Orlando Furioso

CANTO 19

AR­GU­MENT Medoro, by An­gel­ica’s quaint hand, Is healed, and weds, and bears her to Catay. At length Marphisa, with the cho­sen band, Af­ter long suf­fer­ing, makes La­iazzi’s bay. Gui­do the sav­age, bonds­man in the land, Which im­pi­ous wom­en rule with civ­il sway, With Marphisa strives in sin­gle fight, And lodges her and hers at full of night.

I By whom he is beloved can no one know, Who on the top of For­tune’s wheel is seat­ed; Since he, by true and faith­less friends, with show Of equal faith, in glad es­tate is greet­ed. But, should fe­lic­ity be changed to woe, The flat­ter­ing mul­ti­tude is turned and fleet­ed! While he who loves his mas­ter from his heart, Even af­ter death per­forms his faith­ful part.

II Were the heart seen as is the out­ward cheer, He who at court is held in sovereign grace, And he that to his lord is lit­tle dear, With parts re­versed, would fill each oth­er’s place; The hum­ble man the greater would ap­pear, And he, now first, be hind­most in the race. But be Medoro’s faith­ful sto­ry said, The youth who loved his lord, alive or dead.

III The clos­est path, amid the for­est gray, To save him­self, pur­sued the youth for­lorn; But all his schemes were marred by the de­lay Of that sore weight up­on his shoul­ders born. The place he knew not, and mis­took the way, And hid him­self again in shel­ter­ing thorn. Se­cure and dis­tant was his mate, that through The green­wood shade with lighter shoul­ders flew.

IV So far was Clori­dan ad­vanced be­fore, He heard the boy no longer in the wind; But when he marked the ab­sence of Medore, It seemed as if his heart was left be­hind. “Ah! how was I so neg­li­gent,” (the Moor Ex­claimed) “so far be­side my­self, and blind, That I, Medoro, should with­out thee fare, Nor know when I de­sert­ed thee or where?”

V So say­ing, in the wood he dis­ap­pears, Plung­ing in­to the maze with hur­ried pace; And thith­er, whence he late­ly is­sued, steers, And, des­per­ate, of death re­turns in trace. Cries and the tread of steeds this while he hears, And word and the tread of foe­men, as in chase: Last­ly Medoro by his voice is known, Dis­armed, on foot, ‘mid many horse, alone.

VI A hun­dred horse­men who the youth sur­round, Zerbino leads, and bids his fol­low­ers seize The stripling: like a top, the boy turns round And keeps him as he can: among the trees, Be­hind oak, elm, beech, ash, he takes his ground, Nor from the cher­ished load his shoul­ders frees. Wea­ried, at length, the bur­den he be­stowed Up­on the grass, and stalked about his load.

VII As in her rocky cav­ern the she-​bear, With whom close war­fare Alpine hunters wage, Un­cer­tain hangs about her shag­gy care, And growls in min­gled sound of love and rage, To un­sheath her claws, and blood her tush­es bare, Would nat­ural hate and wrath the beast en­gage; Love soft­ens her, and bids from strife re­tire, And for her off­spring watch, amid her ire.

VI­II Clori­dan who to aid him knows not how, And with Medoro will­ing­ly would die, But who would not for death this be­ing forego, Un­til more foes than one should life­less lie, Am­bushed, his sharpest ar­row to his bow Fits, and di­rects it with so true an eye, The feath­ered weapon bores a Scotch­man’s brain, And lays the war­rior dead up­on the plain.

IX To­geth­er, all the oth­ers of the band Turned thith­er, whence was shot the mur­der­ous reed; Mean­while he launched an­oth­er from his stand, That a new foe might by the weapon bleed, Whom (while he made of this and that de­mand, And loud­ly ques­tioned who had done the deed) The ar­row reached — trans­fixed the wretch’s throat, And cut his ques­tion short in mid­dle note.

X Zerbino, cap­tain of those horse, no more Can at the piteous sight his wrath re­frain; In fu­ri­ous heat, he springs up­on Medore, Ex­claim­ing, “Thou of this shalt bear the pain.” One hand he in his locks of gold­en ore En­wreaths, and drags him to him­self amain; But, as his eyes that beau­teous face sur­vey, Takes pity on the boy, and does not slay.

XI To him the stripling turns, with sup­pli­ant cry, And, “By thy God, sir knight,” ex­claims, “I pray, Be not so pass­ing cru­el, nor de­ny That I in earth my hon­oured king may lay: No oth­er grace I sup­pli­cate, nor I This for the love of life, be­lieve me, say. So much, no longer, space of life I crave. As may suf­fice to give my lord a grave.

XII “And if you needs must feed the beast and bird, Like The­ban Cre­on, let their worst be done Up­on these limbs; so that by me in­terred In earth be those of good Al­montes’ son.” Medoro thus his suit, with grace, pre­ferred, And words — to move a moun­tain, and so won Up­on Zerbino’s mood, to kind­ness turned, With love and pity he all over burned.

XI­II This while, a churl­ish horse­man of the band, Who lit­tle def­er­ence for his lord con­fest, His lance up­lift­ing, wound­ed over­hand The un­hap­py sup­pli­ant in his dain­ty breast. Zerbino, who the cru­el ac­tion scanned, Was deeply stirred, the rather that, op­prest And livid with the blow the churl had sped, Medoro fell as he was whol­ly dead.

XIV So grieved Zerbino, with such wrath was stung, “Not un­avenged shalt thou re­main,” he cries; Then full of evil will in fury sprung Up­on the au­thor of the foul em­prize. But he his van­tage marks, and, from among The war­riors, in a mo­ment slips and flies. Clori­dan who be­holds the deed, at sight Of young Medoro’s fall, springs forth to fight;

XV And casts away his bow, and, ‘mid the band Of foe­men, whirls his fal­chion, in de­sire Rather of death, than hop­ing that his hand May snatch a vengeance equal to his ire. Amid so many blades, he views the sand Tinged with his blood, and ready to ex­pire, And feel­ing he the sword no more can guide, Lets him­self drop by his Medoro’s side.

XVI The Scots pur­sue their chief, who pricks be­fore, Through the deep wood, in­spired by high dis­dain, When he has left the one and the oth­er Moor, This dead, that scarce alive, up­on the plain. There for a mighty space lay young Medore, Spout­ing his life-​blood from so large a vein, He would have per­ished, but that thith­er made A stranger, as it chanced, who lent him aid.

XVII By chance ar­rived a damsel at the place, Who was (though mean and rus­tic was her wear) Of roy­al pres­ence and of beau­teous face, And lofty man­ners, sage­ly debonair: Her have I left un­sung so long a space, That you will hard­ly recog­nise the fair. An­gel­ica, in her (if known not) scan, The lofty daugh­ter of Catay’s great khan.

XVI­II An­gel­ica, when she had won again The ring Brunel­lo had from her con­veyed, So waxed in stub­born pride and haught dis­dain, She seemed to scorn this am­ple world, and strayed Alone, and held as cheap each liv­ing swain, Al­though, amid the best, by Fame ar­rayed: Nor brooked she to re­mem­ber a galant In Count Or­lan­do or king Sac­ripant;

XIX And above ev­ery oth­er deed re­pent­ed, That good Ri­nal­do she had loved of yore; And that to look so low she had con­sent­ed, (As by such choice dis­hon­oured) grieved her sore. Love, hear­ing this, such ar­ro­gance re­sent­ed, And would the damsel’s pride en­dure no more. Where young Medoro lay he took his stand, And wait­ed her, with bow and shaft in hand.

XX When fair An­gel­ica the stripling spies, Nigh hurt to death in that dis­as­trous fray, Who for his king, that there un­shel­tered lies, More sad than for his own mis­for­tune lay, She feels new pity in her bo­som rise, Which makes its en­try in un­wont­ed way. Touched was her haughty heart, once hard and curst, And more when he his piteous tale re­hearsed.

XXI And call­ing back to mem­ory her art, For she in Ind had learned chirurgery, (Since it ap­pears such stud­ies in that part Wor­thy of praise and fame are held to be, And, as an heir-​loom, sires to sons im­part, With lit­tle aid of books, the mys­tery) Dis­posed her­self to work with sim­ples’ juice, Till she in him should health­ier life pro­duce;

XXII And rec­ol­lects a herb had caught her sight In pass­ing hith­er, on a pleas­ant plain, What (whether dit­tany or pan­cy hight) I know not; fraught with virtue to re­strain The crim­son blood forth-​welling, and of might To sheathe each per­ilous and pierc­ing pain, She found it near, and hav­ing pulled the weed, Re­turned to seek Medoro on the mead.

XXI­II Re­turn­ing, she up­on a swain did light, Who was on horse­back pass­ing through the wood. Strayed from the low­ing herd, the rus­tic wight A heifer, miss­ing for two days, pur­sued. Him she with her con­duct­ed, where the might Of the faint youth was ebbing with his blood: Which had the ground about so deeply dyed, Life was nigh wast­ed with the gush­ing tide.

XXIV An­gel­ica alights up­on the ground, And he her rus­tic com­rade, at her hest. She has­tened ‘twixt two stones the herb to pound, Then took it, and the heal­ing juice ex­prest: With this did she fo­ment the stripling’s wound, And, even to the hips, his waist and breast; And (with such virtue was the salve en­dued) It stanched his life-​blood, and his strength re­newed;

XXV And in­to him in­fused such force again, That he could mount the horse the swain con­veyed; But good Medoro would not leave the plain Till he in earth had seen his mas­ter laid. He, with the monarch, buried Clori­dane, And af­ter fol­lowed whith­er pleased the maid, Who was to stay with him, by pity led, Be­neath the cour­te­ous shep­herd’s hum­ble shed.

XXVI Nor would the damsel quit the low­ly pile (So she es­teemed the youth) till he was sound; Such pity first she felt, when him erewhile She saw out­stretched and bleed­ing on the ground. Touched by his mien and man­ners next, a file She felt cor­rode her heart with se­cret wound; She felt cor­rode her heart, and with de­sire, By lit­tle and by lit­tle warmed, took fire.

XXVII The shep­herd dwelt, be­tween two moun­tains hoar, In good­ly cab­in, in the green­wood shade, With wife and chil­dren; and, short time be­fore, The brent-​new shed had build­ed in the glade. Here of his gries­ly wound the youth­ful Moor Was briefly healed by the Catayan maid; But who in briefer space, a sor­er smart Than young Medoro’s, suf­fered at her heart.

XXVI­II A wound far wider and which deep­er lies, Now in her heart she feels, from view­less bow; Which from the boy’s fair hair and beau­teous eyes Had the winged archer dealt: a sud­den glow She feels, and still the flames in­creas­ing rise; Yet less she heeds her own than oth­er’s woe: — Heeds not her­self, and on­ly to con­tent The au­thor of her cru­el ill is bent.

XXIX Her ill but fes­tered and in­creased the more The stripling’s wounds were seen to heal and close: The youth grew lusty, while she suf­fered sore, And, with new fever parched, now burnt, now froze: From day to day in beau­ty waxed Medore: She mis­er­ably wast­ed; like the snow’s Un­sea­son­able flake, which melts away Ex­posed, in sun­ny place, to scorch­ing ray.

XXX She, if of vain de­sire will not die, Must help her­self, nor yet de­lay the aid. And she in truth, her will to sat­is­fy, Deemed ’twas no time to wait till she was prayed. And next of shame re­nounc­ing ev­ery tye, With tongue as bold as eyes, pe­ti­tion made, And begged him, hap­ly an un­wit­ting foe, To sheathe the suf­fer­ing of that cru­el blow.

XXXI O Count Or­lan­do, O king of Cir­cassy, Say what your val­our has availed to you! Say what your hon­our boots, what good­ly fee Re­mu­ner­ates ye both, for ser­vice true! Sirs, show me but a sin­gle cour­tesy, With which she ev­er graced ye, — old or new, — As some poor rec­om­pense, desert, or guer­don, For hav­ing born so long so sore a bur­den!

XXXII Oh! couldst thou yet again to life re­turn, How hard would this ap­pear, O Agri­cane! In that she whilom thee was wont to spurn, With sharp re­pulse and in­so­lent dis­dain. O Fer­rau, O ye thou­sand more, for­lorn, Un­sung, who wrought a thou­sand feats in vain For this un­grate­ful fair, what pain ‘twould be Could you with­in his arms the damsel see!

XXXI­II To pluck, as yet un­touched, the vir­gin rose, An­gel­ica per­mits the young Medore. Was none so blest as in that gar­den’s close Yet to have set his ven­tur­ous foot be­fore. They holy cer­emonies in­ter­pose, Somedeal to veil — to gild — the mat­ter o’er. Young Love was brides­man there the tie to bless, And for brideswom­an stood the shep­herdess.

XXXIV In the low shed, with all solem­ni­ties, The cou­ple made their wed­ding as they might; And there above a month, in tran­quil guise, The hap­py lovers rest­ed in de­light. Save for the youth the la­dy has no eyes, Nor with his looks can sat­is­fy her sight. Nor yet of hang­ing on his neck can tire, Of feel she can con­tent her fond de­sire.

XXXV The beau­teous boy is with her night and day, Does she un­tent her­self, or keep the shed. Morn­ing or eve they to some mead­ow stray, Now to this bank, and to that oth­er led: Hap­ly, in cav­ern har­boured, at mid-​day, Grate­ful as that to which Ae­neas fled With Di­do, when the tem­pest raged above, The faith­ful wit­ness to their se­cret love.

XXXVI Amid such plea­sures, where, with tree o’er­grown, Ran stream, or bub­bling foun­tain’s wave did spin, On bark or rock, if yield­ing were the stone, The knife was straight at work or ready pin. And there, with­out, in thou­sand places lone, And in as many places graved, with­in, MEDORO and AN­GEL­ICA were traced, In divers cyphers quaint­ly in­ter­laced.

XXXVII When she be­lieved they had pro­longed their stay More than enow, the damsel made de­sign In In­dia to re­vis­it her Catay, And with its crown Medoro’s head en­twine. She had up­on her wrist an arm­let, gay With cost­ly gems, in wit­ness and in sign Of love to her by Count Or­lan­do borne, And which the damsel for long time had worn.

XXXVI­II On Ziliantes, hid be­neath the wave, This Morgue be­stowed; and from cap­tiv­ity The youth (re­stored to Mon­odantes grave, His an­cient sire, through Roland’s chival­ry) To Roland in re­turn the bracelet gave: Roland, a lover, deigned the gor­geous fee To wear, with the in­ten­tion to con­vey The present to his queen, of whom I say.

XXXIX No love which to the pal­adin she bears, But that it cost­ly is and wrought with care, This to An­gel­ica so much en­dears, That nev­er more es­teemed was mat­ter rare: This she was suf­fered, in THE ISLE OF TEARS, I know not by what priv­ilege, to wear, When, naked, to the whale ex­posed for food By that in­hos­pitable race and rude.

XL She, not pos­sess­ing where­with­al to pay The kind­ly cou­ple’s hos­pi­tal­ity, Served by them in their cab­in, from the day She there was lodged, with such fi­deli­ty, Un­fas­tened from her arm the bracelet gay, And bade them keep it for her mem­ory. De­part­ing hence the lovers climb the side Of hills, which fer­tile France from Spain di­vide.

XLI With­in Va­len­cia or Barcelona’s town The cou­ple thought a lit­tle to re­main, Un­til some good­ly ship should make her boun To loose for the Lev­ant: as so the twain Jour­ney, be­neath Gerona, — com­ing down Those moun­tains — they be­hold the sub­ject main; And keep­ing on their left the beach be­low, By beat­en track to Barcelona go.

XLII But, ere they there ar­rive, a crazed wight They find, ex­tend­ed on the out­er shore; Who is be­daubed like swine, in filthy plight, And smeared with mud, face, reins, and bo­som o’er’ He comes up­on them, as a dog in spite Swift­ly as­sails the stranger at the door; And is about to do the lovers scorn, But to the bold Marphisa I re­turn –

XLI­II Marphisa, As­tolpho, Gryphon, Aquilant. Of these and of the oth­ers will I tell: Who, death be­fore their eyes, the vext Lev­ant Tra­verse, and ill re­sist the bois­ter­ous swell. While aye more pass­ing proud and ar­ro­gant, Wax­es in rage and threat the tem­pest fell. And now three days the an­gry gale has blown, Nor sig­nal of abate­ment yet has shown.

XLIV Waves lift­ed by the wax­ing tem­pest start Cas­tle and floor­ing, and, if yet there be Aught stand­ing left in any oth­er part, ‘Tis cut away and cast in­to the sea. Here, prick­ing out their course up­on the chart, One by a lantern does his min­istry, Up­on a sea-​chest propt; an­oth­er wight Is bus­ied in the well by torch’s light.

XLV This one be­neath the poop, be­neath the prow That oth­er, stands to watch the ebbing sand; And (each half-​glass run out) re­turns to know What way the ship has made, and to­wards what land. Thence all to speak their dif­fer­ent thoughts, be­low, To mid­ships make re­sort, with chart in hand; There where the mariners, as­sem­bled all, Are met in coun­cil, at the mas­ter’s call.

XLVI One says: “Abreast of Limis­so are we Among the shoals” — and by his reck­on­ing, nigh The rocks of Tripoli and bark must be, Where ship­wrecked, for the most part, ves­sels lie. An­oth­er: “We are lost on Sa­taly, Whose coast makes many pa­trons weep and sigh.” Ac­cord­ing to their judg­ment, all sug­gest Their trea­sons, each with equal dread op­prest.

XLVII More spite­ful­ly the wind on the third day Blows, and the sea more yeasty bil­lows rears: The fore-​mast by the first is borne away, The rud­der by the last, with him who steers. Bet­ter than steel that man will bide the as­say, — Of mar­ble breast — who has not now his fears. Marphisa, erst so con­fi­dent ‘mid harms, De­nied not but that day she felt alarms.

XLVI­II A pil­grim­age is vowed to Sinai, To Cyprus and Gal­li­cia, and to Rome, Et­ti­no, and oth­er place of sanc­ti­ty, If such is named, and to the holy tomb. Mean­while, above the sea and near the sky, The bark is tost, with shat­tered plank and boom; From which the crew had cut, in her dis­tress, The mizen­mast, to make her labour less.

XLIX They bale and chest and all their heavy lum­ber Cast over­board, from poop, and prow, and side; And ev­ery birth and cab­in dis­en­cum­ber Of mer­chan­dize, to feed the greedy tide. Wa­ter to wa­ter oth­ers of the num­ber Ren­dered, by whom the spout­ing pumps were plied. This in the hold be­stirs him­self, where’er Planks opened by the beat­ing sea ap­pear.

L They in this trou­ble, in this woe, re­mained For full four days; and help­less was their plight, And a full vic­to­ry the sea had gained, If yet a lit­tle had en­dured its spite: But them with hope of clear­er sky sus­tained The wished ap­pear­ance of St. El­mo’s light, Which (ev­ery spar was gone) de­scend­ing glowed Up­on a boat, which in the prow was stowed.

LI When, flam­ing, they the beau­teous light sur­veyed, All those aboard kneeled down in hum­ble guise, And Heav­en for peace and for smooth wa­ter prayed, With trem­bling voic­es and with wa­tery eyes. Nor longer waxed the storm, which had dis­mayed, Till then en­dur­ing in such cru­el wise. North-​west­er or cross-​wind no longer reigns; But tyrant of the sea the south re­mains.

LII This on the sea re­mained so pass­ing strong, And from its sable mouth so fierce­ly blew, And bore with it so swift a stream and strong Of the vext wa­ters, that it hur­ried through Their tum­bling waves the shat­tered bark along, Faster than gen­tle fal­con ev­er flew; And sore the pa­tron feared, to the world’s brink It would trans­port his bark, or wreck or sink.

LI­II For this the mas­ter finds a rem­edy, Who bids them cast out spars, and veer away A line which holds this float, and as they flee, So, by two-​thirds, their fu­ri­ous course de­lay. This coun­sel boots, and more the au­gury From him whose lights up­on the gun­wale play. This saves the ves­sel, hap­ly else un­done; And makes her through the sea se­cure­ly run.

LIV They, driv­en on Syr­ia, in La­iaz­zo’s bay A mighty city rise; so nigh at hand, That they can from the ves­sel’s deck sur­vey Two cas­tles, which the port with­in com­mand. Pale turns the pa­tron’s vis­age with dis­may, When he per­ceives what is the neigh­bour­ing land, Who will not to the port for shel­ter hie, Nor yet can keep the open sea, nor fly.

LV They can­not fly, nor yet can keep the sea; For mast and yards are gone, and by the stroke Of the huge bil­lows beat­ing fre­quent­ly, Loos­ened is plank, and beam and tim­ber broke: And cer­tain death to make the port would be, Or to be doomed to a per­pet­ual yoke. For each is made a slave, or sen­tenced dead, Thith­er by evil Chance or Er­ror led.

LVI Sore dan­ger­ous ’twas to doubt; lest hos­tile band Should sal­ly from the puis­sant town in sight, With armed barks, and up­on theirs lay hand, In evil case for sea, and worse for fight. What time the pa­tron knows not what com­mand To give, of him in­quires the En­glish knight What kept his mind sus­pend­ed in that sort, And why at first he had not made the port.

LVII To him re­lates the pa­tron how a crew Of mur­der­ous wom­en ten­ant­ed that shore, Which, by their an­cient law, en­slave or slew All those whom For­tune to this king­dom bore; And that he on­ly could such for es­chew That in the lists ten cham­pi­ons over­bore, And hav­ing this achieved, the fol­low­ing night In bed should with ten damsels take de­light.

LVI­II And if he brings to end the for­mer feat, But af­ter­wards the next un­fin­ished leaves, They kill him, and as slaves his fol­low­ing treat, Con­demned to delve their land or keep their beeves. — If for the first and sec­ond labour meet — He lib­er­ty for all his band achieves, Not for him­self; who there must stay and wed Ten wives by him se­lect­ed for his bed.

LIX So strange a cus­tom of the neigh­bour­ing strand With­out a laugh As­tolpho can­not hear; San­sonet and Marphisa, near at hand, Next Aquilant, and he, his broth­er dear, Ar­rive: to them the pa­tron who from land Aye keeps aloof, ex­plains the cause of fear, And cries: “I liefer in the sea would choke, Than here of servi­tude en­dure the yoke.”

LX The sailors by the pa­tron’s rede abide, And all the pas­sen­gers af­fright­ed sore; Save that Marphisa took the oth­er side With hers, who deemed that safer was the shore Than sea, which rag­ing round them, far and wide, Than a hun­dred thou­sand swords dis­mayed them more. Them lit­tle this, or oth­er place alarms, So that they have but pow­er to wield their arms.

LXI The war­riors are im­pa­tient all to land: But bold­est is of these the En­glish peer; Know­ing how soon his horn will clear the strand, When the scared foe its peal­ing sound shall hear. To put in­to the neigh­bour­ing port this band De­sires, and are at strife with those who fear. And they who are the strongest, in such sort Com­pel the pa­tron, that he makes the port.

LXII Al­ready when their bark was first es­pied At sea, with­in the cru­el city’s view, They had ob­served a gal­ley, well sup­plied With prac­tised mariners and nu­mer­ous crew (While them un­cer­tain coun­sels did di­vide) Make for their wretched ship, the bil­lows through: Her lofty prow to their short stern and low These lash, and in­to port the ves­sel tow.

LXI­II They thith­er­ward were worked with warp and oar, Rather than with as­sis­tance of the sail; Since to lay star­board course or lar­board more, No means were left them by the cru­el gale. Again their rugged rhind the cham­pi­ons wore, Gird­ing the faith­ful fal­chion with the mail, And with un­ceas­ing hope of com­fort fed Mas­ter and mariners op­prest with dread.

LX­IV Like a half-​moon, pro­ject­ed from the beach, More than four miles about, the city’s port; Six hun­dred paces deep; and crown­ing each Horn of the cir­cling haven, was a fort; On ev­ery side, se­cure from storm or breach, (Save on­ly from the south, a safe re­sort) In guise of the­atre the town ex­tend­ed About it, and a hill be­hind as­cend­ed.

LXV No soon­er there the har­boured ship was seen (The news had spread al­ready through the land) Than thith­er­ward, with mar­tial garb and mien, Six thou­sand wom­en trooped, with bow in hand; And, to re­move all hope of flight, be­tween One cas­tle and the oth­er, drew a band; And with strong chains and barks the port en­closed; Which ev­er, for that use, they kept dis­posed.

LXVI A dame, as the Cumean sybil gray, Or Hec­tor’s an­cient moth­er of renown, Made call the pa­tron out, and bade him say, If they their lives were will­ing to lay down; Or were con­tent be­neath the yoke to stay, Ac­cord­ing to the cus­tom of the town, — One of two evils they must choose, — be slain, Or cap­tives, one and all, must there re­main.

LXVII ” ‘Tis true, if one so bold and of such might Be found amid your crew,” (the ma­tron said), “That he ten men of ours en­gage in fight, And can in cru­el bat­tle lay them dead, And, af­ter, with ten wom­en, in one night, Suf­fice to play the hus­band’s part in bed, He shall re­main our sovereign, and shall sway The land, and you may home­ward wend your way.

LXVI­II “And at your choice to stay shall al­so be, Whether a part or all, but with this pact, That he who here would stay and would be free, Can with ten dames the hus­band’s part en­act. But if your cho­sen war­rior fall or flee, By his ten en­emies at once at­tacked, Or for the sec­ond func­tion have not breath, To slav­ery you we doom, and him to death.”

LX­IX At what she deemed the cav­aliers would start, The bel­dam found them bold; for to com­pete With those they should en­gage, and play their part The cham­pi­ons hoped alike in ei­ther feat. Nor failed renowned Marphisa’s valiant heart, Al­beit for the sec­ond dance un­meet; Se­cure, where na­ture had her aid de­nied, The want should with the fal­chion be sup­plied.

LXX The pa­tron is com­mand­ed their re­ply Re­solved in com­mon coun­cil to un­fold; The dames at plea­sure may their prowess try, And shall in lists and bed al­low them bold. The lash­ings from the ves­sels they un­tie, The skip­per heaves the warp, and bids lay hold, And low­ers the bridge; o’er which, in war­like weed, The ex­pec­tant cav­aliers their cours­ers lead.

LXXI These through the mid­dle of the city go, And see the damsels, as they for­ward fare, Ride through the streets, suc­cinct, in haughty show, And arm, in guise of war­riors, in the square. Nor to gird sword, nor fas­ten spur be­low, Is man al­lowed, nor any arm to wear; Ex­cept­ing, as I said, the ten; to fol­low The an­cient us­age which those wom­en hal­low.

LXXII All oth­ers of the man­ly sex they seat, To ply the distaff, broi­der, card and sow, In fe­male gown de­scend­ing to the feet, Which ren­ders them ef­fem­inate and slow; Some chained, an­oth­er labour to com­plete, Are tasked, to keep their cat­tle, or to plough. Few are the males; and scarce the war­riors ken, Amid a thou­sand dames, a hun­dred men.

LXXI­II The knights de­ter­min­ing by lot to try Who in their com­mon cause on list­ed ground, Should slay the ten, with whom they were to vie, And in the oth­er field ten oth­ers wound, De­signed to pass the bold Marphisa by, Be­liev­ing she un­fit­ting would be found; And would be, in the sec­ond joust at eve, Ill-​qual­ified the vic­to­ry to achieve.

LXXIV But with the oth­ers she, the mar­tial maid, Will run her risque; and ’tis her des­tiny. “I will lay down this life,” the damsel said, “Rather than you lay down your lib­er­ty. But this” — with that she point­ed to the blade Which she had girt — “is your se­cu­ri­ty, I will all tan­gles in such man­ner loose, As Alexan­der did the Gor­dian noose.

LXXV “I will not hence­forth stranger shall com­plain, So long as the world lasts, of this re­pair.” So said the maid, nor could the friend­ly train Take from her what had fall­en to her share. Then, — ei­ther ev­ery thing to lose, or gain Their lib­er­ty, — to her they leave the care. With stub­born plate and mail all over steeled, Ready for cru­el fight, she takes the field.

LXXVI High up the spa­cious city is place, With steps, which serve as seats in ris­ing rows; Which for nought else is used, ex­cept the chase, Tour­ney, or wrestling match, or such-​like shows. Four gates of sol­id bronze the rab­ble flows In trou­bled tide; and to Marphisa bold, That she may en­ter, af­ter­wards is told.

LXXVII On pieballed horse Marphisa en­tered, — spread Were cir­cles dap­pling all about his hair, — Of a bold coun­te­nance and lit­tle head, And beau­teous points, and haughty gait and air. Out of a thou­sand cours­ers which he fed, Him, as the best, and biggest, and most rare, King No­randi­no chose, and, decked with brave And cost­ly trap­pings, to Marphisa gave.

LXXVI­II Through the south gate, from the mid-​day, the plain Marphisa en­tered, nor ex­pect­ed long, Be­fore she heard ap­proach­ing trum­pet-​strain Peal through the lists in shrilling notes and strong; And, look­ing next to­wards the north­ern wain, Saw her ten op­po­sites ap­pear: among These, as their lead­er, pricked a cav­alier, Ex­celling all the rest in good­ly cheer.

LXXIX On a large cours­er came the lead­ing foe, Which was, ex­cept­ing the near foot be­hind And fore­head, dark­er than was ev­er crow: His foot and fore­head with some white were signed. The horse­man did his horse’s colours show In his own dress; and hence might be di­vined, He, as the mourn­ful hue o’er­pow­ered the clear, Was less in­clined to smile, than mourn­ful tear.

LXXX At once their spears in rest nine war­riors laid, When the trump sound­ed, in the hos­tile train, But he in black no sign of joust­ing made, As if he held such van­tage in dis­dain: Bet­ter he deemed the law were dis­obeyed, Than that his cour­tesy should suf­fer stain. The knight re­tires apart, and sits to view What against nine one sin­gle lance can do.

LXXXI Of smooth and bal­anced pace, the damsel’s horse To the en­counter her with swift­ness bore; Who poised a lance so mas­sive in the course, It would have been an over­weight for four. She, dis­em­bark­ing, as of great­est force, The boom had cho­sen out of many more. At her fierce sem­blance when in mo­tion, quail A thou­sand hearts, a thou­sand looks grow pale.

LXXXII The bo­som of the first she opens so, As might sur­prise, if naked were the breast: She pierced the cuirass and the mail be­low; But first a buck­ler, sol­id and well prest, A yard be­hind the shoul­ders of the foe Was seen the steel, so well was it ad­drest. Speared on her lance she left him on the plain, And at the oth­ers drove with flow­ing rein;

LXXXI­II And so she shocked the sec­ond of the crew, And dealt the third so ter­ri­ble a blow, From sell and life, with bro­ken spine, the two She drove at once. So fell the over­throw, And with such weight she charged the war­riors through! So ser­ried was the bat­tle of the foe! — I have seen bom­bard open in such mode The squadrons, as that band Marphisa strowed.

LXXXIV Many good spears were bro­ken on the dame, Who was as lit­tle moved as sol­id wall, When rev­ellers play the chace’s mer­ry game, Is ev­er moved by stroke of heavy ball. So hard the tem­per of her corslet’s mail, The strokes aye harm­less on the breast-​plate fall, Whose steel was heat­ed in the fires of hell, And in Av­er­nus’ wa­ter slaked by spell.

LXXXV At the end of the ca­reer, she checked her steed, Wheeled him about, and for a lit­tle stayed; And then against the oth­ers drove at speed, Broke them, and to the han­dle dyed her blade. Here shorn of arms, and there of head, they bleed; And oth­er in such man­ner cleft the maid, That breast, and head, and arms to­geth­er fell, Bel­ly and legs re­main­ing in the sell.

LXXXVI With such just mea­sure him she cleaves, I say, Where the two haunch­es and the ribs con­fine: And leaves him a half fig­ure, in such way As what we be­fore im­ages di­vine, Of sil­ver, of­ten­er made of wax, sur­vey; Which sup­pli­cants from far and near en­shrine, In thanks for mer­cy shown, and to be­stow A pi­ous quit­tance for ac­cept­ed vow.

LXXXVII Marphisa next made af­ter one that flew, And over­took the wretch, and cleft (be­fore He the mid square had won) his col­lar through, So clean, no sur­geon ev­er pieced it more. One af­ter oth­er, all in fine she slew, Or wound­ed ev­ery one she smote so sore, She was se­cure, that nev­er more would foe Arise anew from earth, to work her woe.

LXXXVI­II The cav­alier this while had stood aside, Who had the ten con­duct­ed to the place, Since, with so many against one to ride, Had seemed to him ad­van­tage four and base; Who, now he by a sin­gle hand es­pied So speed­ily his whole ar­ray dis­placed, Pricked forth against the mar­tial maid, to show ‘Twas cour­tesy, not fear, had made him slow.

LXXXIX He, sign­ing with his right hand, made ap­pear That he would speak ere their ca­reer was run, Nor think­ing that be­neath such man­ly cheer A gen­tle vir­gin was con­cealed, be­gun: “I wot thou needs must be, sir cav­alier, Sore wea­ried with such mighty slaugh­ter done; And if I were dis­posed to weary thee More than thou art, it were dis­cour­tesy.

XC “To thee, to rest un­til to-​mor­row’s light, Then to re­new the bat­tle, I con­cede. No hon­our ’twere to-​day to prove my might On thee, whom weak and over­wrought I read.” — “Arms are not new to me, nor list­ed fight; Nor does fa­tigue so short a toil suc­ceed,” An­swered Marphisa, “and I, at my post, Hope to prove this up­on thee, to thy cost.

XCI “I thank thee for thy of­fer of de­lay, But need not what thy cour­tesy agrees; And yet re­mains so large a space of day ‘Twere very shame to spend it all in ease.” — “Oh! were I (he replied) so sure to ap­pay My heart with ev­ery­thing which best would please, As thine I shall ap­pay in this! — but see, That ere thou think­est, day­light fail not thee.”

XCII So said he, and obe­di­ent to his hest Two spears, say rather heavy booms, they bear. He to Marphisa bids con­signs the best, And the oth­er takes him­self: the mar­tial pair Al­ready, with their lances in the rest, Wait but till oth­er blast the joust de­clare. Lo! earth and air and sea the noise re­bound, As they prick forth, at the first trum­pet’s sound!

XCI­II No mouth was opened and no eye­lid fell, Nor breath was drawn, amid the ob­ser­vant crew: So sore in­tent was ev­ery one to spell Which should be con­queror of the war­like two. Marphisa the black cham­pi­on from his sell, So to o’erthrow he shall not rise anew, Lev­els her lance; and the black cham­pi­on, bent To slay Marphisa, spurs with like in­tent.

XCIV Both lances, made of wil­low thin and dry, Rather than stout and stub­born oak, ap­peared; So splin­tered even to the rest, they fly: While with such force the en­coun­ter­ing steeds ca­reered, It seemed, as with a scythe-​blade equal­ly The hams of ei­ther cours­er had been sheared. Alike both fall; but void­ing quick the seat, The nim­ble rid­ers start up­on their feet.

XCV Marphisa in her life, with cer­tain wound, A thou­sand cav­aliers on earth had laid; And nev­er had her­self been borne to ground; Yet quit­ted now the sad­dle, as was said. Not on­ly at the ac­ci­dent as­tound, But nigh be­side her­self, re­mained the maid. Strange to the sable cav­alier with­al, Un­wont to be un­horsed, ap­peared his fall.

XCVI They scarce­ly touch the ground be­fore they gain Their feet, and now the fierce as­sault re­new, With cut and thrust; which now with shield the twain Or blade ward off, and now by leaps es­chew. Whether the foes strike home, or smite in vain, Blows ring, and echo part­ed aether through. More force those shields, those helms, those breast-​plates show Than anvils un­der­neath the sound­ing blow.

XCVII If heavy falls the sav­age damsel’s blade, That falls not light­ly of her war­like foe. Equal the mea­sure one the oth­er paid; And both re­ceive as much as they be­stow. He who would see two dar­ing spir­its weighed, To seek two fiercer need no fur­ther go. Nor to seek more dex­ter­ity or might; For greater could not be in mor­tal wight.

XCVI­II The wom­en who have sate long time, to view The cham­pi­ons with such hor­rid strokes of­fend, Nor sign of trou­ble in the war­riors true Be­hold, nor yet of weari­ness, com­mend Them with just prais­es, as the wor­thi­est two That are, where’er the sea’s wide arms ex­tend. They deem these of mere toil and labour long Must die, save they be strongest of the strong.

XCIX Com­muning with her­self, Marphisa said, “That he moved not be­fore was well for me! Who risqued to have been num­bered with the dead, If he at first had joined his com­pa­ny. Since, as it is, I hard­ly can make head Against his dead­ly blows.” This col­lo­quy She with her­self main­tained, and while she spoke, Ceased not to ply her sword with cir­cling stroke.

C ” ‘Twas well for me,” the oth­er cried again, “That to re­pose I did not leave the knight. I now from him de­fend my­self with pain, Who is o’er­wea­ried with the for­mer fight: What had he been, re­newed in might and main, If he had rest­ed till to-​mor­row’s light? Right for­tu­nate was I, as man could be, That he re­fused my prof­fered cour­tesy!”

CI Till eve they strove, nor did it yet ap­pear Which had the van­tage of the doubt­ful fray: Nor, with­out light, could ei­ther foe see clear Now to avoid the fu­ri­ous blows; when day Was done, again the cour­te­ous cav­alier To his il­lus­tri­ous op­po­site ‘gan say; “What shall we do, since ill-​timed shades de­scend, While we with equal for­tune thus con­tend?”

CII “Meseems, at least, that till to-​mor­row’s morn ‘Twere bet­ter thou pro­longed thy life: no right Have I thy doom, sir war­rior, to ad­journ Be­yond the lim­its of one lit­tle night. Nor will I that by me the blame be born That thou no longer shalt en­joy the light. With rea­son to the sex’s charge, by whom This place is gov­erned, lay thy cru­el doom.”

CI­II “If I lament thee and thy com­pa­ny, HE knows, by whom all hid­den things are spied. Thou and thy com­rades may re­pose with me, For whom there is no safe abode be­side: Since leagued against you in con­spir­acy Are all those hus­bands by thy hand have died. For ev­ery valiant war­rior of the men Slain in the tour­ney, con­sort was of ten.

CIV “The scathe they have to-​day re­ceived from thee, Would nine­ty wom­en wreak with venge­ful spite; And, save thou take my hos­pi­tal­ity, Ex­cept by them to be as­sailed this night.” — “I take thy prof­fer in se­cu­ri­ty,” (Replied Marphisa), “that the faith so plight, And good­ness of thy heart, will prove no less, Than are thy cor­po­ral strength and har­di­ness.

CV “But if, as hav­ing to kill me, thou grieve, Thou well mayst grieve, for rea­sons op­po­site; Nor hast thou cause to laugh, as I con­ceive, Nor hith­er­to has found me worst in fight. Whether thou wouldst de­fer the fray, or leave, Or pros­ecute by this or oth­er light, Be­hold me prompt thy wish­es to ful­fil; Where and when­ev­er it shall be thy will!”

CVI So by con­sent the com­bat­ants di­vid­ed, Till the dawn broke from Ganges’ stream anew; And so re­mained the ques­tion un­de­cid­ed, Which was the bet­ter cham­pi­on of the two, To both the broth­ers and the rest who sid­ed Up­on that part, the lib­er­al lord did sue With cour­te­ous prayer, that till the com­ing day They would be pleased be­neath his roof to stay.

CVII They un­sus­pect­ing with the prayer com­plied, And by the cheer­ful blaze of torch­es white A roy­al dome as­cend­ed, with their guide, Di­vid­ed in­to many bow­ers and bright. The com­bat­ants re­main as stupi­fied, On lift­ing up their vi­zors, at the sight One of the oth­er; for (by what ap­pears) The war­rior hard­ly num­bers eigh­teen years.

CVI­II Much mar­vels with her­self the gen­tle dame, That one so young so well should do and dare. Much mar­vels he (his won­der­ment the same) When he her sex ag­nizes by her hair. Ques­tion­ing one an­oth­er of their name, As speed­ily re­ply the youth­ful pair. But how was hight the youth­ful cav­alier, Await till the en­su­ing strain to hear.