIX But faster than the rest Alzer­ba flies, Whom Dar­dinel op­posed, and now with sore Re­proach, and now with prayer he moves, and tries What best he deems their courage may re­store. “If good Al­montes has de­served,” he cries, “That you should by his mem­ory set such store, Now shall be seen — be seen, if you will me, His son, aban­don in such jeop­ardy.

L “For sake of my green youth, I pray you stand, That youth where­on your hopes were wont to feed, And suf­fer not that, scat­tered by the brand, To Africa be lost our no­ble seed. Save you unit­ed go, be sure the land Is shut against you, where­soe’er you speed. Too high a wall to climb is moun­tain-​steep, The yawn­ing sea a ditch too wide to leap.

LI “Far bet­ter ’tis to per­ish than to be Torn by these dogs, or lie at their con­trol. Since vain is ev­ery oth­er rem­edy, Wait, friends, for love of Heav­en, the ad­vanc­ing shoal: They are not gift­ed with more lives than we; Have but one pair of hands, have but one soul.” So say­ing, the bold youth, amid the crew Of en­emies, the Earl of Hunt­ley slew.

LII Al­montes’ mem­ory, through the Moor­ish bands, Makes ev­ery bo­som with such ar­dour glow, They deem ’tis bet­ter to use arms and hands In fight, than turn their backs up­on the foe. Taller than all William of Burn­wich stands, An En­glish­man, whom Dar­dinel brings low, And equals with the rest; then smites up­on, And cleaves, the head of Cor­nish Ara­mon.

LI­II Down fell this Ara­mon, and to af­ford Him suc­cour, thith­er­ward his broth­er made; But from the shoul­der him Zu­mara’s lord Cleft to the fork, with his de­scend­ing blade; Next Bo­gio de Ver­gal­la’s bel­ly gored, And from his debt ab­solved (the for­feit paid) Who to re­turn with­in six months, if life Were grant­ed him, had promised to his wife.

LIV Lur­canio next met Dar­dinel­lo’s eye; He up­on earth Dorchi­no had laid low, Pierced through the throat, and hap­less Gar­do nigh Cleft to the teeth; at him, as all too slow, He from Al­theus vain­ly seeks to fly, Whom as his heart Lur­canio loves, a blow Up­on his head be­hind the Scotch­man speeds; And. slaugh­tered by the stroke, the war­rior bleeds.

LV Dar­dinel, to avenge him, took a spear, And, should he lay the fierce Lur­canio dead, Vowed to his Ma­homet, if he could hear, The mosque should have his emp­ty arms; this said, Rang­ing the field in haste, that cav­alier He in the flank, with thrust so full and dread, En­coun­tered, that it went through ei­ther side: And he to his to strip the baron cried.

LVI From me it sure were need­less to de­mand, If Ar­io­dantes, when his broth­er fell, Was grieved; if he with his aveng­ing hand Among the damned would send Sir Dar­dinell; But all ac­cess the cir­cling troops with­stand And bar, no less bap­tized than in­fi­del: Yet would he venge him­self, and with his blade, Now here, now there, an open pas­sage made.

LVII He charges, chas­es, breaks, and over­throws Who­ev­er cross him on the crowd­ed plain; And Dar­dinel­lo, who his ob­ject knows, Would fain the wish con­tent; but him the train Im­pedes as well, which round about him flows, And ren­ders aye his ev­ery pur­pose vain. If one on all sides thins the Moor­ish rank, The oth­er slays Scot, En­glish­man, and Frank.

LVI­II For­tune still blocked their path through­out the day, So that they met not, ‘mid that chival­ry, And kept one as a might­ier cham­pi­on’s prey; For rarely man es­capes his des­tiny. Be­hold the good Ri­nal­do turns that way! That, for this one no refuge there might be. Lo! good Ri­nal­do comes: him For­tune guides, And for his sword King Dar­dinel pro­vides.

LIX But here enough for this one while is shown Of their il­lus­tri­ous do­ings in the west; ‘Tis time I seek Sir Gryphon, and make known How he, with fury burn­ing in his breast, That rab­ble-​rout had broke and over­thrown, Struck with more fear than ev­er men pos­sest. Thith­er speeds No­ran­dine on that alarm, And for his guard above a thou­sand arm.

LX King No­ran­dine, girt with peer and knight, See­ing on ev­ery side the peo­ple fly, Rides to the gates, with squadron du­ly dight, And at his hest the por­tals open fly. Mean­while Sir Gryphon, hav­ing put to flight The weak and worth­less rab­ble far and nigh, The scorned arms (to keep him from that train), Such as they were, took up and donned again.

LXI And nigh a tem­ple strong­ly walled, and round Whose base a moat for its pro­tec­tion goes, Up­on a lit­tle bridge takes up his ground, That him his en­emies may not en­close. Lo! loud­ly shout­ing, and with threat­en­ing sound, A mighty squadron through the gate­way flows. The valiant Gryphon changes not his place, And shows how small his fear by act and face.

LXII But when, ap­proach­ing near, he saw the band, He sal­lied forth to meet them by the way; And wield­ing still his sword in ei­ther hand, Made cru­el hav­oc in the close ar­ray. Then on the nar­row bridge re­sumed his stand, Nor there his hunters on­ly held at bay: Anew he sal­lied, and re­turned anew, Aye leav­ing bloody signs when he with­drew.

LXI­II Fore-​stroke and back he deals, and on the ground Horse­men and foot o’erthrows on ev­ery side: This while the am­ple mob the knight sur­round, And more and more the war­fare rages wide. At length Sir Gryphon fears he shall be drowned, (So waxed their num­bers) in the in­creas­ing tide; And hurt in the left shoul­der, through his mail, And thigh, his wind as well be­gins to fail.

LX­IV But Val­our, who so oft be­friends her own, Makes him find grace in No­randi­no’s eyes; Who, while alarmed, he hur­ries there, o’erthrown So many men, such heaps of dead es­pies, While he views wounds, which Hec­tor’s hand alone He weens could deal, — to him all tes­ti­fies That he had put an un­de­served shame Up­on a cav­alier of mighty name.

LXV Next see­ing him more near, whose fal­chion’s sweep Had dealt such deaths amid his chival­ry, And raised about him­self that hor­rid heap, And stained the wa­ter with that bloody dye, He thought that he be­held Ho­ratius keep, Singly, the bridge against all Tus­cany; And vext, and anx­ious to re­move the stain, Re­called his men, and that with lit­tle pain.

LXVI And, lift­ing his bare hand, in sign affied, From an­cient times, of treaty and of truce, Re­pent­ing him, he to Sir Gryphon cried, “It grieves me sore­ly, and I can­not choose But own my sin: let coun­sels which mis­guide, And my own lit­tle wit, such fault ex­cuse. What by the vilest knight I thought to do, I to the best on earth have done in you.

LXVII “And though the bit­ter in­juries and shame That have to thee through ig­no­rance been done, Are equalled, and all can­celled by thy fame, And merged, in truth, in glo­ry thou hast won; What­ev­er sat­is­fac­tion thou canst claim, With­in my pow­er or knowl­edge, count up­on, When I know how atone­ment may be made, By city, cas­tle, or by mon­ey paid.

LXVI­II “De­mand of me this king­dom’s moi­ety, And from this day thou its pos­ses­sor art, Since not alone thy worth de­serves this fee, But mer­its, I with this should give my heart; Then, pledge of faith and last­ing love, to me, In the mean­while, thy friend­ly hand im­part.” So say­ing, from his horse the king de­scend­ed, And to­wards Gryphon his right-​hand ex­tend­ed.

LX­IX When he be­held the monarch’s al­tered cheer, Who bent to clasp his neck, to­wards him paced, His sword and ran­cour laid aside, the peer Him humbly un­der­neath the hips em­braced. King No­ran­dine, who saw the san­guine smear Of his two wounds, bade seek a leech in haste; And bade them soft­ly with the knight re­sort To­wards the town, and lodge him in his court.

LXX Here, wound­ed, he re­mained some days be­fore He could bear arms: but him, in the de­sign Of seek­ing out Sir Aquilant once more, And good As­tolpho, left in Pales­tine, I quit; they vain­ly did his path ex­plore, Af­ter Sir Gryphon left the holy shrine, Through Soly­ma in ev­ery place of note, And many, from the Holy Land re­mote.

LXXI One and the oth­er are alike to seek In the in­quiry where the knight may use; But they en­counter with the pil­grim-​Greek, Who of false Orig­illa gives them news; Re­lat­ing, as of her he haps to speak, That to­wards An­ti­och she her way pur­sues, By a new le­man of that city charmed, Who her with fierce and sud­den flame had warmed.

LXXII Aquilant asked him, if he had pos­sest Sir Gryphon of the news to them con­veyed, Who, hear­ing that he had, sur­mised the rest, — Where he was gone, and by what mo­tive swayed: He fol­lowed Orig­ille, was man­ifest, And had in quest of her for An­ti­och made, To take her from his ri­val, and with view On him some mem­orable scathe to do.

LXXI­II Aquilant brooked not Gryphon such a feat, With­out him, and alone, should thus as­say, And took his ar­mour and pur­sued his beat; But first be­sought the duke he would de­lay To vis­it France and his pa­ter­nal seat, Till he from An­ti­och mea­sured back his way. At Jop­pa he em­barks, who deems by sea The bet­ter and se­cur­er way to be.

LXXIV From the south-​east up-​sprung so strong a breeze, And which for Gryphon’s gal­ley blew so right, That the third day he Tyre’s famed city sees, And less­er Jop­pa quick suc­ceeds to sight. By Zi­bel­lot­to and Baru­ti flees, (Cyprus to lar­board left) the gal­ley light; From Tripoli to Tor­tosa shapes her way, And so to Liz­za and La­jaz­zo’s bay.

LXXV From thence, to­wards the east the pi­lot veered Her ready tiller, prompt his course to scan; And straight­way for the wide Orontes steered, And watched his time, and for the har­bour ran. Aquilant, when his bark the mar­gin neared, Bade low­er the bridge, and is­sued, horse and man, It ar­mour, and along the riv­er wend­ed, Up-​stream, till he his way at An­ti­och end­ed.

LXXVI To in­form him­self of that Mar­tano bent; And heard that he to An­ti­och was ad­drest, With Orig­illa, where a tour­na­ment Was to be sol­em­nized by roy­al hest. To track whom Aquilant was so in­tent, As­sured that Gryphon had pur­sued his quest, He An­ti­och left again that very day, But not by sea again would take his way.

LXXVII He to­wards Lidia and Laris­sa goes, — At rich Alep­po makes a longer stay. God, to make plain that he, even here, be­stows On evil and on good their fit­ting pay, At a league’s dis­tance from Ma­mu­ga, throws Mar­tano in the aveng­ing broth­er’s way, Mar­tano trav­el­ling with the tour­ney’s prize, Dis­played be­fore his horse in showy wise.

LXXVI­II Sir Aquilant be­lieved, at the first show, His broth­er he in vile Mar­tano spied. For arms and vest, more white than vir­gin snow, The cow­ard in the war­rior’s sight be­lied, And sprang to­wards him, with that joy­ful “Oh!” By which de­light is ev­er sig­ni­fied; But changed his look and tone, when, near­er brought He sees that he is not the wight he sought:

LXXIX And through that evil wom­an’s treach­ery, Deemed Gryphon mur­dered by the cav­alier; And, “Tell me,” he ex­claimed, “thou, who must be Traitor and thief — both writ­ten in thy cheer — Whence are these arms? and where­fore do I thee View on the cours­er of my broth­er dear? Say is my broth­er slaugh­tered or alive? How didst thou him of horse and arms de­prive?”

LXXX When Orig­ille hears him, in af­fright She turns her pal­frey, and for flight pre­pares: But Aquilant, more quick, in her de­spite, Ar­rests the traitress, ere she fur­ther fares. At the loud threats of that all fu­ri­ous knight, By whom he so was tak­en un­awares, Mar­tan’ turns pale and trem­bles like a leaf, Nor how to act or an­swer knows the thief.

LXXXI Aquilant thun­dered still, and, to his dread, A fal­chion, point­ed at his gul­let, shewed, And swore with an­gry men­aces, the head From him and Orig­ille should be hewed, Save in all points the very truth be said. Awhile on this ill-​starred Mar­tano chewed, Re­volv­ing still what pre­text he might try To lessen his grave fault, then made re­ply:

LXXXII “Know, sir, you see my sis­ter in this dame, And one of good and vir­tu­ous par­ents born, Though she has late­ly led a life of shame, And been by Gryphon foul­ly brought to scorn; And, for I loathed such blot up­on our name, Yet weened that she could ill by force be torn From such a puis­sant wight, I laid a scheme Her by ad­dress and cun­ning to re­deem.

LXXXI­II “With her I planned the means, who in her breast Nursed the de­sire a bet­ter life to prove, That she, when Gryphon was re­tired to rest, In si­lence from the war­rior should re­move. This done: lest he should fol­low on our quest, And so un­do the web we vain­ly wove, Him we de­prived of horse and arm, and we Are hith­er come to­geth­er, as you see.”

LXXXIV His cun­ning might have proved of good avail, For Aquilant be­lieved him eas­ily; And, save in tak­ing Gryphon’s horse and mail, He to the knight had done no in­jury; But that he wrought so high the specious tale, As man­ifest­ed plain­ly, ’twas a lie. In all ’twas per­fect, save that he the dame Had for his sis­ter vouched with whom he came.

LXXXV Aquilant had in An­ti­och chanced to know She was his con­cu­bine, — well cer­ti­fied Of this by many, — and in fu­ri­ous glow Ex­claimed; “Thou falsest rob­ber, thou hast lied!” And dealt, with that, the recre­ant such a blow, He drove two grinders down his throat; then tied (Not sought Mar­tano with his foe to cope) The caitiff’s arms be­hind him with a rope.

LXXXVI And, though she for ex­cuse tried many wiles, Did thus as well by Orig­ille un­true; And till he reached Dam­as­cus’ lofty piles, Them by town, street, or farm, be­hind him drew: And will a thou­sand times a thou­sand miles, With sor­row and with suf­fer­ing, drag the two, Till he his broth­er find; who, at his plea­sure, May vengeance to the guilty cou­ple mea­sure.

LXXXVII Sir Aquilant made squires and beasts as well Re­turn with him, and to Dam­as­cus came; And heard Renown, through­out the city, swell, Ply­ing her am­ple wings, Sir Gryphon’s name. Here, great and lit­tle — ev­ery one, could tell ‘Twas he that in the tour­ney won such fame, And had, by one that ill de­served his trust, Been cheat­ed of the hon­ours of the just.

LXXXVI­II Point­ing him out to one an­oth­er’s sight, The hos­tile peo­ple all Mar­tano bayed; “And is not this (they cried) that rib­ald wight Who in an­oth­er’s spoils him­self ar­rayed, And who the val­our of a sleep­ing knight, With his own shame and in­famy o’er­laid? And this the wom­an of un­grate­ful mood, Who aids the wicked and be­trays the good?”

LXXXIX Oth­ers ex­claimed, “How fit­ting­ly com­bined, Marked with one stamp, and of one race are they!” Some loud­ly cursed them, and some raved be­hind, While oth­ers shout­ed, “Hang, burn, quar­ter, slay!” The throng to view them prest, with fury blind, And to the square be­fore them made its way. The monarch of the tid­ings was ad­vised, And these above an­oth­er king­dom prized.

XC At­tend­ed with few squires the Syr­ian king, As then he chanced to be, came forth with speed, And with Sir Aquilant en­coun­ter­ing, Who Gryphon had avenged with wor­thy deed, Him hon­oured with fair cheer, and home would bring, And in his palace lodged, as fit­ting meed; Hav­ing the pris­oned pair, with his con­sent, First in the bot­tom of a tur­ret pent.

XCI Thith­er they go, where Gryphon from his bed Has not as yet, since he was wound­ed, stirred; Who at his broth­er’s com­ing wax­es red, Sur­mis­ing well he of his case has heard: And af­ter Aquilant his say had said, And him somedeal re­proached, the three con­ferred As to what penance to the wicked two, So fall­en in­to their hands, was just­ly due.

XCII ‘Tis Aquilant’s, ’tis No­randi­no’s will A thou­sand tor­tures shall their guer­don be: But Gryphon, who the dame alone can ill Ex­cuse, en­treats for both im­puni­ty; And many mat­ters urges with much skill. But well is an­swered: and ’tis ruled, to flea Mar­tano’s body with the hang­man’s scourge, And on­ly short of death his penance urge.

XCI­II Bound is the wretch, but not ‘mid grass and flow­er, Whose limbs be­neath the hang­man’s lash­es burn All the next morn: they prison in the tow­er Orig­ille, till Lu­ci­na shall re­turn; To whom the coun­selling lords re­serve the pow­er To speak the wom­an’s sen­tence, mild or stern. Har­boured, till Gryphon can bear arms, at court, Aquilant fleets the time in fair dis­port.

XCIV The valiant No­randi­no could not choose (Made by such er­ror tem­per­ate and wise), But full of pen­itence and sor­row, muse, With down­cast spir­it, and in mourn­ful guise, On hav­ing bid his men a knight mis­use, Whom all should worthi­ly re­ward and prize; So that he, night and morn­ing, in his thought, How to con­tent the in­jured war­rior sought.

XCV And he de­ter­mined, in the pub­lic sight O’ the city, guilty of that in­jury, With all such hon­our as to per­fect knight Could by a puis­sant monarch ren­dered be, Him with the glo­ri­ous guer­don to re­quite, Which had been rav­ished by such treach­ery: And hence, with­in a month, pro­claimed the in­tent To hold an­oth­er solemn tour­na­ment.

XCVI For which he made what state­ly prepa­ra­tion Was pos­si­ble to make by sceptered king. Hence Fame di­vulged the roy­al procla­ma­tion Through­out all Syr­ia’s land, with nim­ble wing, Phoeni­cia and Pales­tine; till the re­la­tion Of this in good As­tolpho’s ears did ring; Who, with the lord who ruled that land in trust, Re­solved he would be present at the just.

XCVII For a renowned and valiant cav­alier Has the true his­to­ry vaunt­ed, San­son­net, By Roland chris­tened, Charles (I said), the peer Over the Holy Land as ruler set: He with the duke takes up his load, to steer Thith­er, where Ru­mour speaks the cham­pi­ons met. So that his ears, on all sides in the jour­ney, Are filled with tid­ings of Dam­as­cus’ tour­ney.

XCVI­II Thith­er the twain their way those coun­tries through, By easy stages and by slow, ad­drest, That fresh up­on the day of joust the two Might in Dam­as­cus-​town set up their rest. When at the meet­ing of cross-​ways they view A per­son, who, in move­ment and in vest, Ap­pears to be a man, but is a maid; And mar­vel­lous­ly fierce, in mar­tial raid.

XCIX Marphisa was the war­like vir­gin’s name, And such her worth, she oft with naked brand Had pressed Or­lan­do sore in mar­tial game, And him who had Mount Al­ban in com­mand; And ev­er, night and day, the armed dame Scow­ered, here and there, by hill and plain, the land; Hop­ing with er­rant cav­alier to meet, And win im­mor­tal fame by glo­ri­ous feat.

C When San­son­net­to and the En­glish knight She sees ap­proach­ing her, in war­like weed, Who seem two valiant war­riors in her sight, As of large bone, and nerved for doughty deed, On them she fain would prove her mar­tial might, And to de­fy the pair has moved her steed. When, eye­ing the two war­riors, now more near, Marphisa rec­og­nized the duke and peer.

CI His pleas­ing ways she did in mind re­trace, When arms in far Catay with her he bore Called him by name, nor would in iron case; Re­tain her hand, up­raised the casque she wore, And him, ad­vanced, to meet with glad em­brace, Though, of all liv­ing dames and those of yore, The proud­est, she; nor with less cour­te­ous mien The pal­adin salutes the mar­tial queen.

CII They ques­tioned one an­oth­er of their way; And when the duke has said (who first replied) That he Dam­as­cus seeks, where to as­say Their vir­tu­ous deeds, all knights of val­our tried The Syr­ian king in­vites, in mar­tial play, — The bold Marphisa, at his hear­ing cried, (Ev­er to prove her war­like prowess bent) “I will be with you at this tour­na­ment.”

CI­II To have such a com­rade ei­ther cav­alier Is much re­joiced. They to Dam­as­cus go, And in a sub­urb, of the city clear, Are lodged, up­on the day be­fore the show; And, till her aged lover, once so dear, Au­ro­ra roused, their hum­ble roof be­low, In greater ease the weary war­riors rest­ed Than had they been in cost­ly palace guest­ed.

CIV And when the clear and lu­cid sun again Its shin­ing glo­ries all abroad had spread, The beau­teous la­dy armed, and war­riors twain, Hav­ing first couri­ers to the city sped, Who, when ’twas time, re­port­ed to the train, That, to see trun­cheons split in con­test dread, King No­ran­dine had come in­to the square In which the cru­el games ap­point­ed were.

CV Straight to the city ride the mar­tial band, And, through the high-​street, to the crowd­ed place; Where, wait­ing for the roy­al sig­nal, stand, Ranged here and there, the knights of gen­tle race. The guer­dons des­tined to the con­queror’s hand, In that day’s tour­ney, were a tuck and mace Rich­ly adorned, and, with them, such a steed As to the win­ning lord were fit­ting meed.

CVI No­ran­dine, sure that, in the mar­tial game, Both prizes des­tined for the con­quer­ing knight, As well as one and the oth­er tour­ney’s fame, Must be ob­tained by Gryphon, named the white, To give him all that valiant man could claim, Nor could he give the war­rior less, with right, The ar­mour, guer­don of this fi­nal course Placed with the tuck and mace and no­ble horse.

CVII The arms which in the for­mer joust the due Of valiant Gryphon were, who all had gained, (With evil prof­it, by the wretch un­true, Mar­tan’ usurped, who Gryphon’s bear­ing feigned) To be hung up on high in pub­lic view With the rich-​flour­ished tuck, the king or­dained, And fas­tened at the sad­dle of the steed The mace, that Gryphon might win ei­ther meed.

CVI­II But from ef­fect­ing what he had in­tend­ed He was pre­vent­ed by the war­like maid; Who late in­to the crowd­ed square had wend­ed, With San­son­net and Eng­land’s duke ar­rayed, See­ing the arms of which I spoke sus­pend­ed, She straight ag­nized the har­ness she sur­veyed, Once hers, and dear to her; as mat­ters are Es­teemed by us as ex­cel­lent and rare;

CIX Though, as a hin­drance, she up­on the road Had left the arms, when, to re­trieve her sword, She from her shoul­ders slipt the pon­der­ous load, And chased Brunel­lo, wor­thy of the cord. More to re­late were labour ill be­stowed, I deem, nor fur­ther of the tale record. Enough for me, by you ’tis un­der­stood, How here she found anew her ar­mour good.

CX You shall take with you, when by man­ifest And cer­tain to­kens they by her were known, She, for no earth­ly thing, the iron vest And weapons for a day would have fore­gone. She thinks not if this mode or that be best To have them, anx­ious to re­gain her own; But t’wards the arms with hand ex­tend­ed hies, And with­out more re­gard takes down the prize.

CXI And throw­ing some on earth, it chanced that more Than was her own she in her hur­ry took. The Syr­ian king, who was of­fend­ed sore, Raised war against her with a sin­gle look. For ill the wrong his an­gered peo­ple bore, And, to avenge him, lance and fal­chion shook; Re­mem­ber­ing not, on oth­er day, how dear They paid for scathing er­rant cav­alier.

CXII No wish­ful child more joy­ful­ly, ‘mid all The flow­ers of spring-​tide, yel­low, blue, and red, Finds it­self, nor at con­cert or at ball Dame beau­teous and adorned, than ‘mid the tread Of war­like steeds, and din of arms, and fall Of darts, and push of spears. — where blood is shed, And death is dealt, in the tu­mul­tuous throng, — SHE finds her­self be­yond all cre­dence strong.

CXI­II She spurred her cours­er, and with lance in rest, Im­pe­ri­ous at the fool­ish rab­ble made, And — through the neck im­paled or through the breast, — Some pierced, some pros­trate at the en­counter layed. Next this or that she with the fal­chion prest; The head from one she sev­ered with the blade, And from that oth­er cleft: an­oth­er sank, Short of right arm or left, or pierced in flank.

CX­IV Bold San­son­net­to and As­tolpho near, Who had, with her, their limbs in har­ness dight, Though they for oth­er end in arms ap­pear, See­ing the maid and crowd en­gaged in fight, First low­er the hel­met’s vi­zor, next the spear, And with their lances charge the mob out­right: Then bare their fal­chions, and, amid the crew, A pas­sage with the tren­chant weapons hew.

CXV The er­rant cav­aliers who to that stage, To joust, from dif­fer­ent lands had made re­sort, See­ing them war­fare with such fury wage, And in­to mourn­ing changed the ex­pect­ed sport, Be­cause all knew not what had moved the rage Of the in­fu­ri­ate peo­ple in that sort, Nor what the in­sult of­fered to the king, Sus­pend­ed stood in doubt and won­der­ing.

CXVI Of these, some will the crowd­ed rab­ble’s band (Too late re­pen­tant of the feat) be­friend: Those, favour­ing not the na­tives of the land More than the for­eign­ers, to part them wend. Oth­ers more wary, with their reins in hand, Sit watch­ing how the mis­chief is to end. Gryphon and Aquilant are of the throng Which hur­ry for­ward to avenge the wrong.

CXVII The pair of war­like brethren wit­ness­ing The monarch’s drunk­en eyes with ven­om fraught, And hav­ing heard from many in the ring The oc­ca­sion which the fu­ri­ous strife had wrought, Him­self no whit less in­jured than the king Of Syr­ia’s land, of­fend­ed Gryphon thought. Each knight, in haste, sup­plied him­self with spear, And thun­der­ing vengeance drove in full ca­reer.

CXVI­II On Ra­bi­can, pricked forth be­fore his hand, Valiant As­tolpho, from the oth­er bound, With the en­chant­ed lance of gold in hand, Which at the first en­counter bore to ground What knights he smote with it; and on the sand Laid Gryphon first; next Aquilant he found, And scarce­ly touched the bor­der of his shield, Ere he re­versed the war­rior on the field.

CX­IX From lofty sad­dle San­son­net o’erthrew, Fa­mous for price and prowess, many a knight. To the out­let of the square the mob with­drew; The monarch raged with anger and de­spite. Mean­while, of the first cuirass and the new Pos­sest, as well as ei­ther hel­met bright, Marphisa, when she all in flight dis­cerned, Con­queror to­wards her sub­urb-​inn re­turned.

CXX San­son­net and As­tolpho are not slow In fol­low­ing t’wards the gate the mar­tial maid, (The mob di­vid­ing all to let them go) And halt when they have reached the bar­ri­cade. Gryphon and Aquilant, who saw with woe Them­selves on earth at one en­counter laid, Their droop­ing heads, op­prest with shame, de­cline, Nor dare ap­pear be­fore King No­ran­dine.

CXXI Seiz­ing their steeds and mount­ing, ei­ther son Of Oliv­er to seek their foe­men went: With many of his vas­sals too is gone The king; on death or vengeance all in­tent. The fool­ish rab­ble cry, “Lay on, lay on.” And stand at dis­tance and await the event. Gryphon ar­rived where the three friends had gained A bridge, and fac­ing round the post main­tained.

CXXII He, at the first ap­proach, As­tolpho knew, For still the same de­vice had been his wear, Even from the day he charmed Or­ri­lo slew, His horse, his arms the same: him not with care Sir Gryphon had re­marked, nor sted­fast view, When late he joust­ed with him in the square: He knows him here and greets; next prays him show Who the com­pan­ions are that with him go;

CXXI­II And why they had those arms, with­out the fear Of Syr­ia’s king, pulled down, and to his slight. Of his cham­pi­ons Eng­land’s cav­alier, Sir Gryphon cour­te­ous­ly in­formed aright. But lit­tle of those arms, pur­sued the peer, He knew, which were the oc­ca­sion of the fight; But (for he thith­er with Marphisa came And San­son­net) had armed to aid the dame.

CXXIV While he and Gryphon stood in col­lo­quy, Aquilant came, and knew As­tolpho good, Whom he heard speak­ing with his broth­er nigh, And, though of evil pur­pose, changed his mood. Of No­ran­dine’s trooped many, these to spy; But came not nigh the war­riors where they stood: And see­ing them in con­fer­ence, stood clear, Lis­ten­ing, in si­lence, and in­tent to hear.

CXXV Some one who hears Marphisa hold is there, Famed, through the world, for match­less brav­ery, His cours­er turns, and bids the king have care, Save he would lose his Syr­ian chival­ry, To snatch his court, be­fore all slaugh­tered are, From the hand of Death and of Tisi­phone: For that ’twas ver­ily Marphisa, who Had borne away the arms in pub­lic view.

CXXVI As No­ran­dine is told that name of dread, Through the Lev­ant so feared on ev­ery side, Whose men­tion made the hair on many a head Bris­tle, though she was of­ten dis­tant wide. He fears the ill may hap­pen which is said, Un­less against the mis­chief he pro­vide; And hence his meiny, who have changed their ire Al­ready in­to fear, he bids re­tire.

CXXVII The sons of Oliv­er, on the oth­er hand, With San­son­net­to and the En­glish knight, So sup­pli­cate Marphisa, she her brand Puts up, and ter­mi­nates the cru­el fight; And to the monarch next, amid his brand, Cries, proud­ly, “Sir, I know not by what right Thou wouldst this ar­mour, not thine own, present To him who con­quers in thy tour­na­ment.

CXXVI­II “Mine are these arms, which I, up­on a day, Left on the road which leads from Ar­me­ny, Be­cause, par­force a-​foot, I sought to stay A rob­ber, who had sore of­fend­ed me. The truth of this my en­sign may dis­play. Which here is seen, if it be known to thee.” With that she on the plate which sheathed the breast (Cleft in three places) showed a crown im­prest.

CXXIX “To me this an Ar­me­ni­an mer­chant gave, ‘Tis true,” replied the king, “some days ago; And had you raised your voice, the arms to crave, You should have had them, whether yours or no. For, notwith­stand­ing I to Gryphon gave The ar­mour, I so well his na­ture know, He freely would re­sign the gift he earned, That it by me to you might be re­turned.

CXXX “Your al­le­ga­tion needs not to per­suade These arms are yours — that they your im­press bear; Your word suf­fices me, by me more weighed Than all that oth­er wit­ness could de­clare. To grant them yours is but a trib­ute paid To Virtue, wor­thy bet­ter prize to wear. Now have the arms, and let us make ac­cord; And let some fair­er gift the knight re­ward.”

CXXXI Gryphon, who lit­tle had those arms at heart, But much to sat­is­fy the king was bent, Replied: “You rec­om­pense enough im­part, Teach­ing me how your wish­es to con­tent.” — “Here is my hon­our all at sake,” apart, “Meseemeth,” said Marphisa, and forewent Her claim for Gryphon’s sake, with cour­te­ous cheer; And, as his gift, in fine re­ceived the gear.

CXXXII To the city, their re­joic­ings to re­new, In love and peace they mea­sured back their way. Next came the joust, of which the hon­our due, And prize was San­son­net’s; since from the fray Ab­stained As­tolpho and the brethren two, And bold Marphisa, best of that ar­ray, Like faith­ful friends and good com­pan­ions; fain That San­son­net the tour­ney’s meed should gain.

CXXXI­II Eight days or ten in joy and tri­umph dwell The knights with No­ran­dine; but with such strong De­sire of France the war­riors’ bo­soms swell, Which will not let them thence be ab­sent long, They take their leave. Marphisa, who as well Thith­er would go, de­parts the troop among. Marphisa had long time, with sword and lance, De­sired to prove the pal­adins of France;

CXXXIV And make ex­per­iment, if they in­deed Such worth as is by Ru­mour voiced dis­play. San­son­net leaves an­oth­er, in his stead, The city of Jerusalem to sway, And now these five, in cho­sen squadron speed, Who have few peers in prowess, on their way. Dis­mist by No­ran­dine, to Tripoli They wend, and to the neigh­bour­ing haven hie.

CXXXV And there a carack find, about to steer For west­ern coun­tries, tak­ing in her store: They, with the pa­tron, for them­selves and gear, And hors­es, make ac­cord; a sea­man hoar Of Lu­na he: the heav­ens, on all sides clear, Vouch many days’ fair weath­er. From the shore They loose, with sky serene, and ev­ery sail Of the yare ves­sel stretched by favour­ing gale.

CXXXVI The is­land of the amorous de­ity Breathed up­on them an air, in her first port, Which not alone to man does in­jury, But moul­ders iron, and here life is short; — A marsh the cause, — and Na­ture cer­tain­ly Wrongs Fam­agos­ta, poi­son­ing, in such sort, That city with Con­stan­tia’s fen ma­lign, To all the rest of Cyprus so be­nign.

CXXXVII The nox­ious scents that from the mar­ish spring, Af­ter short so­journ there, com­pel their flight. The bar­que to a south-​east­er ev­ery wing Ex­tends, and cir­cles Cyprus to the right, Makes Pa­phos’ is­land next, and, an­chor­ing, The crew and war­riors on the beach alight; Those to ship mer­chan­dize, and these, at leisure, To view the laugh­ing land of Love and Plea­sure.

CXXXVI­II In­land six miles or sev­en from thence, a way Scales, with an easy rise, a pleas­ant hill; Which myr­tle, or­ange, cedar-​tree, and bay, And oth­er per­fumed plants by thou­sands fill; Thyme, mar­jo­ram, cro­cus, rose, and lily gay From odor­if­er­ous leaf such sweets dis­till, That they who sail the sea the fra­grance bland, Scent in each ge­nial gale which blows from land.

CXXXIX A fruit­ful rill, by limpid foun­tain fed, Wa­ters, all round about, the fer­tile space. The land of Venus tru­ly may be said That pass­ing joy­ous and de­light­ful place: For ev­ery maid and wife, who there is bred, Is through the world be­side, un­matched in grace: And Venus wills, till their last hour be tolled, That Love should warm their bo­soms, young and old.

CXL ‘Twas here they heard the same which they be­fore Of the orc and of Lu­ci­na, erst had heard In Syr­ia; how she to re­turn once more In Nicosia, to her lord pre­pared. Thence (a fair wind now blow­ing from the shore) His bark for sea the ready Pa­tron cleared, Hawled up his an­chor, west­ward turned the head Of the good ship, and all his can­vas spread.

CXLI To the north wind, which blew up­on their right, Stretch­ing to sea­ward, they their sails un­tie: When lo! a south-​south-​west­er, which seemed light, In the be­gin­ning, while the sun was high, And af­ter­wards in­creased in force t’wards night, Raised up the sea against them moun­tains high; With such dread flash­es, and loud peals of thun­der, As Heav­en, to swal­low all in fire, would sun­der.

CXLII The clouds their gloomy veil above them strain, Nor suf­fer sun or star to cheer the view. Above the welkin roared, be­neath the main; On ev­ery side the wind and tem­pest grew; Which, with sharp pierc­ing cold and blind­ing rain, Af­flict­ed sore the mis­er­able crew. While aye de­scend­ing night, with deep­er shade, The vext and fear­ful bil­lows over­layed.

CXLI­II The sailors, in this war of wind and flood, Were prompt to man­ifest their vaunt­ed art. One blow­ing through the shrilling whis­tle stood, And with the sig­nal taught the rest their part. One clears the best bow­er an­chor: one is good To low­er, this oth­er to hawl home or start The braces; one from deck the lum­ber cast, And this se­cured the tiller, that the mast.

CXLIV The cru­el wind in­creased through­out the night, Which grew more dis­mal and more dark than hell. The wary Pa­tron stood to sea out­right, Where he be­lieved less bro­ken was the swell; And turned his prow to meet, with ready sleight, The buf­fets of the dread­ful waves which fell; Nev­er with­out some hope, that at day-​break The storm might lull, or else its fury slake.

CXLV It lulls not, nor its fury slakes, but grown Wilder, shows worse by day, — if this be day, Which but by reck­on­ing of the hours is known, And not by any cheer­ing light or ray. Now, with more fear (his weak­er hope o’erthrown). The sor­row­ing Pa­tron to the wind gives way, He veers his bar­que be­fore the cru­el gale, And scow­ers the foam­ing sea with hum­ble sail.

CXLVI While For­tune on the sea an­noys this crew, She grants those oth­ers small re­pose by land, Those left in France, who one an­oth­er slew, — The men of Eng­land and the payn­im band. These bold Ri­nal­do broke and over­threw; Nor troops nor ban­ners spread be­fore him stand: I speak of him, who his Ba­iar­do fleet Had spurred the gal­lant Dar­dinel to meet.

CXLVII The shield, of which Al­montes’ son was vain, That of the quar­ters, good Ri­nal­do spied; And deemed him bold, and of a valiant strain, Who with Or­lan­do’s en­sign dared to ride. Ap­proach­ing near­er, this ap­peared more plain, When heaps of slaugh­tered men he round him eyed. “Bet­ter it were,” he cried, “to over­throw This evil plant, be­fore it shoot and grow.”

CXLVI­II Each to re­treat be­took him, where the peer His face di­rect­ed, and large pas­sage made. Nor less the Sara­cens than faith­ful, clear The way, so rev­er­enced is Fus­ber­ta’s blade. Save Dar­dinel, Mount Al­ban’s cav­alier, Saw none, nor he to chase his prey de­layed. To whom, “He cast up­on thee mick­le care, Poor child, who of that buck­ler left thee heir.

CXLIX “I seek thee out to prove (if thou at­tend My com­ing) how thou keep’st the red and white, For thou, save this from me thou canst de­fend, Canst ill de­fend it from Or­lan­do’s might.” To him the king: “Now clear­ly com­pre­hend, I what I bear, as well de­fend in fight; And I more hon­our hope than trou­ble dread From my pa­ter­nal quar­ter­ing, white and red.

CL “Have thou no hope to make me fly, or yield To thee my quar­ters, though a child I be; My life shalt thou take from me, if my shield; But I, in God, well hope the con­trary. — This as it may! — shall none, in fight­ing field, Say that I ev­er shamed my an­ces­try.” So said, and grasp­ing in his hand the sword, The youth­ful king as­sailed Mount Al­ban’s lord.

CLI Up­on all parts, a freez­ing fear goes through The heart blood of each trem­bling payn­im nigh, When they amazed the fierce Ri­nal­do view; Who charged the monarch with such en­mi­ty, As might a li­on, which a bul­lock, new To stings of love, should in a mead­ow spy. The Moor smote first, but fruit­less was his task, Who beat in vain up­on Mam­bri­no’s casque.

CLII Ri­nal­do smiled, and said: “I’d have thee know If I am bet­ter skilled to find the vein.” He spurs, and lets with that the bri­dle go, And a thrust push­es with such might and main, — A thrust against the bo­som of his foe, That at his back the blade ap­pears again. Forth is­sued blood and soul, and from his sell Life­less and cold the reel­ing body fell.

CLI­II As lan­guish­es the flow­er of pur­ple hue, Which lev­elled by the pass­ing ploughshare lies; Or as the pop­py, over­charged with dew, In gar­den droops its head in piteous wise: From life the lead­er of Zu­mara’s crew So past, his vis­age los­ing all its dyes; So passed from life; and per­ished with their king, The heart and hope of all his fol­low­ing.

CLIV As wa­ters will some­time their course de­lay, Stag­nant, and penned in pool by hu­man skill, Which, when the op­pos­ing dyke is broke away, Fall, and with mighty noise the coun­try fill: ‘Twas so the Africans, who had some stay, While Dar­dinel­lo val­our did in­stil, Fled here and there, dis­mayed on ev­ery side, When they him hurtling form his sell de­scried.

CLV Let­ting the fly­ers fly, of those who stand Firm in their place, Ri­nal­do breaks the ar­ray; Ar­io­dantes kills on ev­ery hand; Who ranks well nigh Ri­nal­do on that day. These Leonet­to’s, those Zerbino’s brand O’er­turns, all ri­vals in the glo­ri­ous fray. Well Charles and Oliv­er their parts have done, Turpin and Ogi­er, Gui­do and Sa­lomon.

CLVI In per­il were the Moors, that none again Should vis­it Hea­theness, that day op­prest: But that the wise and wary king of Spain, Gath­ered, and from the field bore off the rest: To sit down with his loss he bet­ter gain Es­teemed, that here to haz­ard purse and vest: Bet­ter some rem­nant of the host to save, Than bid whole squadrons stand and find a grave.

CLVII He bids forth­with the Moor­ish en­signs be Borne to the camp, which fos­se and ram­part span. With the bold monarch of An­dol­ogy, The valiant Por­tuguese, and Stordi­lan. He sends to pray the king of Bar­bary, To en­deav­our to re­tire, as best be can; Who will no lit­tle praise that day de­serve, If he his per­son and his place pre­serve.

CLVI­II That king, who deemed him­self in des­per­ate case, Nor ev­er more Bis­er­ta hoped to see; For, with so hor­ri­ble and foul a face He nev­er For­tune had be­held, with glee Heard that Mar­sil­ius had con­trived to place Part of his host in full se­cu­ri­ty; And faced about his ban­ners and bade beat Through­out his bro­ken squadrons a re­treat.

CLIX But the best por­tion nei­ther sig­nal knew, Nor lis­tened to the drum or trum­pet’s sound. So scared, so crowd­ed is the wretched crew, That many in Seine’s neigh­bour­ing stream are drowned, Agra­mant, who would form the band anew, (With him So­bri­no) scow­ers the squadrons round; And with them ev­ery lead­er good com­bines To bring the rout­ed host with­in their lines.

CLX But nought by sovereign or So­bri­no done, Who, toil­ing, them with prayer or men­ace stirred, To march, where their ill-​fol­lowed flags are gone. Can bring (I say not all) not even a third. Slaugh­tered or put to flight are two for one Who ’scapes, — nor he un­harmed: among that herd, Wound­ed is this be­hind, and that be­fore, And wea­ried, one and all, and ha­rassed sore.

CLXI And even with­in their lines, in pan­ic sore, They by the Chris­tian bands are held in chase; And of all need­ful mat­ters lit­tle store Was made there, for pro­vi­sion­ing the place. Charle­magne wise­ly by the lock be­fore Would grap­ple For­tune, when she turned her face, But that dark night up­on the field de­scend­ed, And hushed all earth­ly mat­ters and sus­pend­ed:

CLXII By the Cre­ator hap­ly has­tened, who Was moved to pity for the works he made. The blood in tor­rents ran the coun­try through, Flood­ing the roads: while on the cham­paign laid Were eighty thou­sand of the payn­im crew, Cut off that day by the de­stroy­ing blade: Last trooped from cav­erns, at the mid­night hour, Vil­lain and wolf to spoil them and de­vour.

CLXI­II King Charles re­turns no more with­in the town, But camps with­out the city, op­po­site The Moor’s can­ton­ments, and bids up and down, And round, high-​piled and fre­quent watch-​fires light. The payn­im fash­ions ditch and bas­tion, Ram­part and mine, and all things req­ui­site; Vis­its his out­posts and his guards alarms, Nor all the live­long night puts off his arms.

CLX­IV That live­long night the foes, through­out their tents, As in­se­cure and with their scathe de­prest, Poured tears, and ut­tered mur­murs and laments; But, as they could, their sounds of woe sup­prest. One grief for slaugh­tered friends or kin­dred vents; Some are by sor­rows of their own dis­trest, As wound­ed or as ill at ease; but more Trem­ble at mis­chief which they deem in store.

CLXV Two Moors amid the payn­im army were, From stock ob­scure in Ptolomi­ta grown; Of whom the sto­ry, an ex­am­ple rare Of con­stant love, is wor­thy to be known: Medoro and Clori­dan were named the pair; Who, whether For­tune pleased to smile or frown, Served Dar­dinel­lo with fi­deli­ty, And late with him to France had crost the sea.

CLXVI Of nim­ble frame and strong was Clori­dane, Through­out his life a fol­low­er of the chase. A cheek of white, suf­fused with crim­son grain, Medoro had, in youth a pleas­ing grace. Nor bound on that em­prize, ‘mid all the train, Was there a fair­er or more jo­cund face. Crisp hair he had of gold, and jet-​black eyes: And seemed an an­gel light­ed from the skies.

CLXVII These two were post­ed on a ram­part’s height, With more to guard the en­camp­ment from sur­prise, When ‘mid the equal in­ter­vals, at night, Medoro gazed on heav­en with sleepy eyes. In all his talk, the stripling, wo­ful wight, Here can­not choose, but of his lord de­vise, The roy­al Dar­dinel; and ev­er­more Him, left un­honoured on the field, de­plore.

CLXVI­II Then, turn­ing to his mate, cries: “Clori­dane, I can­not tell thee what a cause of woe It is to me, my lord up­on the plain Should lie, un­wor­thy food for wolf or crow! Think­ing how still to me he was hu­mane, Meseems, if in his hon­our I forego This life of mine, for favours so im­mense I shall but make a fee­ble rec­om­pense.

CLX­IX “That he may lack not sepul­ture, will I Go forth, and seek him out among the slain; And hap­ly God may will that none shall spy Where Charles’s camp lies hushed. Do thou re­main; That, if my death be writ­ten in the sky, Thou may’st the deed be able to ex­plain. So that if For­tune foil so fear a feat, The world, through Fame, my lov­ing heart may weet.”

CLXX Amazed was Clori­dan a child should show Such heart, such love, and such fair loy­al­ty; And fain would make the youth his though forego, Whom he held pass­ing dear; but fruit­less­ly Would move his sted­fast pur­pose; for such woe Will nei­ther com­fort­ed nor al­tered be. Medoro is dis­posed to meet his doom, Or to en­close his mas­ter in the tomb.

CLXXI See­ing that nought would bend him, nought would move, “I too will go,” was Clori­dan’s re­ply, “In such a glo­ri­ous act my­self will prove; As well such fa­mous death I cov­er, I: What oth­er thing is left me, here above, De­prived of thee, Medoro mine? To die With thee in arms is bet­ter, on the plain, Than af­ter­wards of grief, should’st thou be slain.”

CLXXII And thus re­solved, dis­pos­ing in their place Their guard’s re­lief, de­part the youth­ful pair, Leave fos­se and pal­isade, and, in small space, Are among ours, who watch with lit­tle care: Who, for they lit­tle fear the payn­im race, Slum­ber with fires ex­tin­guished ev­ery­where. ‘Mid car­riages and arms, they lie supine Up to the eyes, im­mersed in sleep and wine.

CLXXI­II A mo­ment Clori­dano stopt and cried: “Not to be lost are op­por­tu­ni­ties. This troop, by whom my mas­ter’s blood was shed, Medoro, ought not I to sac­ri­fice? Do thou, lest any one this way be led, Watch ev­ery­where about, with ears and eyes. For a wide way, amid the hos­tile horde, I of­fer here to make thee with my sword.”

CLXXIV So said he, and his talk cut quick­ly short, Com­ing where learned Alpheus slum­bered nigh; Who had the year be­fore sought Charles’s court, In medicine, mag­ic, and as­trol­ogy Well versed; but now in art found small-​sup­port, Or rather found that it was all a lie. He had fore­seen, that he his long-​drawn life Should fin­ish in the bo­som of his wife.

CLXXV And now the Sara­cen with wary view Has pierced his weasand with the point­ed sword. Four oth­ers he neat that Di­vin­er, slew, Nor gave the wretch­es time to say a word. Sir Turpin in his sto­ry tells not who, And Time had of their names ef­faced record. Pali­don of Mon­calier next he speeds; One who se­cure­ly sleeps be­tween two steeds.

CLXXVI Next came the war­rior where, with limbs out­spread, Pil­lowed on bar­rel, lay the wretched Gryll: This he had drained, and undis­turbed by dread, Hoped to en­joy a peace­ful sleep and still. The dar­ing Sara­cen lopt off his head, Blood is­sues from the tap-​hole, with a rill Of wine; and he, well drenched with many a can, Dreams that he drinks, dis­patched by Clori­dan.

CLXXVII Next Gryll, An­dro­pono and Con­rad hight, A Greek and Ger­man, at two thrusts he gored, Who in the air had past large part of night With dice and gob­let; blest it at that board They still had watched, till, clothed in am­ber light, The ra­di­ant sun had tra­versed In­dus’ ford! But mor­tals Des­tiny would set at nought If ev­ery wight fu­tu­ri­ty were taught.

CLXXVI­II As, in full fold, a li­on long un­fed, Whom wast­ing famine had made lean and spare, De­vours and rends, and swal­lows, and lays dead The fee­ble flock, which at his mer­cy are; So, in their sleep, the cru­el payn­im bled Our host, and made wide slaugh­ter ev­ery­where: Nor blunt­ed was the young Medoro’s sword, But he dis­dained to smite the ig­no­ble horde.

CLXXIX He to Labret­to’s duke, leav­ing those dead, Had come, who slum­bered with a gen­tle mate, Each clasp­ing each so close­ly in their bed, That air be­tween them could not pen­etrate. From both Medoro clean­ly lopt the head. Oh! blessed way of death! oh! hap­py fate! For ’tis my trust, that as their bod­ies, so Their souls em­brac­ing to their bourne shall go.

CLXXX Ma­lin­do, with An­dal­ico, he slew, His broth­er, sons to the earl of Flan­ders they: To whom has bear­ings (each to arms was new) Charles had the lilies giv­en; be­cause that day The monarch had be­held the valiant two With crim­soned staves, re­turn­ing from the fray; And them with lands in Flan­ders vowed to glad; And would, but that Medoro this for­bad.

CLXXXI Rear­ing the in­sid­ious blade, the pair are near The place, where round King Charles’ pavil­ion Are tent­ed war­like pal­adin and peer, Guard­ing the side that each is camped up­on. When in good time the payn­ims back­ward steer, And sheathe their swords, the im­pi­ous slaugh­ter done; Deem­ing im­pos­si­ble, in such a num­ber, But they must light on one who does not slum­ber.

CLXXXII And though they might es­cape well charged with prey, To save them­selves they think suf­fi­cient gain. Thith­er by what he deems the safest way (Medoro fol­low­ing him) went Clori­dane Where, in the field, ‘mid bow and fal­chion, lay, And shield and spear, in pool of pur­ple stain, Wealthy and poor, the king and vas­sal’s corse, And over­thrown the rid­er and his horse.

CLXXXI­II The hor­rid mix­ture of the bod­ies there Which heaped the plain where roved these com­rades sworn, Might well have ren­dered vain their faith­ful care Amid the mighty piles, till break of morn, Had not the moon, at young Medoro’s prayer, Out of a gloomy cloud put forth her horn. Medoro to the heav­ens up­turns his eyes To­wards the moon, and thus de­vout­ly cries:

CLXXXIV “O holy god­dess! whom our fa­thers well Have styled as of a triple form, and who Thy sovereign beau­ty dost in heav­en, and hell, And earth, in many forms re­veal; and through The green­wood holt, of beast and mon­ster fell, — A huntress bold — the fly­ing steps pur­sue, Show where my king, amid so many lies, Who did, alive, thy holy stud­ies prize.”

CLXXXV At the youth’s prayer from part­ed cloud out­shone (Were it the work of faith or ac­ci­dent) The moon, as fair, as when Endymion She cir­cled in her naked arms: with tent, Chris­tian or Sara­cen, was Paris-​town Seen in that gleam, and hill and plain’s ex­tent. With these Mount Mar­tyr and Mount Levy’s height, This on the left, and that up­on the right.

CLXXXVI The sil­very splen­dor glis­tened yet more clear, There where renowned Al­montes’ son lay dead. Faith­ful Medoro mourned his mas­ter dear, Who well ag­nized the quar­ter­ing white and red, With vis­age bathed in many a bit­ter tear (For he a rill from ei­ther eye­lid shed), And piteous act and moan, that might have whist The winds, his melan­choly plaint to list;

CLXXXVII But with a voice sup­prest: not that he aught Re­gards if any one the noise should hear, Be­cause he of his life takes any thought; Of which loathed bur­den he would fain be clear; But, lest his be­ing heard should bring to nought The pi­ous pur­pose which has brought them here. The youths the king up­on their shoul­ders stowed; And so be­tween them­selves di­vide the load.

CLXXXVI­II Hur­ry­ing their steps, they has­tened, as they might, Un­der the cher­ished bur­den they con­veyed; And now ap­proach­ing was the lord of light, To sweep from heav­en the stars, from earth the shade. When good Zerbino, he, whose valiant sprite Was ne’er in time of need by sleep down-​weighed, From chas­ing Moors all night, his home­ward way Was tak­ing to the camp at dawn of day.

CLXXXIX He has with him some horse­men in his train, That from afar the two com­pan­ions spy. Ex­pect­ing thus some spoil or prize to gain, They, ev­ery one, to­wards that quar­ter hie. “Broth­er, be­hoves us,” cried young Clori­dane, “To cast away the load we bear, and fly: For ’twere a fool­ish thought (might well be said) To lose two liv­ing men, to save one dead:

CXC And dropt the bur­den, ween­ing his Medore Had done the same by it, up­on his side: But that poor boy, who loved his mas­ter more, His shoul­ders to the weight, alone, ap­plied; Clori­dan hur­ry­ing with all haste be­fore, Deem­ing him close be­hind him or be­side; Who, did he know his dan­ger, him to save A thou­sand deaths, in­stead of one, would brave.

CX­CI Those horse­men, with in­tent to make the two Yield them­selves pris­on­ers to their band, or die, Some here, some there, dis­perse the cham­paign through, And ev­ery pass and out­let oc­cu­py. The cap­tain, lit­tle dis­tant from his crew, Is keen­er than the rest the chase to ply; And, when he sees them hur­ry­ing in such guise, Is cer­tain that the twain are en­emies.

CXCII Of old an an­cient for­est clothed that lair, Of trees and un­der­wood a tan­gled maze; Of sal­vage beasts alone the wild re­pair, And, like a labyrinth, full of nar­row ways: Here from the boughs such shel­ter hope the pair As may con­ceal them well from hos­tile gaze. But him I shall ex­pect who loves the rhyme, To lis­ten to my tale some oth­er time.