Orlando Furioso

CANTO 1

AR­GU­MENT An­gel­ica, whom press­ing dan­ger frights, Flies in dis­or­der through the green­wood shade. Ri­nal­do’s horse es­capes: he, fol­low­ing, fights Fer­rau, the Spaniard, in a for­est glade. A sec­ond oath the haughty payn­im plights, And keeps it bet­ter than the first he made. King Sac­ripant re­gains his long-​lost trea­sure; But good Ri­nal­do mars his promised plea­sure.

I OF LOVES and LADIES, KNIGHTS and ARMS, I sing, Of COUR­TE­SIES, and many a DAR­ING FEAT; And from those an­cient days my sto­ry bring, When Moors from Afric passed in hos­tile fleet, And rav­aged France, with Agra­mant their king, Flushed with his youth­ful rage and fu­ri­ous heat, Who on king Charles’, the Ro­man em­per­or’s head Had vowed due vengeance for Troy­ano dead.

II In the same strain of Roland will I tell Things unat­tempt­ed yet in prose or rhyme, On whom strange mad­ness and rank fury fell, A man es­teemed so wise in for­mer time; If she, who to like cru­el pass has well Nigh brought my fee­ble wit which fain would climb And hourly wastes my sense, con­cede me skill And strength my dar­ing promise to ful­fil.

III Good seed of Her­cules, give ear and deign, Thou that this age’s grace and splen­dour art, Hip­poli­tus, to smile up­on his pain Who ten­ders what he has with hum­ble heart. For though all hope to quit the score were vain, My pen and pages may pay the debt in part; Then, with no jeal­ous eye my of­fer­ing scan, Nor scorn my gifts who give thee all I can.

IV And me, amid the wor­thi­est shalt thou hear, Whom I with fit­ting praise pre­pare to grace, Record the good Rogero, valiant peer, The an­cient root of thine il­lus­tri­ous race. Of him, if thou wilt lend a will­ing ear, The worth and war­like feats I shall re­trace; So thou thy graver cares some lit­tle time Post­pon­ing, lend thy leisure to my rhyme.

V Roland, who long the la­dy of Catay, An­gel­ica, had loved, and with his brand Raised count­less tro­phies to that damsel gay, In In­dia, Me­di­an, and Tar­tar­ian land, West­ward with her had mea­sured back his way; Where, nigh the Pyre­nees, with many a band Of Ger­many and France, King Charle­magne Had camped his faith­ful host up­on the plain.

VI To make King Agra­mant, for penance, smite His cheek, and rash Mar­sil­ius rue the hour; This, when all trained with lance and sword to fight, He led from Africa to swell his pow­er; That oth­er when he pushed, in fell de­spite, Against the realm of France Spain’s mar­tial flow­er. ‘Twas thus Or­lan­do came where Charles was tent­ed In evil hour, and soon the deed re­pent­ed.

VII For here was seized his dame of peer­less charms, (How of­ten hu­man judg­ment wan­ders wide)! Whom in long war­fare he had kept from harms, From west­ern climes to east­ern shores her guide In his own land, ‘mid friends and kin­dred arms, Now with­out con­test sev­ered from his side. Fear­ing the mis­chief kin­dled by her eyes, From him the pru­dent em­per­or reft the prize.

VI­II For bold Or­lan­do and his cousin, free Ri­nal­do, late con­tend­ed for the maid, En­am­ored of that beau­ty rare; since she Alike the glow­ing breast of ei­ther swayed. But Charles, who lit­tle liked such ri­val­ry, And drew an omen thence of fee­bler aid, To abate the cause of quar­rel, seized the fair, And placed her in Bavar­ian Na­mus’ care.

IX Vow­ing with her the war­rior to con­tent, Who in that con­flict, on that fa­tal day, With his good hand most gain­ful suc­cour lent, And slew most payn­ims in the mar­tial fray. But counter to his hopes the bat­tle went, And his thinned squadrons fled in dis­ar­ray; Na­mus, with oth­er Chris­tian cap­tains tak­en, And his pavil­ion in the rout for­sak­en.

X There, lodged by Charles, that gen­tle bon­ni­bel, Or­dained to be the valiant vic­tor’s meed, Be­fore the event had sprung in­to her sell, And from the com­bat turned in time of need; Pre­sag­ing wise­ly For­tune would rebel That fa­tal day against the Chris­tian creed: And, en­ter­ing a thick wood, dis­cov­ered near, In a close path, a horse­less cav­alier.

XI With shield up­on his arm, in knight­ly wise, Belt­ed and mailed, his hel­met on his head; The knight more light­ly through the for­est hies Than half-​clothed churl to win the cloth of red. But not from cru­el snake more swift­ly flies The timid shep­herdess, with star­tled tread, Than poor An­gel­ica the bri­dle turns When she the ap­proach­ing knight on foot dis­cerns.

XII This was that Pal­adin, good Ay­mon’s seed, Who Mount Al­bano had in his com­mand; And late Ba­iar­do lost, his gal­lant steed, Es­caped by strange ad­ven­ture from his hand. As soon as seen, the maid who rode at speed The war­rior knew, and, while yet dis­tant, scanned The an­gel­ic fea­tures and the gen­tle air Which long had held him fast in Cu­pid’s snare.

XI­II The af­fright­ed damsel turns her pal­frey round, And shakes the float­ing bri­dle in the wind; Nor in her pan­ic seeks to choose her ground, Nor open grove prefers to thick­et blind. But reck­less, pale and trem­bling, and as­tound, Leaves to her horse the de­vi­ous way to find. He up and down the for­est bore the dame, Till to a syl­van riv­er’s bank he came.

XIV Here stood the fierce Fer­rau in gris­ly plight, Be­grimed with dust, and bathed with sweat and blood Who late­ly had with­drawn him from the fight, To rest and drink at that re­fresh­ing flood: But there had tar­ried in his own de­spite, Since bend­ing from the bank, in hasty mood, He dropped his hel­met in the crys­tal tide, And vain­ly to re­gain the trea­sure tried.

XV Thith­er at speed she drives, and ev­er­more In her wild pan­ic ut­ters fear­ful cries; And at the voice, up­leap­ing on the shore, The Sara­cen her love­ly vis­age spies. And, pale as is her cheek, and trou­bled sore, Ar­riv­ing, quick­ly to the war­rior’s eyes (Though many days no news of her had shown) The beau­ti­ful An­gel­ica is known.

XVI Cour­te­ous, and hap­ly gift­ed with a breast As warm as ei­ther of the cousins two; As bold, as if his brows in steel were dressed, The suc­cour which she sought he lent, and drew His faul­chion, and against Ri­nal­do pressed, Who saw with lit­tle fear the cham­pi­on true. Not on­ly each to each was known by sight, But each had proved in arms his foe­man’s might.

XVII Thus, as they are, on foot the war­riors vie In cru­el strife, and blade to blade op­pose; No mar­vel plate or brit­tle mail should fly, When anvils had not stood the deaf­en­ing blows. It now be­hoves the pal­frey swift to ply His feet; for while the knights in com­bat close, Him vexed to ut­most speed, with goad­ing spurs, By waste or wood the fright­ed damsel stirs.

XVI­II Af­ter the two had strug­gled long to throw Each oth­er in the strife, and vain­ly still; Since nei­ther valiant war­rior was be­low His op­po­site in force and knight­ly skill: The first to par­ley with his Span­ish foe Was the good mas­ter of Al­bano’s hill (As one with­in whose rag­ing breast was pent A reck­less fire which strug­gled for a vent).

XIX “Thou think’st,” he said, “to in­jure me alone, But know thou wilt thy­self as much mo­lest: For if we fight be­cause yon ris­ing sun This rag­ing heat has kin­dled in thy breast. What were thy gain, and what the guer­don won, Though I should yield my life, or stoop my crest; If she shall nev­er be thy glo­ri­ous meed, Who flies, while vain­ly we in bat­tle bleed?

XX “Then how much bet­ter, since our stake’s the same, Thou, lov­ing like my­self, should’st mount and stay To wait this bat­tle’s end, the love­ly dame, Be­fore she fly yet fur­ther on her way. The la­dy tak­en, we re­peat our claim With naked faul­chion to that peer­less prey: Else by long toil I see not what we gain But sim­ple loss and un­re­quit­ed pain.”

XXI The peer’s pro­pos­al pleased the payn­im well. And so their hot con­tention was fore­gone; And such fair truce re­placed that dis­cord fell, So mu­tu­al wrongs for­got and mis­chief done; That for de­par­ture seat­ed in his sell, On foot the Spaniard left not Ay­mon’s son; But him to mount his cours­er’s crup­per prayed; And both unit­ed chased the roy­al maid.

XXII Oh! good­ly truth in cav­aliers of old! Ri­vals they were, to dif­fer­ent faith were bred. Not yet the weary war­riors’ wounds were cold — Still smart­ing from those strokes so fell and dread. Yet they to­geth­er ride by waste and wold, And, un­sus­pect­ing, de­vi­ous din­gle thread. Them, while four spurs in­fest his foam­ing sides, Their cours­er brings to where the way di­vides.

XXI­II And now the war­like pair at fault, for they Knew not by which she might her pal­frey goad, (Since both, with­out dis­tinc­tion, there sur­vey The re­cent print of hoofs on ei­ther road), Com­mit the chase to for­tune. By this way The payn­im pricked, by that Ri­nal­do strode. But fierce Fer­rau, be­wil­dered in the wood, Found him­self once again where late he stood.

XXIV Be­side the wa­ter, where he stoop’d to drink, And dropt the knight­ly hel­met, — to his cost, Sunk in the stream; and since he could not think Her to re­trieve, who late his hopes had crossed. He, where the trea­sure fell, de­scends the brink Of that swift stream, and seeks the mori­on lost. But the casque lies so bed­ded in the sands, ‘Twill ask no light en­deav­our at his hands.

XXV A bough he sev­ers from a neigh­bour­ing tree, And shreds and shapes the branch in­to a pole: With this he sounds the stream, and anx­ious­ly Fath­oms, and rakes, and ran­sacks shelf and hole. While an­gered sore at heart, and rest­less, he So lin­gered, where the trou­bled wa­ters roll, Breast-​high, from the mid riv­er rose up­right, The ap­pari­tion of an an­gry knight.

XXVI Armed at all points he was, ex­cept his head, And in his bet­ter hand a hel­met bore: The very casque, which in the riv­er’s bed Fer­rau sought vain­ly, toil­ing long and sore. Up­on the Span­ish knight he frowned, and said: “Thou traitor to thy word, thou per­jured Moor, Why grieve the good­ly hel­met to re­sign, Which, due to me long since, is just­ly mine?

XXVII “Re­mem­ber, pa­gan, when thine arm laid low The broth­er of An­gel­ica. That knight Am I; — thy word was plight­ed then to throw Af­ter my oth­er arms his hel­met bright. If For­tune now com­pel thee to forego The prize, and do my will in thy de­spite, Grieve not at this, but rather grieve that thou Art found a per­jured traitor to thy vow.

XXVI­II “But if thou seek’st a hel­met, be thy task To win and wear it more to thy renown. A no­ble prize were good Or­lan­do’s casque; Ri­nal­do’s such, or yet a fair­er crown; Al­montes’, or Mam­bri­no’s iron masque: Make one of these, by force of arms, thine own. And this good helm will fit­ly be be­stowed Where (such thy promise) it has long been owed.”

XXIX Bris­tled the payn­im’s ev­ery hair at view Of that grim shade, up­ris­ing from the tide, And van­ished was his fresh and health­ful hue, While on his lips the half-​formed ac­cents died. Next hear­ing Ar­galia, whom he slew, (So was the war­rior hight) that stream be­side, Thus his un­knight­ly breach of promise blame, He burned all over, flushed with rage and shame.

XXX Nor hav­ing time his false­hood to ex­cuse, And know­ing well how true the phan­tom’s lore, Stood speech­less; such re­morse the words in­fuse. Then by Lan­fusa’s life the war­rior swore, Nev­er in fight, or for­ay would he use Hel­met but that which good Or­lan­do bore From As­pra­mont, where bold Al­montes paid His life a for­feit to the Chris­tian blade.

XXXI And this new vow dis­charged more faith­ful­ly Than the vain promise which was whilom plight; And from the stream de­part­ing heav­ily, Was many days sore vexed and grieved in sprite; And still in­tent to seek Or­lan­do, he Roved where­soe’er he hoped to find the knight. A dif­fer­ent lot be­fel Ri­nal­do; who Had chanced an­oth­er path­way to pur­sue.

XXXII For far the war­rior fared not, ere he spied, Bound­ing across the path, his gal­lant steed, And, “Stay, Ba­yardo mine,” Ri­nal­do cried, “Too cru­el care the loss of thee does breed.” The horse for this re­turned not to his side, Deaf to his prayer, but flew with bet­ter speed. Fu­ri­ous, in chase of him, Ri­nal­do hies. But fol­low we An­gel­ica, who flies.

XXXI­II Through drea­ry woods and dark the damsel fled, By rude un­har­boured heath and sav­age height, While ev­ery leaf or spray that rus­tled, bred (Of oak, or elm, or beech), such new af­fright, She here and there her foam­ing pal­frey sped By strange and crooked paths with fu­ri­ous flight; And at each shad­ow, seen in val­ley blind, Or moun­tain, feared Ri­nal­do was be­hind.

XXXIV As a young roe or fawn of fal­low deer, Who, mid the shel­ter of its na­tive glade, Has seen a hun­gry pard or tiger tear The bo­som of its bleed­ing dam, dis­mayed, Bounds, through the for­est green in cease­less fear Of the de­stroy­ing beast, from shade to shade, And at each sapling touched, amid its pangs, Be­lieves it­self be­tween the mon­ster’s fangs,

XXXV One day and night, and half the fol­low­ing day, The damsel wan­ders wide, nor whith­er knows; Then en­ters a deep wood, whose branch­es play, Moved light­ly by the fresh­en­ing breeze which blows. Through this two clear and mur­mur­ing rivers stray: Up­on their banks a fresh­er herbage grows; While the twin streams their pas­sage slow­ly clear, Make mu­sic with the stones, and please the ear.

XXXVI Ween­ing re­moved the way by which she wends, A thou­sand miles from loathed Ri­nal­do’s beat, To rest her­self a while the maid in­tends, Wea­ried with that long flight and sum­mer’s heat. She from her sad­dle ‘mid spring flow­ers de­scends And takes the bri­dle from her cours­er fleet. And loose along the riv­er lets him pass, Rov­ing the banks in search of lusty grass.

XXXVII Be­hold! at hand a thick­et she sur­veys Gay with the flow­er­ing thorn and ver­meil rose: The tuft re­flect­ed in the stream which strays Be­side it, over­shad­ow­ing oaks en­close. Hol­low with­in, and safe from vul­gar gaze, It seemed a place con­struct­ed for re­pose; With bows so in­ter­wo­ven, that the light Pierced not the tan­gled screen, far less the sight.

XXXVI­II With­in soft moss and herbage form a bed; And to de­lay and rest the trav­eller woo. ‘Twas there her limbs the weary damsel spread, Her eye-​balls bathed in slum­ber’s balmy dew. But lit­tle time had eased her droop­ing head, Ere, as she weened, a cours­er’s tramp she knew. Soft­ly she ris­es, and the riv­er near, Armed cap-​a-​pie, be­holds a cav­alier.

XXXIX If friend or foe, she noth­ing com­pre­hends, (So hope and fear her doubt­ing bo­som tear) And that ad­ven­ture’s is­sue mute at­tends, Nor even with a sigh dis­turbs the air. The cav­alier up­on the bank de­scends; And sits so mo­tion­less, so lost in care, (His vis­age propt up­on his arm) to sight Changed in­to sense­less stone ap­peared the knight.

XL Pen­sive, above an hour, with droop­ing head, He rest­ed mute, ere he be­gan his moan; And then his piteous tale of sor­row said, Lament­ing in so soft and sweet a tone, He in a tiger’s breast had pity bred, Or with his mourn­ful wail­ings rent a stone. And so he sighed and wept; like rivers flowed His tears, his bo­som like an Aet­na glowed.

XLI “Thought which now makes me burn, now freeze with hate, Which gnaws my heart and ran­kles at its root! What’s left to me,” he said, “ar­rived too late, While one more favoured bears away the fruit? Bare words and looks scarce cheered my hope­less state, And the prime spoils re­ward an­oth­er’s suit. Then since for me nor fruit nor blos­som hangs, Why should I longer pine in hope­less pangs?

XLII “The vir­gin has her im­age in the rose Shel­tered in gar­den on its na­tive stock, Which there in soli­tude and safe re­pose, Blooms un­ap­proached by shep­erd or by flock. For this earth teems, and fresh­en­ing wa­ter flows, And breeze and dewy dawn their sweets un­lock: With such the wist­ful youth his bo­som dress­es. With such the en­am­ored damsel braids her tress­es.

XLI­II “But wan­ton hands no soon­er this dis­place From the ma­ter­nal stem, where it was grown, Than all is with­ered; what­so­ev­er grace It found with man or heav­en; bloom, beau­ty, gone. The damsel who should hold in high­er place Than light or life the flow­er which is her own, Suf­fer­ing the spoil­er’s hand to crop the prize, For­feits her worth in ev­ery oth­er’s eyes.

XLIV “And be she cheap with all ex­cept the wight On whom she did so large a boon be­stow. Ah! false and cru­el For­tune! foul de­spite! While oth­ers tri­umph, I am drown’d in woe. And can it be that I such trea­sure slight? And can I then my very life forego? No! let me die; ’twere hap­pi­ness above A longer life, if I must cease to love.”

XLV If any ask who made this sor­row­ing, And pour’d in­to the stream so many tears, I an­swer, it was fair Cir­cas­sia’s king, That Sac­ripant, op­pressed with amorous cares. Love is the source from which his trou­bles spring, The sole oc­ca­sion of his pains and fears; And he to her a lover’s ser­vice paid, Now well re­mem­bered by the roy­al maid.

XLVI He for her sake from Ori­ent’s far­thest reign Roved thith­er, where the sun de­scends to rest; For he was told in In­dia, to his pain, That she Or­lan­do fol­lowed to the west. He af­ter learned in France that Charle­magne Se­clud­ed from that cham­pi­on and the rest, As a fit guer­don, mewed her for the knight Who should pro­tect the lilies best in fight.

XLVII The war­rior in the field had been, and viewed, Short time be­fore, king Charle­magne’s dis­grace; And vain­ly had An­gel­ica pur­sued, Nor of the damsel’s foot­steps found a trace. And this is what the weep­ing monarch rued, And this he so be­wailed in dole­ful case: Hence, in­to words his lamen­ta­tions run, Which might for pity stop the pass­ing sun.

XLVI­II While Sac­ripant laments him in this plight, And makes a tepid foun­tain of his eyes; And, what I deem not need­ful to re­cite, Pours forth yet oth­er plaints and piteous cries; Pro­pi­tious For­tune will his la­dy bright Should hear the youth lament him in such wise: And thus a mo­ment com­passed what, with­out Such chance, long ages had not brought about.

XLIX With deep at­ten­tion, while the war­rior weeps, She marks the fash­ion of the grief and tears And words of him, whose pas­sion nev­er sleeps; Nor this the first con­fes­sion which she hears. But with his plaint her heart no mea­sure keeps, Cold as the col­umn which the builder rears. Like haughty maid, who holds her­self above The world, and deems none wor­thy of her love.

L But her from harm amid those woods to keep, The damsel weened she might his guid­ance need; For the poor drown­ing caitiff, who, chin-​deep, Im­plores not help, is ob­sti­nate in­deed. Nor will she, if she let the oc­ca­sion sleep, Find es­cort that will stand her in such stead: For she that king by long ex­pe­ri­ence knew Above all oth­er lovers, kind and true.

LI But not the more for this the maid in­tends To heal the mis­chief which her charms had wrought, And for past ills to fur­nish glad amends In that full bliss by pin­ing lover sought. To keep the king in play are all her ends, His help by some de­vice or fic­tion bought, And hav­ing to her pur­pose taxed his dar­ing, To re­as­sume as wont her haughty bear­ing.

LII An ap­pari­tion bright and un­fore­seen, She stood like Venus or Di­ana fair, In solemn pageant, is­su­ing on the scene From out of shad­owy wood or murky lair. And “Peace be with you,” cried the youth­ful queen, “And God pre­serve my hon­our in his care, Nor suf­fer that you blind­ly en­ter­tain Opin­ion of my fame so false and vain!”

LI­II Not with such won­der­ment a moth­er eyes, With such ex­ces­sive bliss the son she mourned As dead, lament­ed still with tears and sighs, Since the thinned files with­out her boy re­turned. — Not such her rap­ture as the king’s sur­prise And ec­sta­sy of joy when he dis­cerned The lofty pres­ence, cheeks of heav­en­ly hue, And love­ly form which broke up­on his view.

LIV He, full of fond and ea­ger pas­sion, pressed To­wards his La­dy, his Di­vin­ity; And she now clasped the war­rior to her breast, Who in Catay had hap­ly been less free. And now again the maid her thoughts ad­dressed To­wards her na­tive land and em­pery: And feels, with hope re­vived, her bo­som beat Short­ly to re­pos­sess her sump­tu­ous seat.

LV Her chances all to him the damsel said, Since he was east­ward sent to Ser­icane By her to seek the mar­tial monarch’s aid, Who swayed the scep­tre of that fair do­main; And told how oft Or­lan­do’s friend­ly blade Had saved her from dis­hon­our, death, and pain; And how she so pre­served her vir­gin flow­er Pure as it blos­somed in her na­tal hour.

LVI Hap­ly the tale was true; yet will not seem Like­ly to one of sober sense pos­sessed: But Sac­ripant, who waked from wors­er dream, In all with­out a cav­il ac­qui­esced: Since love, who sees with­out one guid­ing gleam, Spies in broad day but that which likes him best: For one sign of the af­flict­ed man’s dis­ease Is to give ready faith to things which please.

LVII “If good Anglante’s lord the prize for­bore, Nor seized the fair oc­ca­sion when he might, The loss be his, if For­tune nev­er more Him to en­joy so fair a prize in­vite. To im­itate that lord of lit­tle lore I think not,” said, apart, Cir­cas­sa’s knight. “To quit such prof­fered good, and, to my shame, Have but my­self on af­ter-​thought to blame.

LVI­II “No! I will pluck the fresh and morn­ing rose, Which, should I tar­ry, may be overblown. To wom­an, (this my own ex­pe­ri­ence shows), No deed more sweet or wel­come can be done. Then, what­so­ev­er scorn the damsel shows, Though she awhile may weep and make her moan, I will, unchecked by anger, false or true, Or sharp re­pulse, my bold de­sign pur­sue.”

LIX This said, he for the soft as­sault pre­pares, When a loud noise with­in the green­wood shade Be­side him, rang in his as­tound­ed ears, And sore against his will the monarch stayed. He donned his helm (his oth­er arms he wears), Aye wont to rove in steel, with belt­ed blade, Re­placed the bri­dle on his cours­er fleet, Grap­pled his lance, and sprang in­to his seat.

LX With the bold sem­blance of a valiant knight, Be­hold a war­rior threads the for­est hoar. The stranger’s man­tle was of snowy white, And white alike the wav­ing plume he wore. Balked of his bliss, and full of fell de­spite, The monarch ill the in­ter­rup­tion bore, And spurred his horse to meet him in mid space, With hate and fury glow­ing in his face.

LXI Him he de­fies to fight, ap­proach­ing nigh, And weens to make him stoop his haughty crest: The oth­er knight, whose worth I rate as high, His war­like prowess puts to present test; Cuts short his haughty threats and an­gry cry, And spurs, and lays his lev­elled lance in rest. In tem­pest wheels Cir­cas­sia’s valiant peer, And at his foe­man’s head each aims his spear.

LXII Not brindled bulls or tawny li­ons spring To for­est war­fare with such dead­ly will As those two knights, the stranger and the king. Their spears alike the op­pos­ing buck­lers thrill: The sol­id ground, at their en­coun­ter­ing, Trem­bles from fruit­ful vale to naked hill: And well it was the mail in which they dressed Their bod­ies was of proof, and saved the breast.

LXI­II Nor swerved the charg­ers from their des­tined course; Who met like rams, and but­ted head to head. The war­like Sara­cen’s ill-​fat­ed horse, Well val­ued while alive, dropt short and dead: The stranger’s, too, fell sense­less; but per­force Was roused by row­el from his grassy bed. That of the payn­im king, ex­tend­ed straight, Lay on his bat­tered lord with all his weight.

LX­IV Up­right up­on his steed, the knight un­known, Who at the en­counter horse and rid­er threw, Deem­ing enough was in the con­flict done, Cares not the worth­less war­fare to re­new; But end­long by the read­iest path is gone, And mea­sures, prick­ing frith and for­est through, A mile, or lit­tle less, in fu­ri­ous heat, Ere the foiled Sara­cen re­gains his feet.

LXV As the be­wil­dered and as­ton­ished clown Who held the plough (the thun­der storm o’er­past) There, where the deaf­en­ing bolt had beat him down, Nigh his death-​strick­en cat­tle, wakes aghast, And sees the dis­tant pine with­out its crown, Which he saw clad in leafy hon­ours last; So rose the payn­im knight with trou­bled face, The maid spec­ta­tress of the cru­el case.

LXVI He sighs and groans, yet not for mis­chief sore En­dured in wound­ed arm or foot which bled; But for mere shame, and nev­er such be­fore Or af­ter, dyed his cheek so deep a red, And if he rued his fall, it grieved him more His dame should lift him from his cours­er dead. He speech­less had re­mained, I ween, if she Had not his pris­oned tongue and voice set free.

LXVII “Grieve not,” she said, “sir monarch, for thy fall; But let the blame up­on thy cours­er be! To whom more wel­come had been for­age, stall, And rest, than fur­ther joust and jeop­ardy; And well thy foe the los­er may I call, (Who shall no glo­ry gain) for such is he Who is the first to quit his ground, if aught An­gel­ica of fight­ing fields be taught.”

LXVI­II While she so seeks the Sara­cen to cheer, Be­hold a mes­sen­ger with pouch and horn, On pant­ing hack­ney! — man and horse ap­pear With the long jour­ney, weary and for­lorn. He ques­tions Sac­ripant, ap­proach­ing near, Had he seen war­rior pass, by whom were borne A shield and crest of white; in search of whom Through the wide for­est pricked the weary groom.

LX­IX King Sac­ripant made an­swer, “As you see, He threw me here, and went but now his way: Then tell the war­rior’s name, that I may be In­formed whose val­our foiled me in the fray.” To him the groom, — “That which you ask of me I shall re­late to you with­out de­lay: Know that you were in com­bat pros­trate laid By the tried val­our of a gen­tle maid.

LXX “Bold is the maid; but fair­er yet than bold, Nor the re­doubt­ed vir­gin’s name I veil: ‘Twas Bradamant who marred what praise of old Your prowess ev­er won with sword and mail.” This said, he spurred again, his sto­ry told, And left him lit­tle glad­dened by the tale. He recks not what he says or does, for shame, And his flushed vis­age kin­dles in­to flame.

LXXI Af­ter the woe­ful war­rior long had thought Up­on his cru­el case, and still in vain, And found a wom­an his de­feat had wrought, For think­ing but in­creased the monarch’s pain, He climbed the oth­er horse, nor spake he aught; But silent­ly up­lift­ed from the plain, Up­on the croup be­stowed that damsel sweet, Re­served to glad­der use in safer seat.

LXXII Two miles they had not rode be­fore they hear The sweep­ing woods which spread about them, sound With such loud crash and tram­ple, far and near, The for­est seemed to trem­ble all around; And short­ly af­ter see a steed ap­pear, With hous­ings wrought in gold and rich­ly bound; Who clears the bush and stream, with fu­ri­ous force And what­so­ev­er else im­pedes his course.

LXXI­II “Un­less the misty air,” the damsel cries, “And boughs de­ceive my sight, yon no­ble steed Is, sure, Ba­yardo, who be­fore us flies, And parts the wood with such im­petu­ous speed. — Yes, ’tis Ba­yardo’s self I rec­og­nize. How well the cours­er un­der­stands our need! Two rid­ers ill a foundered jade would bear, But hith­er speeds the horse to end that care.”

LXXIV The bold Cir­cas­sian light­ed, and ap­plied His hand to seize him by the flow­ing rein, Who, swift­ly turn­ing, with his heels replied, For he like light­ning wheeled up­on the plain. Woe to the king! but that he leaps aside, For should he smite, he would not lash in vain. Such are his bone and sinew, that the shock Of his good heels had split a met­al rock.

LXXV Then to the maid he goes sub­mis­sive­ly, With gen­tle blan­dish­ment and hum­ble mood; As the dog greets his lord with frol­ic glee, Whom, some short sea­son past, he had not viewed. For good Ba­yardo had in mem­ory Al­brac­ca, where her hands pre­pared his food, What time the damsel loved Ri­nal­do bold; Ri­nal­do, then un­grate­ful, stern, and cold.

LXXVI With her left hand she takes him by the bit, And with the oth­er pats his sides and chest: While the good steed (so mar­vel­lous his wit), Lamb-​like, obeyed the damsel and ca­ressed. Mean­time the king, who sees the mo­ment fit, Leapt up, and with his knees the cours­er pressed. While on the pal­frey, eased of half his weight, The la­dy left the croup, and gained the seat.

LXXVII Then, as at haz­ard, she di­rects her sight, Sound­ing in arms a man on foot es­pies, And glows with sud­den anger and de­spite; For she in him the son of Ay­mon eyes. Her more than life es­teems the youth­ful knight, While she from him, like crane from fal­con, flies. Time was the la­dy sighed, her pas­sion slight­ed; ‘Tis now Ri­nal­do loves, as ill re­quit­ed.

LXXVI­II And this ef­fect two dif­fer­ent foun­tains wrought, Whose won­der­ous wa­ters dif­fer­ent moods in­spire. Both spring in Ar­den, with rare virtue fraught: This fills the heart with amorous de­sire: Who taste that oth­er foun­tain are un­taught Their love, and change for ice their for­mer fire. Ri­nal­do drank the first, and vain­ly sighs; An­gel­ica the last, and hates and flies.

LXXIX Mixed with such se­cret bane the wa­ters glide, Which amorous care con­vert to sud­den hate; The maid no soon­er had Ri­nal­do spied, Than on her laugh­ing eyes deep dark­ness sate: And with sad mien and trem­bling voice she cried To Sac­ripant, and prayed him not to wait The near ap­proach of the de­test­ed knight, But through the wood with her pur­sue his flight.

LXXX To her the Sara­cen, with anger hot: “Is knight­ly wor­ship sunk so low in me, That thou should’st hold my val­our cheap, and not Suf­fi­cient to make yon­der cham­pi­on flee? Al­ready are Al­brac­ca’s fights for­got, And that dread night I singly stood for thee? That night when I, though naked, was thy shield Against King Agri­can and all his field?”

LXXXI She an­swers not, and knows not in her fear What ’tis she does; Ri­nal­do is too nigh: And from afar that fu­ri­ous cav­alier Threats the bold Sara­cen with an­gry cry, As soon as the known steed and damsel dear, Whose charms such flame had kin­dled, meet his eye. But what en­sued be­tween the haughty pair I in an­oth­er can­to shall de­clare.