Orlando Furioso

CANTO 23

AR­GU­MENT As­tolpho soars in air. Up­on ac­count Of Pinnabel is pris­oned Scot­land’s heir: By Roland freed, Fron­ti­no Rodomont Takes from Hip­pal­ca, trust­ed to her care. With Man­dri­car­do strives Anglantes’ count: Who, next, of­fend­ed by his la­dy fair, In­to the fury falls, so strange and fell, Which in the world has not a par­al­lel.

I Let each as­sist the oth­er in his need; Sel­dom good ac­tions go with­out their due; And if their just re­ward should not suc­ceed, At least, nor death, nor shame, nor loss en­sue. Who wrongs an­oth­er, the re­mem­bered meed As well shall have, and soon or lat­er rue. That moun­tains nev­er meet, but that men may, And oft en­counter, is an an­cient say.

II Now mark what chanced to Pinnabel, the event Of hav­ing borne him­self so wicked­ly: He at the last re­ceived due pun­ish­ment, Due and de­served by his in­iq­ui­ty. And God, who for the most is ill con­tent To see the righ­teous suf­fer wrong­ful­ly, Se­cured the maid from harm, and will se­cure All who from ev­ery wicked­ness are pure.

III Pinnabel deemed he to an end had brought, And buried deep in earth, the mar­tial maid; Nor ween­ing to be­hold her more, less thought To her his trea­son’s for­feit to have paid. Nor prof­its it the wily traitor ought To be among the forts his fa­ther swayed. For Al­tari­pa here its sum­mit rears, Amid rude hills, con­fin­ing on Poic­tiers.

IV Anselm in Al­tari­pa held com­mand, The count from whom was sprung this evil seed: Who, to es­cape from an­gry Cler­mont’s hand, Of friends and of as­sis­tance stood in need. At a hill’s foot, with her aveng­ing brand, Bradamant made the worth­less traitor bleed; Who found no bet­ter suc­cour in the strife Than piteous cry and fruit­less prayer for life.

V When she has put to death the treach­er­ous peer, Who to put her to death had erst in­tent, To seek Rogero she again would steer, But that her cru­el fate would not con­sent; Which, where the wood was loneli­est and most drear, To wan­der by close path the la­dy sent, Un­til the west­ern sun with­drew his light, Aban­don­ing the world above to night.

VI Nor know­ing where for shel­ter she should rove, Bradamant in that place re­solves to stay, Couched on the ver­dant herbage of the grove; And, sleep­ing, now awaits the dawn of day, Now watch­ing Sat­urn, Venus, Mars, and Jove, And the oth­er wan­der­ing gods up­on their way: But, whether wak­ing or to sleep re­signed, Has aye Rogero present to her mind.

VII With sor­row and re­pen­tance oft as­sailed, She from her in­most heart pro­found­ly sighed, That Anger over Love should have pre­vailed. “Anger has torn me from my love,” (she cried,) “Oh! had I made some note, which had availed, Thith­er, whence I set out, my steps to guide, When I de­part­ed on my ill em­prize! Sure I was lorn of mem­ory and of eyes!”

VI­II These words and oth­ers she in mourn­ful strain Ut­ters, and broods with­in her heart on more. Mean­while a wind of sighs, and plen­teous rain Of tears, are to­kens of her an­guish sore. In the east, at last, ex­pect­ed long in vain, The wished for twi­light streaked the hori­zon o’er; And she her cours­er took, which on the ley Was feed­ing, and rode forth to meet the day.

IX Nor far had rode, ere from the green­wood-​trees She is­sued, where the dome was erst dis­played; And many days her with such witcheries The evil-​mind­ed wiz­ard had de­layed. Here she As­tolpho found, who at full ease A bri­dle for the Hip­pogryph had made, And here was stand­ing, thought­ful and in pain To whom he should de­liv­er Ra­bi­cane.

X By chance she found him, as the cav­alier Had from the helm un­cased his head to view; So that when of the dingy for­est clear, Fair Bradamant her gen­tle cousin knew. Him from afar she hailed with joy­ful cheer, And now more nigh, to em­brace the war­rior flew; And named her­self, and raised her vi­zor high, And let him plain­ly who she was es­py.

XI None could As­tolpho have found any where With whom to leave his horse with more con­tent, As know­ing she would guard the steed with care, And to his lord on his re­turn present; And he be­lieved that Heav­en had, in its care, Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter for this plea­sure sent. Her was he wont with plea­sure aye to see, But now with more in his ne­ces­si­ty.

XII Em­brac­ing twice or thrice the cousins stand, Fra­ter­nal­ly, each oth­er’s neck, and they Had of each oth­er’s wel­fare made de­mand With much af­fec­tion, ere the duke ‘gan say; “Would I now see the winged peo­ple’s land, Here up­on earth I make too long de­lay.” And open­ing to the dame the thought he brewed, To her the fly­ing horse As­tolpho shewed.

XI­II But she scarce mar­velled when above the plain She saw the ris­ing steed his wings un­fold; Since up­on for­mer time, with mas­ter­ing rein. On him had charged the dame that wiz­ard old; And made her eye and eye­lid sore­ly strain, So hard she gazed, his move­ments to be­hold; The day that he bore off, with won­der­ous range, Rogero on his jour­ney, long and strange.

XIV As­tolpho says on her he will be­stow His Ra­bi­can; so pass­ing swift of kind, That, if the cours­er start­ed when a bow Was drawn, he left the feath­ered shaft be­hind; And will as well his panoply forego, That it may to Mount Al­ban be con­signed: And she for him pre­serve the mar­tial weed; Since of his arms he has no present need.

XV Bent, since a course in air was to be flown, That he, as best he can, will make him light. Yet keeps the sword and horn; al­though alone The horn from ev­ery risque might shield the knight: But he the lance aban­dons, which the son Of Galaphron was wont to bear in flight; The lance, by which who­ev­er in the course Was touched, fell head­long hurtling from his horse.

XVI Backed by As­tolpho, and as­cend­ing slow, The hip­pogryph through yield­ing aether flew; And next the rid­er stirred the cours­er so, That in a thought he van­ished out of view. Thus with his pi­lot does the pa­tron go, Fear­ing the gale and rock, till he is through The reefs; then, hav­ing left the shore be­hind, Hoists ev­ery sail, and shoots be­fore the wind.

XVII Bradamant, when de­part­ed was the peer, Re­mained dis­tressed in mind; since in what way She knew not her good kins­man’s war­like gear And cours­er to Mount Al­ban to con­vey. For on her heart, which they in­flame and tear, The warm de­sire and greedy will yet prey To see the Child; whom she to find once more At Val­lom­brosa thought, if not be­fore.

XVI­II Here stand­ing in sus­pense, by chance she spied A churl, that came to­wards her on the plain, Who, at her best, As­tolpho’s ar­mour tied, As best he might, and laid on Ra­bi­cane; She next be­hind her bade the peas­ant guide (One cours­er load­ed and one loose) the twain. Two were the steeds; for she had that be­fore, On which his horse from Pinnabel she bore.

XIX To Val­lom­brosa to di­rect her way She thought, in hopes to find Rogero there: But, fear­ing ev­er­more to go astray, Knew not how thith­er she might best re­pair. The churl had of the coun­try small as­say, And, sure to be be­wil­dered, wend the pair: Yet at a ven­ture thith­er­ward she hies, Where she be­lieves the place of meet­ing lies.

XX She here and there, as she her way pur­sued, Turned, but found none to ques­tion of the road; She saw at mid-​day, is­su­ing from the wood, A fort, nor far re­moved was the abode, Which on the sum­mit of a moun­tain stood, And to the la­dy like Mount Al­ban showed; And was Mount Al­ban sure; in which re­pair One of her broth­ers and her moth­er were.

XXI She, when she rec­og­nized the place, be­came Sad­der at heart than I have pow­er to say. If she de­lays, dis­cov­ered is the dame, Nor thence will be al­lowed to wend her way: If thence she wends not, of the amorous flame Which so con­sumes her, she will be the prey, Nor see Rogero more, nor com­pass aught Which was at Val­lom­brosa to be wrought.

XXII Some deal she doubt­ed: then to turn her steed, Re­solved up­on Mount Al­ban’s cas­tle near; And, for she thence her way could deft­ly read, Her course anew to­wards the abbey steer. But For­tune, good or evil, had de­creed The maid, be­fore she of the vale was clear, Of one of her good brethren should be spied, Alar­do named, ere she had time to hide.

XXI­II He came from bil­let­ing the bands which lay Dis­persed about that province, foot and horse; For the sur­round­ing dis­trict, to obey King Charle­magne, had raised an­oth­er force. Em­braces broth­er­ly and friend­ly say, Salutes and kind­ly cheer, en­sue of course; And next in­to Mount Al­ban, side by side, They, com­muning of many mat­ters, ride.

XXIV Bradamant en­ters Mon­tal­bano’s seat, Whom Beat­rice had mourned, and vain­ly sought Through spa­cious France: ‘Tis here all wel­come sweet, The kiss and clasp of hand, she holds at nought, While her a moth­er and a broth­er greet, As the en­am­oured maid com­pares in thought These with the loved Rogero’s fond em­brace; Which time will nev­er from her mind ef­face.

XXV Be­cause she could not go, one in her stead To send to Val­lom­brosa she de­vised, Who thith­er in the damsel’s name should speed; By whom should young Rogero be ap­prised What kept her thence; and prayed, if prayer should need, That there he for love would be bap­tised; And next, as was con­cerned, would in­tend What might their bridal bring to hap­py end.

XXVI She pur­posed the same mes­sen­ger should bear As well to her Rogero his good steed; Which he was ev­er wont­ed to hold dear, Worthi­ly dear; for sure so stout at need And beau­teous was no cours­er, far or near, In land of Chris­tian or of Payn­im creed, In oc­cu­pa­tion of the Gaul or Moor; Ex­cept Ba­iar­do good and Brigli­ador.

XXVII Valiant Rogero, when too bold of sprite He backed the hip­pogryph and soared in air, Fron­ti­no left (Fron­ti­no he was hight), Whom Bradamant then took in­to her care, And to Mount Al­ban sent; and had him dight, And nour­ished, at large cost, with plen­teous fare; Nor let be rode ex­cept at easy pace, Hence was he ne’er so sleek or well in case.

XXVI­II Each damsel and each dame who her obeyed, She tasked, to­geth­er with her­self, to sew, With sub­tle toil; and with fine gold o’er­laid A piece of silk of white and sable hue: With this she trapt the horse; then chose a maid, Old Cal­litrephia’s daugh­ter, from the crew; Whose moth­er whilom Bradamant had nursed; A damsel she in all her se­crets versed.

XXIX How graven in her heart Rogero lies, A thou­sand times to her she had con­fessed; And had ex­tolled above the deities The man­ners, worth, and beau­ty be pos­sessed. “No bet­ter mes­sen­ger could I de­vise,” (She said, and called the damsel from the rest,) “Nor have I one, Hip­pal­ca mine, more sage And sure than three, to do my em­bas­sage.”

XXX Hip­pal­ca was the at­ten­dant damsel hight. “Go,” (says her la­dy, and de­scribes the way) And af­ter­wards in­forms the maid aright Of all which to Rogero she should say; And why she at the abbey failed the knight, Who must not to bad faith as­cribe her stay, But this to For­tune charge, that so de­cides, Who, more than we our­selves, our con­duct guides.

XXXI She made the damsel mount up­on a pad, And put in­to her hand Fron­ti­no’s rein; And, if she met with one so rude or mad, Who to de­prive her of the steed were fain, Her to pro­claim who was his own­er, bade, As that which might suf­fice to make him sane. For she be­lieved there was no cav­alier, But that Rogero’s name would make him fear.

XXXII Of many and many things, where­of to treat With good Rogero, in her stead, she showed; Of which in­struct­ed well, her pal­frey fleet Hip­pal­ca stirred, nor longer there abode. Through high­way, field, and wood, a gloomy beat, More than ten weary miles the damsel rode, Ere any crossed her path on mis­chief bent, Or even ques­tioned with­er­ward she went.

XXXI­II At noon of day, de­scend­ing from a mount, She in a streight and ill de­cliv­ity, Led by a dwarf, en­coun­tered Rodomont, Who was afoot and har­nessed cap-​a-​pee. The Moor to­wards her raised his haughty front, And straight blas­phemed the eter­nal Hi­er­ar­chy, That horse, so rich­ly trapped and pass­ing fair, He had not found in a knight-​er­rant’s care.

XXXIV On the first cours­er he should find, the knight Had sworn a solemn oath his hands to lay: This was the first, nor he on steed could light Fair­er or fit­ter; yet to take away The charg­er from a maid were foul de­spite. Doubt­ful he stands, but cov­ets sore the prey; Eyes and sur­veys him, and says of­ten, “Why Is not as well the cours­er’s mas­ter by?”

XXXV “Ah! would be were!” to him the maid replied, “For hap­ly he would make thee change thy thought. A bet­ter knight than thee the horse doth ride, And vain­ly would his match on earth be sought.” — “Who tram­ples thus on oth­er’s fame?” — he cried; And she — “Rogero” — said, as she was taught. Then Rodomont — “The steed I may my own; Since him a cham­pi­on rides of such renown.

XXXVI “If he, as you re­late, be of such force, That he sur­pris­es all be­side in might, I needs must pay the hire as well as horse; And be this at the plea­sure of the knight! That I am Rodomont, to him dis­course; And, if in­deed with me he lists to fight, Me shall to find; in that I shine con­fest, By my own light, in mo­tion or at rest.

XXXVII “I leave such ves­tige where­soe’er I tread, The volleyed thun­der leaves not worse be­low.” He had thrown back, over Fron­ti­no’s head, The cours­er’s gild­ed reins, in say­ing so, Backed him, and left Hip­pal­ca sore best­ed; Who, bathed in tears, and goad­ed by her woe, Cries shame on him, and threats the king with ill: Rodomont hear­kens not, and climbs the hill:

XXXVI­II Whith­er the dwarf con­ducts him on the trace Of Do­ral­ice and Man­dri­car­do bold. Be­hind, Hip­pal­ca him in cease­less chase, Pur­sues with taunt and curs­es man­ifold. What came of this is said in oth­er place. Turpin, by whom this his­to­ry is told, Here makes di­gres­sion, and re­turns again Thith­er, where faith­less Pinnabel was slain.

XXXIX Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter scarce had turned away From thence, who on her track in haste had gone, Ere thith­er by an­oth­er path, astray, Zerbino came, with that de­ceit­ful crone, And saw the bleed­ing body where it lay: And, though the war­rior was to him un­known, As good and cour­te­ous, felt his bo­som swell, With pity at that cru­el sight and fell.

XL Dead lay Sir Pinnabel, and bathed in gore; From whom such streams of blood pro­fuse­ly flow, As were a cause for won­der­ment, had more Swords than a hun­dred joined to lay him low. A print of re­cent foot­steps to ex­plore The cav­alier of Scot­land was not slow; Who took the ad­ven­ture, in the hope to read Who was the do­er of the mur­der­ous deed.

XLI The hag to wait was or­dered by the peer, Who would re­turn to her in lit­tle space. She to the body of the count drew near, And with fixt eye ex­am­ined ev­ery place; Who willed not aught, that in her sight was dear, The body of the dead should vain­ly grace; As one who, soiled with ev­ery oth­er vice, Sur­passed all wom­ankind in avarice.

XLII If she in any man­ner could have thought, Or hoped to have con­cealed the in­tend­ed theft, The bleed­ing war­rior’s sur­coat, rich­ly wrought, She would, to­geth­er with his arms, have reft; But at what might be safe­ly hid­den, caught, And, grieved at heart, forewent the glo­ri­ous weft. Him of a beau­teous gir­dle she un­drest, And this se­cured be­tween a dou­ble vest.

XLI­II Zerbino af­ter some short space came back, Who vain­ly Bradamant had thence pur­sued Through the green holt; be­cause the beat­en track Was lost in many oth­ers in the wood; And he (for day­light now be­gan to lack) Feared night should catch him ‘mid those moun­tains rude, And with the im­pi­ous wom­an thence, in quest Of inn, from the dis­as­trous val­ley prest.

XLIV A spa­cious town, which Al­tari­pa hight, Jour­ney­ing the twain, at two miles’ dis­tance spy: There stopt the pair, and halt­ed for the night, Which, at full soar, even now went up the sky: Nor long had rest­ed there ere, left and right, They from the peo­ple heard a mourn­ful cry; And saw fast tears from ev­ery eye­lid fall, As if some cause of sor­row touched them all.

XLV Zerbino asked the oc­ca­sion, and ’twas said Tid­ings had been to Count Ansel­mo brought, That Pinnabel, his son, was ly­ing dead In a streight way be­tween two moun­tains wrought. Zerbino feigned sur­prise, and hung his head, In fear lest he the as­sas­sin should be thought; But well di­vined this was the wight he found Up­on his jour­ney, life­less on the ground.

XLVI Af­ter some lit­tle time, the fu­ner­al bier Ar­rives, ‘mid torch and flam­beau, where the cries Are yet more thick, and to the star­ry sphere Lament and noise of smit­ten hands arise; And faster and from fuller vein the tear Wa­ters all cheeks, de­scend­ing from the eyes; But in a cloud more dis­mal than the rest, Is the un­hap­py fa­ther’s vis­age drest.

XLVII While solemn prepa­ra­tion so was made For the grand ob­se­quies, with rev­er­ence due, Ac­cord­ing to old use and hon­ours paid, In for­mer age, cor­rupt­ed by each new; A procla­ma­tion of their lord al­layed Quick­ly the noise of the lament­ing crew; Promis­ing any one a mighty gain That should de­nounce by whom his son was slain.

XLVI­II From voice to voice, from one to oth­er ear, The loud pro­claim they through the town de­clare; Till this the wicked wom­an chanced to hear, Who past in rage the tyger or the bear; And hence the ru­in of the Scot­tish peer, Ei­ther in ha­tred, would the crone pre­pare, Or were it she alone might boast to be, In hu­man form, with­out hu­man­ity;

XLIX Or were it but to gain the promised prize; — She to seek out the griev­ing coun­ty flew, And, pref­ac­ing her tale in like­ly wise, Said that Zerbino did the deed; and drew The gir­dle forth, to wit­ness to her lies; Which straight the mis­er­able fa­ther knew; And on the wom­an’s tale and to­ken built A clear as­sur­ance of Zerbino’s guilt.

L And, weep­ing, with raised hands, was heard to say, He for his mur­dered son would have amends. To block the hos­tel where Zerbino lay, For all the town is risen, the fa­ther sends. The prince, who deems his en­emies away, And no such in­jury as this at­tends, In his first sleep is seized by Anselm’s throng, Who thinks he has en­dured so foul a wrong.

LI That night in prison, fet­tered with a pair Of heavy let­ters, is Zerbino chained. For be­fore yet the skies il­lu­mi­nat­ed are, The wrong­ful ex­ecu­tion is or­dained; And in the place will he be quar­tered, where The deed was done for which he is ar­raigned. No oth­er in­quest is on this re­ceived; It is enough that so their lord be­lieved.

LII When, the next morn, Au­ro­ra stains with dye Red, white, and yel­low, the clear hori­zon, The peo­ple rise, to pun­ish (”Death!” their cry) Zerbino for the crime he has not done: They with­out or­der him ac­com­pa­ny, A law­less mul­ti­tude, some ride, some run. I’ the midst the Scot­tish prince, with droop­ing head, Is, bound up­on a lit­tle hack­ney, led.

LI­II But HE who with the in­no­cent oft sides, Nor those aban­dons who make him their stay, For prince Zerbino such de­fence pro­vides, There is no fear that he will die to-​day; God thith­er­ward renowned Or­lan­do guides; Whose com­ing for his safe­ty paves the way: Or­lan­do sees be­neath him on a plain The youth to death con­duct­ed by the train.

LIV With him was wend­ed she, that in the cell, Pris­oned, Or­lan­do found; that roy­al maid, Child of Gal­li­cia’s king, fair Is­abel, Whom chance in­to the ruf­fi­ans’ pow­er con­veyed, What time her ship she quit­ted, by the swell Of the wild sea and tem­pest over­laid: The damsel, who, yet near­er her heart-​core Than her own vi­tal be­ing, Zerbino wore.

LV She had be­neath Or­lan­do’s con­voy strayed, Since res­cued from the cave. When on the plain The damsel saw the mot­ley troop ar­rayed, She asked Or­lan­do what might be the train? “I know not,” said the Count; and left the maid Up­on the height, and hur­ried to­wards the plain. He marked Zerbino, and at the first sight A baron of high worth es­teemed the knight,

LVI And asked him why and where­fore him they led Thus cap­tive, to Zerbino draw­ing near: At this the dole­ful prince up­raised his head, And, hav­ing bet­ter heard the cav­alier, Re­hearsed the truth; and this so well he said, That he de­served the suc­cour of the peer. Well Sir Or­lan­do him, by his re­ply, Deemed in­no­cent, and wrong­ly doomed to die.

LVII And, af­ter he had heard ’twas at the hest Of Anselm, Count of Al­tari­pa, done, Was cer­tain ’twas and out­rage man­ifest, Since nought but ill could spring from him; and one, More­over, was the oth­er’s foe pro­fest, From an­cient hate and en­mi­ty, which run In Cler­mont and Ma­ga­nza’s blood; a feud With in­juries, and death and shame pur­sued.

LVI­II Or­lan­do to the rab­ble cried, “Un­tie The cav­alier, un­less you would be slain.” — “Who deals such mighty blows?” — one made re­ply, That would be thought the truest of the train; “Were he of fire who makes such bold de­fy, We wax or straw, too haughty were the strain”: And charged with that the pal­adin of France. Or­lan­do at the losel couched his lance.

LIX The shin­ing ar­mour which the chief had rent From young Zerbino but the night be­fore, And clothed him­self with­al, poor suc­cour lent Against Or­lan­do in that com­bat sore. Against the churl’s right cheek the weapon went: It failed in­deed his tem­pered helm to bore, But such a shock he suf­fered in the strife, As broke his neck, and stretched him void of life.

LX All at one course, of oth­er of the band, With lance un­moved, he pierced the bo­som through; Left it; on Durin­dana laid his hand, And broke in­to the thick­et of the crew: One head in twain he sev­ered with the brand, (While, from the shoul­ders lopt, an­oth­er flew) Of many pierced the throat; and in a breath Above a hun­dred broke and put to death.

LXI Above a third he killed, and chased the rest, And smote, and pierced, and cleft, as he pur­sued. Him­self of helm or shield one dis­pos­sest; One with spon­toon or bill the cham­paign strewed This one along the road, across it prest A fourth; this squats in cav­ern or in wood. Or­lan­do, with­out pity, on that day Lets none es­cape whom he has pow­er to slay.

LXII Of a hun­dred men and twen­ty, in that crew, (So Turpin sums them) eighty died at least. Thith­er Or­lan­do fi­nal­ly with­drew, Where, with a heart sore trem­bling in his breast, Zerbino sat; how he at Roland’s view Re­joiced, in verse can hard­ly be ex­prest: Who, but that he was on the hack­ney bound, Would at his feet have cast him­self to ground.

LXI­II While Roland, af­ter he had loosed the knight, Helped him to don his shin­ing arms again; Stript from those ser­jeants’ cap­tain, who had dight Him­self with the good har­ness, to his pain; The prince on Is­abel­la turned his sight, Who had halt­ed on the hill above the plain: And, af­ter she per­ceived the strife was o’er, Near­er the field of fight her beau­ties bore.

LX­IV When young Zerbino at his side sur­veyed The la­dy, who by him was held so dear; The beau­teous la­dy, whom false tongue had said Was drowned, so of­ten wept with many a tear, As if ice at his heart-​core had been laid, Waxed cold, and some deal shook the cav­alier; But the chill quick­ly past, and he, in­stead, Was flushed with amorous fire, from foot to head.

LXV From quick­ly clip­ping her in his em­brace, Him rev­er­ence for Anglantes’ sovereign stayed; Be­cause he thought, and held for cer­tain case, That Roland was a lover of the maid; So past from pain to pain; and lit­tle space En­dured the joy which he at first as­sayed. And worse he bore she should an­oth­er’s be, Than hear­ing that the maid was drowned at sea.

LXVI And worse he grieved, that she was with a knight To whom he owed so much: be­cause to wrest The la­dy from his hand, was nei­ther right, Nor yet per­haps would prove an easy quest. He, with­out quar­rel, had no oth­er wight Suf­fered to part, of such a prize pos­sest; But would en­dure, Or­lan­do (such his debt) A foot up­on his pros­trate neck should set.

LXVII The three in si­lence jour­ney to a font, Where they alight, and halt be­side the well; His hel­met here un­did the weary Count, And made the prince too quit the iron shell. The youth un­helmed, she sees her lover’s front, And pale with sud­den joy grows Is­abel: Then, chang­ing, bright­ened like a hu­mid flow­er, When the warm sun suc­ceeds to drench­ing show­er.

LXVI­II And with­out more de­lay or scru­ple, prest To cast her arms about her lover dear; And not a word could draw-​forth from her breast, But bathed his neck and face with briny tear. Or­lan­do, who re­marked the love ex­prest, Need­ing no more to make the mat­ter clear, Could not but, by these cer­tain to­kens, see The could no oth­er but Zerbino be.

LX­IX When speech re­turned, ere yet the maid­en well Had dried her cheeks from the de­scend­ing tear, She on­ly of the cour­tesy could tell Late shown her by Anglantes’ cav­alier. The prince, who in one scale weighed Is­abel, To­geth­er with his life, es­teemed as dear, — Fell at Or­lan­do’s feet and him adored, As to two lives at once by him re­stored.

LXX Prof­fers and thanks had fol­lowed, with a round Of cour­te­sies be­tween the war­like pair, Had they not heard the cov­ered paths re­sound, Which over­grown with gloomy fo­liage were. Up­on their heads the hel­met, late un­bound, They quick­ly place, and to their steeds re­pair; And, lo! a knight and maid ar­rive, ere well The cav­aliers are seat­ed in the sell.

LXXI This was the Tar­tar Man­dri­car­do, who In haste be­hind the pal­adin had sped, To venge Alzir­do and Mani­lard, the two Whom good Or­lan­do’s val­our had laid dead: Though af­ter­wards less ea­ger to pur­sue, Since he with him fair Do­ral­ice had led; Whom from a hun­dred men, in plate and chain, He, with a sin­gle staff of oak, had ta’en.

LXXII Yet knew not that it was Anglantes’ peer This while, of whom he had pur­sued the beat; Though that he was a puis­sant cav­alier By cer­tain sig­nals was he taught to weet. More than Zerbino him he eyed, and, near, Pe­rused the pal­adin from head to feet; Then find­ing all the to­kens co­in­cide, “Thou art the man I seek,” the payn­im cried.

LXXI­II ” ‘Tis now ten days,” to him the Tar­tar said, “That thee I still have fol­lowed; so the fame Had stung me, and in me such long­ing bred, Which of thee to our camp of Paris came: When, amid thou­sands by thy hand laid dead, Scarce one alive fled thith­er, to pro­claim The mighty hav­oc made by thy good hand, ‘Mid Trem­ise­na’s and Nori­tia’s band.

LXXIV “I was not, as I knew, in fol­low­ing slow Both to be­hold thee, and to prove thy might; And by the sur­coat o’er thine arms I know, (In­struct­ed of thy vest) thou art the knight: And if such cog­nizance thou didst not show, And, ‘mid a hun­dred, wert con­cealed from sight, For what thou art thou plain­ly wouldst ap­pear, Thy worth con­spic­uous in thy haughty cheer.”

LXXV “No one can say,” to him Or­lan­do cried, “But that a valiant cav­alier thou art: For such a brave de­sire can ill re­side, ‘Tis my as­sur­ance, in a hum­ble heart. Since thou wouldst see me, would that thou in­side, Couldst as with­out, be­hold me! I apart Will lay me helm, that in all points thy will And pur­pose of thy quest I may ful­fil.

LXXVI “But when thou well hast scanned me with thine eye, To that thine oth­er wish as well at­tend: It yet re­mains for thee to sat­is­fy The want, which leads thee af­ter me to wend; That thou mayest mark if, in my val­our, I Agree with that bold cheer thou so com­mend.” — “And now,” (ex­claimed the Tar­tar), “for the rest! For my first want is thor­ough­ly re­drest.”

LXXVII Or­lan­do, all this while, from head to feet, Search­es the payn­im with in­quir­ing eyes: Both sides, and next the pom­mel of his seat Sur­veys, yet nei­ther mace nor tuck es­pies; And asks how he the com­bat will re­peat, If his good lance at the en­counter flies. — “Take thou no care for that,” replied the peer; “Thus in­to many have I strick­en fear.

LXXVI­II “I have an oath in Heav­en to gird no blade, Till Durin­dana from the count be won. Pur­su­ing whom, I through each road here strayed, With him to reck­on for more posts than one. If thou wilt please to hear, my oath I made When on my head I placed this mori­on: Which casque, with all the oth­er arms I bear, A thou­sand years ago great Hec­tor’s were.

LXXIX “To these good arms nought lacks be­side the sword; How it was stolen, to you I can­not say: This now, it seems, is borne by Bra­va’s lord, And hence is he so dar­ing in af­fray. Yet well I trust, if I the war­rior board, To make him ren­der his ill-​got­ten prey. Yet more; I seek the cham­pi­on with de­sire To avenge the fa­mous Agri­can, my sire.

LXXX “Him this Or­lan­do slew by treach­ery, I wot, nor could have slain in oth­er wise.” The count could bear no more, and, ” ‘Tis a lie!” (Ex­claims), “and whoso­ev­er says so, lies: Him fair­ly did I slay; Or­lan­do, I. But what thou seek­est For­tune here sup­plies; And this the faul­chion is, which thou has sought, Which shall be thine if by thy val­our bought.

LXXXI “Al­though mine is the faul­chion, right­ful­ly, Let us for it in cour­tesy con­tend; Nor will I in this bat­tle, that it be More mine than thine, but to a tree sus­pend: Bear off the weapon freely hence, if me Thou kill or con­quer.” As he made an end, He Durin­dana from his belt un­slung, And in mid-​field up­on a sapling hung.

LXXXII Al­ready dis­tant half the range of bow Is from his op­po­site each puis­sant knight, And pricks against the oth­er, noth­ing slow To slack the reins or ply the row­els bright. Al­ready dealt is ei­ther mighty blow, Where the helm yields a pas­sage to the sight. As if of ice, the shat­tered lances fly, Broke in a thou­sand pieces, to the sky.

LXXXI­II One and the oth­er lance par­force must split, In that the cav­aliers refuse to bend; The cav­aliers, who in the sad­dle sit, Re­turn­ing with the staff’s un­bro­ken end. The war­riors, who with steed had ev­er smit, Now, as a pair of hinds in rage con­tend For the mead’s bound­ary or riv­er’s right, Armed with two clubs, main­tain a cru­el fight.

LXXXIV The trun­cheons which the valiant cham­pi­ons bear, Fail in the com­bat, and few blows re­sist; Both rage with might­ier fury, here and there, Left with­out oth­er weapon than the fist; With this the des­per­ate foes en­gage, and, where The hand can grap­ple, plate and mail un­twist. Let none de­sire, to guard him­self from wrongs, A heav­ier ham­mer or more hold­ing tongs.

LXXXV How can the Sara­cen con­clude the fray With hon­our, which he haugh­ti­ly had sought? ‘Twere forty to waste time in an as­say Where to him­self more harm the smiter wrought Than to the smit­ten: in con­clu­sion, they Closed, and the payn­im king Or­lan­do caught, And strained against his bo­som; what Jove’s son Did by An­taeus, think­ing to have done.

LXXXVI Him griped athwart, he, in im­petu­ous mood, Would now push from him, now would close­ly strain; And waxed so wroth that, in his heat of blood, The Tar­tar lit­tle thought about his rein. Firm in his stir­rups self-​col­lect­ed stood Roland, and watched his van­tage to ob­tain; He to the oth­er cours­er’s fore­head slipt His wary hand, and thence the bri­dle stript.

LXXXVII The Sara­cen as­says with all his might To choak, and from the sell his foe­man tear: With ei­ther knee Or­lan­do grasps it tight, Nor can the Tar­tar more him, here or there. But with the strain­ing of the payn­im knight, The girts which hold his sad­dle bro­ken are. Scarce con­scious of his fall, Or­lan­do lies, With feet i’ the stir­rups, tight­en­ing yet his thighs.

LXXXVI­II As falls a sack of ar­mour, with such sound Tum­bled Or­lan­do, when he prest the plain. King Man­dri­car­do’s cours­er, when he found His head de­liv­ered from the guid­ing rein, Made off with him, un­heed­ing what the ground, Stum­bling through wood­land, or by path­way plain, Hith­er and tither, blind­ed by his fear; And bore with him the Tar­tar cav­alier.

LXXXIX The beau­teous Do­ral­ice, who sees her guide So quit the field, — dis­mayed at his re­treat, And wont­ed in his suc­cour to con­fide, Her hack­ney drives be­hind his cours­er fleet: The payn­im rates the charg­er, in his pride, And smites him of­ten­times with hands and feet; Threat­en­ing, as if he un­der­stood his lore; And where he’d stop the cours­er, chafes him more.

XC Not look­ing to his feet, by high or low, The beast of craven kind, with head­long force Three miles in rings had gone, and more would go, But that in­to a fos­se which stopt their course, Not lined with feath­erbed or quilt be­low, Tum­ble, re­versed, the rid­er and his horse. On the hard ground was Man­dri­car­do thrown, Yet nei­ther spoiled him­self, nor broke a bone:

XCI Here stopt the horse; but him he could not guide, Left with­out bit his mo­tions to re­strain. Brim­full of rage and choler, at his side, The Tar­tar held him, grap­pled by the mane. “Put up­on him” (to Man­dri­car­do cried His la­dy, Do­ral­ice) “my hack­ney’s rein, Since for the bri­dle I have lit­tle use; For gen­tle is my pal­frey, reined or loose.”

XCII The payn­im deems it were dis­cour­tesy To ac­cept the prof­fer by the damsel made. But his through oth­er means a rein will be; Since For­tune, who his wish­es well ap­paid, Made thith­er­ward the false Gab­ri­na flee, Af­ter she young Zerbino had be­trayed: Who like a she-​wolf fled, which, as she hies, At dis­tance hears the hounds and hunters’ cries.

XCI­II She had up­on her back the gal­lant gear, And the same youth­ful or­na­ments and vest, Stript from the ill-​taught damsel for her jeer, That in her spoils the bel­dam might be drest, And rode the horse that damsel backed whilere; Who was among the choic­est and the best. Ere yet aware of her, the an­cient dame On Do­ral­ice and Man­dri­car­do came.

XCIV Stordi­lane’s daugh­ter and the Tar­tar king Laugh at the vest of youth­ful show and shape, Up­on that an­cient wom­an, fig­ur­ing Like mon­key, rather say, like grandam ape. From her the Sara­cen de­signs to wring The rein, and does the deed: up­on the rape Of the crone’s bri­dle, he, with an­gry cry, Threat­ens and scares her horse, and makes him fly.

XCV He flies and hur­ries through the for­est gray That an­cient wom­an, al­most dead with fear, By hill and dale, by straight and crooked way, By fos­se and cliff, at haz­ard, there and here. But it im­ports me not so much to say Of her, that I should leave Anglantes’ peer; Who, from an­noy­ance of a foe re­leased, The bro­ken sad­dle at his ease re-​pieced.

XCVI He mounts his horse, and watch­es long, be­fore De­part­ing, if the foe will re-​ap­pear; Nor see­ing puis­sant Man­dri­car­do more, At last re­solves in search of him to steer. But, as one nur­tured well in court­ly lore, From thence de­part­ed not the cav­alier, Till he with kind salutes, in friend­ly strain, Fair leaves had tak­en of the lov­ing twain.

XCVII At his de­par­ture waxed Zerbino woe, And Is­abel­la wept for sor­row: they Had wend­ed with him, but the count, al­though Their com­pa­ny was fair and good, said nay; Urg­ing for rea­son, nought so ill could show In cav­alier, as, when up­on his way To seek his foe­man out, to take a friend, Who him with arms might suc­cour or de­fend.

XCVI­II Next, if they met the Sara­cen, be­fore They should en­counter him, be­sought them say, That he, Or­lan­do, would for three days more. Wait­ing him, in that ter­ri­to­ry stay: But, af­ter that, would seek the flags which bore The gold­en lilies, and King Charles’ ar­ray. That Man­dri­car­do through their means might know, If such his plea­sure, where to find his foe.

XCIX The lovers promised will­ing­ly to do This, and what­ev­er else he should com­mand. By dif­fer­ent ways the cav­aliers with­drew, One on the right, and one on the left hand. The count, ere oth­er path he would pur­sue, Took from the sapling, and re­placed, his brand. And, where he weened he might the payn­im best En­counter, thith­er­ward his steed ad­drest.

C The course in path­less woods, which, with­out rein, The Tar­tar’s charg­er had pur­sued astray, Made Roland for two days, with fruit­less pain, Fol­low him, with­out tid­ings of his way. Or­lan­do reached a rill of crys­tal vein, On ei­ther bank of which a mead­ow lay; Which, stained with na­tive hues and rich, he sees, And dot­ted o’er with fair and many trees.

CI The mid-​day fer­vour made the shel­ter sweet To hardy herd as well as naked swain; So that Or­lan­do, well be­neath the heat Some deal might wince, op­prest with plate and chain. He en­tered, for re­pose, the cool re­treat, And found it the abode of grief and pain; And place of so­journ more ac­cursed and fell, On that un­hap­py day, than tongue can tell.

CII Turn­ing him round, he there, on many a tree, Be­held en­graved, up­on the woody shore, What as the writ­ing of his de­ity He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore. This was a place of those de­scribed by me, Whith­er oft­times, at­tend­ed by Medore, From the near shep­herd’s cot had wont to stray The beau­teous la­dy, sovereign of Catay.

CI­II In a hun­dred knots, amid those green abodes, In a hun­dred parts, their cyphered names are dight; Whose many let­ters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleed­ing hear-​core pight. He would dis­cred­it in a thou­sand modes, That which he cred­its in his own de­spite; And would par­force per­suade him­self, that rhind Oth­er An­gel­ica than his had signed.

CIV “And yet I know these char­ac­ters,” he cried, “Of which I have so many read and seen; By her may this Medoro be be­lied, And me, she, fig­ured in the name, may mean.” Feed­ing on such like phan­tasies, be­side The re­al truth, did sad Or­lan­do lean Up­on the emp­ty hope, though ill con­tent­ed, Which he by self-​il­lu­sions had fo­ment­ed.

CV But stirred and aye rekin­dled it, the more That he to quench the ill sus­pi­cion wrought, Like the in­cau­tious bird, by fowler’s lore, Ham­pered in net or line; which, in the thought To free its tan­gled pin­ions and to soar, By strug­gling, is but more se­cure­ly caught. Or­lan­do pass­es thith­er, where a moun­tain O’er­hangs in guise of arch the crys­tal foun­tain.

CVI Splay-​foot­ed ivy, with its mantling spray, And gadding vine, the cav­ern’s en­try case; Where of­ten in the hottest noon of day The pair had rest­ed, locked in fond em­brace. With­in the grot­to, and with­out it, they Had of­ten­er than in any oth­er place With char­coal or with chalk their names pour­trayed, Or flour­ished with the knife’s in­dent­ing blade.

CVII Here from his horse the sor­row­ing Coun­ty lit, And at the en­trance of the grot sur­veyed A cloud of words, which seemed but new­ly writ, And which the young Medoro’s hand had made. On the great plea­sure he had known in it, The sen­tence he in vers­es had ar­rayed; Which in his tongue, I deem, might make pre­tence To pol­ished phrase; and such in ours the sense.

CVI­II “Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, And, grate­ful with cool shade, thou gloomy cave, Where oft, by many wooed with fruit­less pain, Beau­teous An­gel­ica, the child of grave King Galaphron, with­in my arms has lain; For the con­ve­nient har­bourage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As rec­om­pence, for ev­er sing your praise.

CIX “And any lov­ing lord de­vout­ly pray, Damsel and cav­alier, and ev­ery one, Whom choice or for­tune hith­er shall con­vey, Stranger or na­tive, — to this crys­tal run, Shade, cav­erned rock, and grass, and plants, to say, Be­nig­nant be to you the fos­ter­ing sun And moon, and may the choir of nymphs pro­vide, That nev­er swain his flock may hith­er guide!”

CX In Ara­bic was writ the bless­ing said, Known to Or­lan­do like the Latin tongue, Who, versed in many lan­guages, best read Was in this speech; which of­ten­times from wrong, And in­jury, and shame, had saved his head, What time he roved the Sara­cens among. But let him boast not of its for­mer boot, O’er­bal­anced by the present bit­ter fruit.

CXI Three times, and four, and six, the lines im­prest Up­on the stone that wretch pe­rused, in vain Seek­ing an­oth­er sense than was ex­prest, And ev­er saw the thing more clear and plain; And all the while, with­in his trou­bled breast, He felt an icy hand his heart-​core strain. With mind and eyes close fas­tened on the block, At length he stood, not dif­fer­ing from the rock.

CXII Then well-​nigh lost all feel­ing; so a prey Whol­ly was he to that o’er­mas­ter­ing woe. This is a pang, be­lieve the ex­pe­ri­enced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs out­go. His pride had from his fore­head passed away, His chin had fall­en up­on his breast be­low; Nor found he, so grief barred each nat­ural vent, Mois­ture for tears, or ut­ter­ance for lament.

CXI­II Stiffed with­in, the im­petu­ous sor­row stays, Which would too quick­ly is­sue; so to abide Wa­ter is seen, im­pris­oned in the vase, Whose neck is nar­row and whose swell is wide; What time, when one turns up the in­vert­ed base, To­wards the mouth, so hastes the hur­ry­ing tide, And in the streight en­coun­ters such a stop, It scarce­ly works a pas­sage, drop by drop.

CX­IV He some­what to him­self re­turned, and thought How pos­si­bly the thing might be un­true: The some one (so he hoped, de­sired, and sought To think) his la­dy would with shame pur­sue; Or with such weight of jeal­ous­ly had wrought To whelm his rea­son, as should him un­do; And that he, whosoe’er the thing had planned, Had coun­ter­feit­ed pass­ing well her hand.

CXV With such vain hope he sought him­self to cheat, And manned some deal his spir­its and awoke; Then prest the faith­ful Brigli­adoro’s seat, As on the sun’s re­treat his sis­ter broke. Nor far the war­rior had pur­sued his beat, Ere ed­dy­ing from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm es­pied, And thith­er­ward in quest of lodg­ing hied.

CXVI Lan­guid, he lit, and left his Brigli­ador To a dis­creet at­ten­dant: one un­drest His limbs, one doffed the gold­en spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. This was the home­stead where the young Medore Lay wound­ed, and was here supreme­ly blest. Or­lan­do here, with oth­er food un­fed, Hav­ing supt full of sor­row, sought his bed.

CXVII The more the wretched suf­fer­er seeks for ease, He finds but so much more dis­tress and pain; Who ev­ery where the loathed hand-​writ­ing sees, On wall, and door, and win­dow: he would fain Ques­tion his host of this, but holds his peace, Be­cause, in sooth, he dreads too clear, too plain To make the thing, and this would rather shrowd, That it may less of­fend him, with a cloud.

CXVI­II Lit­tle availed the count his self-​de­ceit; For there was one who spake of it un­sought; The shep­erd-​swain, who to al­lay the heat, With which he saw his guest so trou­bled, thought: The tale which he was wont­ed to re­peat — Of the two lovers — to each lis­ten­er taught, A his­to­ry which many loved to hear, He now, with­out re­serve, ‘gan tell the peer.

CX­IX How at An­gel­ica’s per­sua­sive prayer, He to his farm had car­ried young Medore, Grievous­ly wound­ed with an ar­row; where, In lit­tle space she healed the an­gry sore. But while she ex­er­cised this pi­ous care, Love in her heart the la­dy wound­ed more, And kin­dled from small spark so fierce a fire, She burnt all over, rest­less with de­sire:

CXX Nor think­ing she of might­iest king was born, Who ruled in the east, nor of her her­itage, Forced by too puis­sant love, had thought no scorn To be the con­sort of a poor foot-​page. — His sto­ry done, to them in proof was borne The gem, which, in re­ward for har­bourage, To her ex­tend­ed in that kind abode, An­gel­ica, at part­ing, had be­stowed.

CXXI A dead­ly axe was this un­hap­py close, Which, at a sin­gle stroke, lopt off the head; When, sa­ti­ate with in­nu­mer­able blows, That cru­el hang­man Love his hate had fed. Or­lan­do stud­ied to con­ceal his woes; And yet the mis­chief gath­ered force and spread, And would break out par­force in tears and sighs, Would he, or would be not, from mouth and eyes.

CXXII When he can give the rein to rag­ing woe, Alone, by oth­er’s pres­ence un­represt, From his full eyes the tears de­scend­ing flow, In a wide stream, and flood his trou­bled breast. ‘Mid sob and groan, he toss­es to and fro About his weary bed, in search of rest; And vain­ly shift­ing, hard­er than a rock And sharp­er than a net­tle found its flock.

CXXI­II Amid the pres­sure of such cru­el pain, It past in­to the wretched suf­fer­er’s head, That oft the un­grate­ful la­dy must have lain, To­geth­er with her le­man, on that bed: Nor less he loathed the couch in his dis­dain, Nor from the down up­start­ed with less dread, Than churl, who, when about to close his eyes, Springs from the turf, if he a ser­pent spies.

CXXIV In him, forth­with, such dead­ly ha­tred breed That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay Till the morn break, or till the dawn suc­ceed, Whose twi­light goes be­fore ap­proach­ing day. In haste, Or­lan­do takes his arms and steed, And to the deep­est green­wood wends his way. And, when as­sured that he is there alone, Gives ut­ter­ance to his grief in shriek and groan.

CXXV Nev­er from tears, nev­er from sor­row­ing, He paused; nor found he peace by night and day: He fled from town, in for­est har­bour­ing, And in the open air on hard earth lay. He mar­velled at him­self, how such a spring Of wa­ter from his eyes could stream away, And breath was for so many sobs sup­plied; And thus oft­times, amid his mourn­ing, cried.

CXXVI “These are no longer re­al tears which rise, And which I scat­ter from so full a vein. Of tears my cease­less sor­row lacked sup­plies; They stopt when to mid-​height scarce rose my pain. The vi­tal mois­ture rush­ing to my eyes, Driv­en by the fire with­in me, now would gain A vent; and it is this which I ex­pend, And which my sor­rows and my life will end.

CXXVII “No; these, which are the in­dex of my woes, These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they fail At times, and have their sea­son of re­pose: I feel, my breast can nev­er less ex­hale Its sor­row: Love, who with his pin­ions blows The fire about my heart, cre­ates this gale. Love, by what mir­acle does thou con­trive, It wastes not in the fire thou keep’st alive?

CXXVI­II “I am not — am not what I seem to sight: What Roland was is dead and un­der ground, Slain by that most un­grate­ful la­dy’s spite, Whose faith­less­ness in­flict­ed such a wound. Di­vid­ed from the flesh, I am his sprite, Which in this hell, tor­ment­ed, walks its round, To be, but in its shad­ow left above, A warn­ing to all such as thrust in love.”

CXXIX All night about the for­est roved the count, And, at the break of dai­ly light, was brought By his un­hap­py for­tune to the fount, Where his in­scrip­tion young Medoro wrought. To see his wrongs in­scribed up­on that mount, In­flamed his fury so, in him was nought But turned to ha­tred, phren­sy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his faul­chion bright;

CXXX Cleft through the writ­ing; and the sol­id block, In­to the sky, in tiny frag­ments sped. Wo worth each sapling and the cav­erned rock, Where Medore and An­gel­ica were read! So scathed, that they to shep­herd or to flock Thence­forth shall nev­er fur­nish shade or bed. And that sweet foun­tain, late so clear and pure, From such tem­pes­tu­ous wrath was ill se­cure.

CXXXI For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, Cast with­out cease in­to the beau­teous source; Till, tur­bid from the bot­tom to the top, Nev­er again was clear the trou­bled course. At length, for lack of breath, com­pelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wast­ed force, Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies Up­on the mead, and, gaz­ing up­ward, sighs.

CXXXII Wea­ried and woe-​be­gone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes to­ward heav­en; nor spake he aught. Nor ate, nor slept, till in his dai­ly round The gold­en sun had bro­ken thrice, and sought His rest anew; nor ev­er ceased his wound To ran­kle, till it marred his sober thought. At length, im­pelled by phren­sy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away.

CXXXI­II Here was his hel­met, there his shield be­stowed; His arms far off; and, far­ther than the rest, His cuirass; through the green­wood wide was strowed All his good gear, in fine; and next his vest He rent; and, in his fury, naked showed His shag­gy paunch, and all his back and breast. And ‘gan that phren­sy act, so pass­ing dread, Of stranger fol­ly nev­er shall be said.

CXXXIV So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all ob­scured re­mained the war­rior’s sprite; Nor, for for­get­ful­ness, his sword he drew, Or won­der­ous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight: But nei­ther this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was need­ed by Or­lan­do’s peer­less might. He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, Who a tall pine up­root­ed at a pull.

CXXXV He many oth­ers, with as lit­tle let As fen­nel, wall-​wort-​stem, or dill, up-​tore; And ilex, knot­ted oak, and fir up­set, And beech, and moun­tain-​ash, and elm-​tree hoar. He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, Does, to pre­pare the cham­paigne for his lore, By stub­ble, rush, and net­tle-​stalk; and broke, Like these, old stur­dy trees and stems of oak.

CXXXVI The shep­herd swains, who hear the tu­mult nigh, Leav­ing their flocks be­neath the green­wood tree, Some here some there across the for­est hie, And hur­ry thith­er, all, the cause to see. — But I have reached such point, my his­to­ry, If I o’er­pass this bound, may irk­some be; And I my sto­ry will de­lay to end, Rather than by my te­dious­ness of­fend.