Orlando Furioso

CANTO 30

AR­GU­MENT Great feats achieve Or­lan­do by the way. The Tar­tar king is by Rogero slain: For whom fair Bradamant, his spouse, does stay, But Fate for­bade, that he who wound­ed lay To her his plight­ed promise should main­tain. He af­ter bold­ly with the brethren made, Their lord Ri­nal­do in his need to aid.

I When Rea­son, giv­ing way to heat of blood, Her­self from hasty choler ill de­fends, And, hur­ried on by blind and fu­ri­ous mood, We with the tongue or hand mo­lest our friends, Though the of­fence is, af­ter, wept and rued, The penance which we pay is poor amends. Alas! I sor­row and lament in vain For what I said in oth­er an­gry strain.

II But like sick man am I, who, sore best­ed, Suf­fer­ing with pa­tience many and many a day, When against pain he can no more make head, Yields to his rage, and curs­es; pain give way, And with it the im­petu­ous wrath is fled, Which moved his ready tongue such ill to say; And he is left his will­ful rage to rue, But can­not that which he has done un­do.

III Well hope I, from your sovereign cour­tesy, Your par­don, since I crave it, ladies bright; You will ex­cuse, if moved by mad­ness, I Rave in my pas­sion; let your cen­sure light On foe, who treats me so de­spi­teous­ly, I could not be re­duced to wors­er plight; Who prompts what sore re­pents me: Heav­en above Knows how she wrongs me, knows how well I love.

IV No less be­side my­self than Bra­va’s peer And I, nor less my par­don should ob­tain; He, who by mead or moun­tain, far or near, Had scow­ered large por­tion of the land of Spain, Drag­ging that jen­net in his wild ca­reer, Dead as she was, be­hind him by the rein; But, where a riv­er joined the sea, par­force Aban­doned on the bank her man­gled corse.

V And he, who could like any ot­ter swim, Leapt in and rose up­on the fur­ther side. Be­hold! a mount­ed shep­herd at the brim Ar­rived, his horse to wa­ter in the tide; Nor when he saw Or­lan­do com­ing, him Es­chewed, whom naked and alone he spied. — “My jen­net for thy hack­ney were I fain To barter,” cried the mad­man to the swain:

VI “Her will I show thee, if thou wilt; who dead Up­on the riv­er’s oth­er mar­gin fell; At leisure may’st thou have her cured,” (he said) “And of no oth­er fault have I to tell. Give me thy hack­ney, with some boot in­stead: Pry­thee, dis­mount thee, for he likes me well.” The peas­ant, laugh­ing, an­swered not a word, But left the fool and pricked to­wards the ford.

VII “Hear­est thou not? ho­la! I want thy steed,” (Cried Roland) and ad­vanced with wrath­ful cheer. A sol­id staff and knot­ted, for his need, That shep­herd had, where­with he smote the peer; Whose vi­olence and ire all bounds ex­ceed, Who seems with­al to wax more fierce than e’er: A cuff he lev­els at that rus­tic’s head, And splits the sol­id bone, and lays him dead.

VI­II Then leap­ing on his horse, by dif­fer­ent way The coun­try scow­ers, to make more spoil and wrack: That pal­frey nev­er more tastes corn or hay; So that few days ex­haust the fam­ished hack. But not afoot does fierce Or­lan­do stray, Who will not, while he lives, con­veyance lack. As many as he finds, so many steeds — Their mas­ters slain — he press­es for his needs.

IX He came at last to Mala­ga, and here Did might­ier scathe than he had done else­where; For now — be­sides that the in­fu­ri­ate peer Of all its peo­ple left the coun­try bare, Nor (such the rav­age) could an­oth­er year The des­per­ate hav­oc of the fool re­pair — So many hous­es burnt he, or cast down, Sacked was a third of that un­hap­py town.

X De­part­ing thence, in­sane Or­lan­do flees To Ziz­era, a sea­ward town, whose site Is in Gibral­tar’s bay, or (if you please) Say Gible­tar’s; for ei­ther way ’tis hight; Here, loos­en­ing from the land, a boat he sees Filled with a par­ty, and for plea­sure dight: Which, for their so­lace, to the morn­ing gale, Up­on that sum­mer sea, had spread their sail.

XI “Hoah! the boat! put back!” the count ‘gan cry, Who was in mind to go aboard their barge: But vain­ly on their ears his clam­ours die: For of such freight none will­ing­ly take charge. As swift­ly as a swal­low cleaves the sky, Fur­row­ing the foamy wave the boat goes large. Or­lan­do urges on, with straight­en­ing knee, And whip and spur, his horse to­wards the sea.

XII He plunged in­to the waves, at last, par­force; For vain­ly would he shun the wa­ters green. Bathed are knees, paunch, and croup, till of that horse Scarce­ly the head above the wave is seen: Let him not hope to mea­sure back his course, While smit­ten with the whip his ears be­tween. Woe worth him! he must founder by the way, Or in­to Africa his load con­vey.

XI­II Nor poops nor prows does Roland more de­scry, For all have launched their shal­lops, which are wide Of that dry shore; while from his lev­el eye Their hulls the tall and shift­ing surges hide. He spurs his horse amid the bil­lows high, Whol­ly re­solved to reach the far­ther side. The cours­er ends his swim and life in fine, Drained of his strength, and drenched brim­full of brine.

XIV He sinks, and would with him draw down his load; But that him­self the mad­man’s arms up­bear: With sinewy arms and ei­ther palm he rowed, And puffed and blew the brine be­fore; the air Breathed soft­ly, and the wa­ter gen­tly flowed; And well was need­ed weath­er more than fair: For if the wa­ters yet a lit­tle rise, Whelmed by the wax­ing tide Or­lan­do dies.

XV But For­tune, that of mad­men is the guide, Him from the wa­ter drew near Ceu­ta’s shore, Up­on that beach, and of those walls as wide As twice an archer’s hand could shoot at score. For many days along the bank he hied, At haz­ard, ev­er west­ward hur­ry­ing sore, Un­til he came where on the sea-​beat strand En­camped a host of blacks, a count­less band.

XVI Leave we the pal­adin at will to stray! To speak of him oc­ca­sion will come round. — Sir, what be­fel the la­dy of Catay, Who scaped, in time, from him of wit un­sound, And af­ter­wards, up­on her home­ward way, Was with good bark and bet­ter weath­er bound; And how she made Medoro, In­dia’s king; Per­chance some voice in hap­pi­er verse may sing.

XVII To say so many things I am in­tent, I mean not to pur­sue the cav­alier. To Man­dri­car­do my fair ar­gu­ment It now be­hoves me, in his turn, to veer He hap­pi­ly en­joyed, his ri­val spent, The beau­ty, left in Eu­rope with­out peer, Since fair An­gel­ica from hence had wend­ed, And vir­tu­ous Is­abel to heav­en as­cend­ed.

XVI­II King Man­dri­car­do, proud that in his right His la­dy had ad­judged the amorous suit, En­joys not her award with full de­light; Since oth­ers with him oth­er points dis­pute. By young Rogero claimed, that ea­gle white Of one dis­as­trous quar­rel is the root; An­oth­er moves the king of Ser­icana Against the Tar­tar king, for Durin­dana.

XIX Agra­mant and Mar­sil­ius strive in vain, With labour sore, this tan­gle to un­do; Nor on­ly can­not they per­suade the twain In peace and con­cord to unite anew, But can­not make the valiant Child re­frain From claim­ing Hec­tor’s buck­ler as his due; Nor yet Gradas­so move the sword to lend, ‘Till this, or till that, quar­rel have an end.

XX Rogero brooks not that in oth­er fight His shield be braced, nor will Gradas­so bear That save against him­self the Tar­tar knight Should wield the sword Or­lan­do used to wear “See we, in fine, on whom the chance will light (Cries Agra­mant) and fur­ther words for­bear. How For­tune rules the mat­ter let us see, And choose him that of her shall cho­sen be.

XXI “And — would ye do what most would me de­light, And be an obli­ga­tion ev­er­more — You shall by cast­ing lots de­cide your right: Premis­ing, he whose lot is drawn be­fore The oth­er, shall up­on two quar­rels fight: So he who wins, on his com­pan­ion’s score Shall win as well as on his own; and who Los­es the bat­tle lose alike for two.

XXII “Be­tween Rogero and Gradas­so, we Deem there is lit­tle dif­fer­ence, rather none; And wot whichev­er shall elect­ed be. In arms will make his mar­tial prowess known, As for the rest, let doubt­ful vic­to­ry De­scend on him whom Heav­en is pleased to own! Up­on the van­quished knight no blame shall fall, But we to For­tune will im­pute it all.”

XXI­II Rogero and Gradas­so, at this say Of Agra­mant, stood silent, and agreed, That he whose lot first is­sued, the as­say Should un­der­take for both in list­ed mead. Thus in two scrolls, in­scribed in the same way, Their names are writ as des­tined to suc­ceed. These af­ter­wards are cast in­to an urn, Which much they shake and top­sy turvy turn.

XXIV A seely boy then dipt his hand and drew A bil­let from the vase, and if be­fel, There­on Rogero’s name the as­sis­tants knew; — Gradas­so’s left be­hind — I can­not tell How joyed renowned Rogero at the view, And can as lit­tle say what sor­row fell Up­on Gradas­so, on the oth­er side; But he par­force his for­tune must abide.

XXV Gradas­so ev­ery thought and ev­ery deed Em­ploys, Rogero to in­struct and aid, That in the strife his cham­pi­on may suc­ceed; And teach­es ev­ery sleight he has as­said: — How best to man­age sword and shield at need — – What strokes are feints, and what with van­tage made — And when he should tempt For­tune, when es­chew — Re­minds him, one by one, in long re­view.

XXVI Af­ter the draw­ing lots and king’s award, What of the day re­mained the cham­pi­ons spent As wont, in giv­ing to­kens of re­gard, To this or to that oth­er war­rior sent. The peo­ple, greedy for the fight, to­ward The field is gone, and many not con­tent With wend­ing thith­er ere the dawn of light, Up­on the place of com­bat watch all night.

XXVII The fool­ish rab­ble anx­ious­ly at­tends Those good­ly cham­pi­ons’ con­test for the prize, A crowd which nei­ther sees nor com­pre­hends Oth­er than that which is be­fore its eyes. But they who know what boots and what of­fends, — Mar­sil­ius and So­bri­no, and the wise — Cen­sure the fight, and monarch that af­fords A field of com­bat to those mar­tial lords.

XXVI­II Nor what a heavy loss he would sus­tain (Cease they to roy­al Agra­mant to read) Were Man­dri­car­do or Rogero slain; A thing by cru­el Des­tiny de­creed. Since they, to com­bat against Charle­magne, Of one of these alone have greater need Than of ten thou­sand more, amid which crew They scarce would find one cham­pi­on good and true.

XXIX Agra­mant rec­og­nized this truth; but thought That ill his roy­al word could be re­pealed; Yet Man­dri­car­do and the Child be­sought That they the right, con­ferred by him, would yield: More; that the ques­tion was a thing of nought, Nor wor­thy to be tried in mar­tial field; And prayed them — would they not obey his hest At least some­while, to let their quar­rel rest.

XXX Five or six months would they the strife de­lay, Or more or less, till Charles de­feat­ed were, And stript of man­tle, crown, and roy­al sway. But each, though he would will­ing­ly for­bear, And much de­sired his sovereign to obey, Stood out against the Moor­ish monarch’s prayer: Since ei­ther deemed he would be foul­ly shent Who to this treaty first should yield con­sent.

XXXI But more than king, than all, who sought in vain To soft­en Agri­can’s in­fu­ri­ate son, The beau­teous daugh­ter of King Stordi­lane Lament­ed, be­sought him, woe-​be­gone, Be­sought him he would do what all would fain Be­hold by the re­lent­ing war­rior done; — Lament­ing her, as through the cav­alier, For ev­er kept in agony and fear.

XXXII “Alas! and what (ex­claims she) can I find Which may avail to min­is­ter re­pose, If aye, by this or that de­sire in­clined, You don your har­ness to af­front new foes? What boots it to re­store my ha­rassed mind That I be­hold one fear­ful quar­rel’s close, Against one cham­pi­on moved for love of me, If one as fierce al­ready kin­dled be?

XXXI­II “Woe worth me! I was proud, with lit­tle right, So good a king, so stout a cav­alier For he should in the fierce and dan­ger­ous fight Per­il his life, who now, I see to clear, Up­on a ground of strife so pass­ing light, With the same risk pre­pares to couch the spear. You, more than love for me, to strife im­pels The nat­ural rage, where­with your bo­som swells.

XXXIV “But if the love you force your­self to show, Be in good earnest, that which you pro­fess, By this I pray you, by that chas­ten­ing woe Which does my spir­it, does my heart op­press, Be not con­cerned, be­cause the bird of snow Rogero, pic­tured on his shield, pos­sess. I know not where­fore you should joy or grieve That he the bla­zoned buck­ler bear or leave.

XXXV “Much evil may en­sue and lit­tle gain Out of the bat­tle you to wage pre­pare; Small guer­don will be bought with mick­le pain If from Rogero you his ea­gle bear; But if your for­tune shifts on list­ed plain, She whom you hold not cap­tive by her hair, You cause an evil with such mis­chief fraught, My heart is bro­ken at the sim­ple thought.

XXXVI “If of small val­ue life to you ap­pear, And you es­teem a paint­ed bird more high, At least for my life’s sake es­teem yours dear; For one with­out the oth­er shall not die. With you to die ex­cites in me no fear; With you, pre­pared for life or death am I: Yet would I fain not die so ill con­tent, As I should die if you be­fore me went.”

XXXVII Ac­com­pa­ny­ing words with tears and sighs, In such, or such like speech she him did pray, Through­out that live­long night, in piteous wise, Hop­ing her lover’s anger to al­lay; And Man­dri­car­do, suck­ing from her eyes Those sweet tears, glit­ter­ing in their hu­mid ray, And that sweet moan, from lips more deeply dyed Than crim­son rose, him­self in tears, replied.

XXXVI­II “Alack! my dear­est life! take thou no dread, Alack! for love of Heav­en! of thing so light: For if (to my sole harm) with ban­ners spread, Their fol­low­ing of the Frank or payn­im rite King Agra­mant and Charles unit­ed led, This need not cause you mat­ter for af­fright. What poor ac­count you make of me is clear If this one, sole, Rogero breeds such fear.

XXXIX “And yet should you re­mem­ber how alone (Nor had I scimetar or sword in hand) Of knights, with a spear’s trun­cheon over­thrown, I singly cleared the field, an armed band. Though to his shame and sor­row this he own, Gradas­so tells to them who make de­mand, He was my pris­on­er in the Syr­ian tow­er: Yet oth­er than Rogero’s is his pow­er.

XL “Not King Gradas­so will the truth de­ny: Sac­ripant knows it and your Isoli­er: I say King Sac­ripant of Cir­cassy, And Aquilant, and Gryphon, fa­mous peer; With hun­dreds — yea and more — from far and nigh Made pris­on­ers at that fear­ful pass whilere, Bap­tized or In­fi­del; and all by me From prison on the self­same day set free.

XLI “And even yet they mar­vel ev­er­more At the great feat which I per­formed that day; Greater than if the squadrons of the Moor And Frank unit­ed I had held at bay; And shall Rogero, new to mar­tial lore, Me, on­to to one, with scathe or scorn ap­pay? And me shall now this young Rogero scare, When Hec­tor’s sword and Hec­tor’s arms I wear?

XLII “Ah! as I might have won you from my foe, Why did I not for you in arms con­tend? I so had them my val­our shown, I know, You would have well fore­seen Rogero’s end. For heav­en’s sake dry your tears, nor by such woe — An evil omen for my arms — of­fend; And learn, ’tis Hon­our pricks me to the field, And not an ar­gent bird and bla­zoned shield.”

XLI­II So said he; and with rea­sons pass­ing good To him that dame replied, with sad­dest face; Nor on­ly would have changed his sullen mood, But would have moved a pil­lar from its place. She would the cham­pi­on quick­ly have sub­dued, Though she was gowned, he locked in iron case; And make him sat­is­fy the Moor­ish lord, If Agra­mant spake fur­ther of ac­cord;

XLIV And had; but that Au­ro­ra — on his way Ush­er­ing aye the sun — no soon­er stirred, Than young Rogero, anx­ious to dis­play That right­ful­ly he bore Jove’s beau­teous bird, To cut the quar­rel short, and lest de­lay Be fur­ther in­ter­posed, in act or word, Where round the pal­isade the peo­ple close, Ap­pears in ar­mour and his bu­gle blows.

XLV When that loud sound is by the Tar­tar heard, Which the proud war­rior to the strife de­fies, No more of treaty will he hear a word: From bed up­spring­ing, “Arms,” the monarch cries, And shows a vis­age with such fury stirred, Do­ral­ice dares no longer peace ad­vise, Nor speak of treaty or of truce anew; And now par­force the bat­tle must en­sue.

XLVI The Tar­tar arms him­self in haste; with pain The wont­ed ser­vice of his squires he tar­ries: This done, he springs up­on the steed amain, Erewhile the cham­pi­on’s who de­fend­ed Paris; And him with speed to­wards the list­ed plain, Fixt for that fierce as­say, the cours­er car­ries. Even then the king and barons thith­er made, So that the strife was lit­tle time de­laid.

XLVII Put on and laced the shin­ing hel­mets were, And giv­en to ei­ther cham­pi­on was the spear: Quick­ly the trum­pet’s blast was heard in air, Whose sig­nal blanched a thou­sand cheeks with fear. Lev­elled those cav­aliers their lances bear, Spurring their war­like steeds to the ca­reer, And, in mid cham­paign, meet with such a shock, That Earth ap­pears to rive and Heav­en to rock.

XLVI­II From this side and from that, the ea­gle flew, Which Jove in air was wont­ed to sus­tain; So hur­tled, but with plumes of dif­fer­ent hue, Those oth­ers of­ten on Thes­salian plain. The beamy lances, rest­ed by the two, Well war­rant­ed the war­riors’ might and main, And worse than that en­counter had with­stood: So tow­ers re­sist the wind, so rocks the flood.

XLIX As Turpin tru­ly writes, in­to the sky Up­went the splin­ters, broke in the ca­reer; For two or three fell flam­ing from on high, Which had as­cend­ed to the star­ry sphere. The knights un­sheathed their faul­chions from the thigh, And, like those who were lit­tle moved by fear, For new en­counter wheeled, and, man to man, Point­ing at one an­oth­er’s vi­zor ran.

L They, point­ing at the vi­zors’ sight, at­tacked, Nor with their faul­chions at the steeds took aim, Each oth­er to un­horse, un­seem­ly act! Since in that quar­rel they are nought to blame. Those err, nor know the us­age, why by pact Deem they were bound their hors­es not to maim: With­out pact made, ’twas reck­oned a mis­deed, And an eter­nal blot to smite a steed.

LI They lev­el at the vi­zor, which is dou­ble, And yet re­sists such mighty blows with pain. The cham­pi­ons ev­er­more their strokes re­dou­ble Faster than pat­ter­ing hail, which mars the grain, And bruis­es branch and leaf, and stalk and stub­ble, And cheats the hopes of the ex­pect­ing swain. To you is known the force of ei­ther brand, And known the force of ei­ther war­rior’s hand.

LII But yet no stroke well wor­thy of their might Those peers have dealt, so cau­tious are the twain. The Tar­tar’s faul­chion was the first to bite, By which was good Rogero well nigh slain. By one of those fell blows which ei­ther knight So well could plant, his shield was cleft in twain; Be­neath, his cuirass opened to the stroke, And to the quick the cru­el weapon broke.

LI­II The as­sis­tants’ hearts were frozen at the blow, So did Rogero’s dan­ger them ap­pal, On whom the many’s fa­vor, well they know, And wish­es rest, if not of one and all. And then (had For­tune or­dered mat­ters so, As the most part de­sired they should be­fall) Tak­en had been the Tar­tar king or slain; So had that blow of­fend­ed all the train.

LIV I think that blow was by some an­gel stayed, To save Rogero from the mis­chief near: Yet at the king (nor an­swer he de­layed) He dealt a stroke more ter­ri­ble than e’er. As Man­dri­car­do’s head he aims his blade, But such the fury of the cav­alier, And such his haste, he less my blame de­serves, If slant­ing from the mark his faul­chion swerves.

LV Had Bal­is­ar­da smote him full, though crowned With Hec­tor’s helm, the en­chant­ment had been vain. So reels the Tar­tar, by that stroke as­tound, He from the bris­tle-​hand lets go the rein: Thrice with his head he threats to smite the ground, While his un­guid­ed cours­er scow­ers the plain; That Brigli­adoro, whom by name you know, Yet, for his change of mas­ter, full of woe.

LVI Nev­er raged tram­pled ser­pent, nev­er so Raged wound­ed li­on, as in fell de­spite Raged Man­dri­car­do, ral­ly­ing from that blow, Which had de­prived of sense the as­tonied knight; And as his pride and fury wax­es, grow As much, yea more, his val­our and his might. He at Rogero makes his cours­er vault, With sword up­lift­ed high for the as­sault.

LVII Poised in his stir­rups stood the Tar­tar lord, And aim­ing at his foe­man’s casque, be­lieved He with the stroke of his de­scend­ing sword Rogero to the bo­som should have cleaved; But from that youth, yet quick­er in his ward, A wound be­neath his arm the king re­ceived, Which made wide day­light in the stub­born mail, That clothed the bet­ter armpit with its scale.

LVI­II Rogero draw­ing Bal­is­ar­da back, Out sprang the tepid blood of crim­son stain; Hence Man­dri­car­do’s arm did vigour lack, And with less dint de­scend­ed Durin­dane: Yet on the croup the stripling tum­bled back, Clos­ing his eye­lids, through ex­cess of pain; And mem­orable aye had been that blow, Had a worse hel­met clothed the war­rior’s brow.

LIX For this he paus­es not, but spurs amain, And Man­dri­car­do smites in the right side. Here lit­tle boots the tex­ture of the chain, And the well weald­ed met­al’s tem­per tried, Against that sword, which nev­er falls in vain, Which was en­chant­ed to no end be­side, But that against it noth­ing should avail, En­chant­ed corse­let or en­chant­ed mail.

LX Whate’er that sword takes-​in it shears out­right, And in the Tar­tar’s side in­flicts a wound: He curs­es Heav­en and raves in such de­spite, Less hor­ri­bly the bois­ter­ous bil­lows sound. He now pre­pares to put forth all his might: The shield, with ar­gent bird and azure ground, He hurls, with rage trans­port­ed, from his hand, And grasps with right and left his tren­chant brand.

LXI “Mar­ry,” (Rogero cried,) “it needs no more To prove your ti­tle to that en­sign vain, Which now you cast away, and cleft be­fore; Nor can you more your right in it main­tain.” So say­ing, he par­force must prove how sore The dan­ger and the dint of Durin­dane; Which smites his front, and with such weight with­al, A moun­tain lighter than that sword would fall.

LXII If cleft his vi­zor through the midst; ’twas well That from the sight di­verged the tren­chant blade, Which on the sad­dle’s plat­ed pom­mel fell; Nor yet its dou­ble steel the faul­chion stayed: It reached his ar­mour (like soft wax, the shell Oped, and the skirts where­with ’twas over­laid) And trenched up­on his thigh a grievous wound; So that ’twas long ere he again waxed sound.

LXI­II The spout­ing blood of ei­ther cav­alier Their arms had crim­soned in a dou­ble drain: Hence di­ver­sly the peo­ple guessed, which peer Would have the bet­ter of the war­like twain: But soon Rogero made the mat­ter clear With that keen sword, so many a cham­pi­on’s bane: With this he at that part in fury past Whence Man­dri­car­do had his buck­ler cast.

LX­IV He the left side of his good cuirass gored, And found a pas­sage to the heart be­low; Which a full palm above the flank he bored; So that par­force the Tar­tar must forego His ev­ery ti­tle to the fa­mous sword, The bla­zoned buck­ler, and its bird of snow, And yield, to­geth­er with these seeds of strife, — Dear­er than sword and shield — his pre­cious life.

LXV Not un­avenged the un­hap­py monarch dies; For in the very mo­ment he is smit, The sword — for lit­tle pe­ri­od his — he plies, And good Rogero’s vi­zor would have split. But that he stopt the stroke in wary wise, And broke its force and vigour ere it lit; Its force and vigour broke: for he, be­low The bet­ter arm, first smote his Tar­tar foe.

LXVI Smit was the Child by Man­dri­car­do’s hand, At the same mo­ment he that monarch slew: He, al­beit thick, di­vides an iron band And good steel cap be­neath it; inch­es two, Lies buried in the head the tren­chant brand, The sol­id bone and sinew sev­ered through. As­tound Rogero fell, on earth re­versed, And from his head a stream of life-​blood burst.

LXVII Rogero was the first who went to ground, And so much longer did the king de­lay, Nigh ev­ery one of those who wait­ed round Weened he the prize and vaunt had borne away. So, erred his Do­ral­ice, that oft was drowned In tears, and of­ten clad in smiles that day: She thanked her God, with hands to Heav­en ex­tend­ed, That in such wise the fear­ful fight had end­ed.

LXVI­II But when by to­kens man­ifest ap­pear The live man liv­ing and the dead man slain, The favour­ers of those knights, with change of cheer, Some weep and some re­joice, an al­tered train. King, lord, and ev­ery wor­thi­est cav­alier Crowd round Rogero, who has risen with pain. Him to em­brace and grat­ulate they wend, And do him grace and hon­our with­out end.

LX­IX Each with Rogero is re­joiced, and feels That which he ut­ters in his heart; among The crowd the Ser­icane alone con­ceals Oth­er than what he vouch­es with his tongue. He plea­sure in his coun­te­nance re­veals, With en­vy at the con­quest in­ly stung; And — were his des­tiny or chance to blame — Curs­es whiche’er pro­duced Rogero’s name.

LXX What of Rogero’s favour can be said? What of ca­ress­es, many, true, and kind, From Agra­mant? that not with­out his aid Would have un­rolled his en­signs the wind; Who had to move from Africk been afraid, Nor would have trust­ed in his host com­bined. He, now King Man­dri­car­do is no more, Es­teems him the unit­ed world be­fore.

LXXI Nor to Rogero lean the men alone; To him in­cline as well the fe­male train, Who for the land of France had left their own, Amid the troops of Africk or of Spain; And Do­ral­ice, her­self, al­though she moan, And for her lover, cold and pale, com­plain, Save by the grid­ing curb of shame represt, Her voice, per­chance, had added to the rest.

LXXII I say per­chance, nor war­rant it I dare, Al­beit the thing may eas­ily be true; For such his man­ners, such his mer­its are, So beau­teous is Rogero’s form to view, She (from ex­pe­ri­ence we are well aware) So prone to fol­low what­soe’er is new, That not to play the wid­ow’s lovelorn part, She on Rogero well might set her heart.

LXXI­II Though he did well alive, what could be done With Man­dri­car­do, af­ter he was dead? ‘Tis fit­ting she pro­vide her­self with one That her, by night or day, may brave­ly stead. Mean­while to young Rogero’s suc­cour run The king’s physi­cian in his art best read; Who, hav­ing seen the fruits of that fell strife, Al­ready has en­sured Rogero’s life.

LXXIV Agra­mant bids them dili­gent­ly lay The wound­ed war­rior in his tent, and there Is ev­er­more be­side him, night and day; Him with such love he watch­es, with such care: To his bed the Tar­tar’s arms and buck­ler gay, So bade the Moor­ish king, sus­pend­ed were; Sus­pend­ed all, save tren­chant Durin­dana, Re­lin­quished to the King of Ser­icana.

LXXV With Man­dri­car­do’s arms, his oth­er weed Was to Rogero giv­en, and giv­en with these Was war­like Brigli­ador, whom on the mead Or­lan­do left, dis­traught with his dis­ease. To Agra­mant Rogero gave the steed, Well know­ing how that good­ly gift would please. No more of this: par­force my strain re­turns To her that vain­ly for Rogero burns.

LXXVI Bradamant’s tor­ment have I to re­count, While for the couri­er damsel she did stay: With tid­ings of her love to Al­ban’s Mount, To her Hip­pal­ca mea­sured back her way: She of Fron­ti­no first and Rodomont, And next of good Rogero had to say; How to the fount anew he had ad­drest His way, with Richard­et­to and the rest;

LXXVII And how the Child, in res­cue of the steed, Had gone with her to find the payn­im rude; And weened to have chas­tized his foul mis­deed, That from a wom­an took Fron­ti­no good. And how the youth’s de­sign did ill suc­ceed, Be­cause the king had oth­er way pur­sued. The rea­son too why to Mount Al­ban’s hold Rogero had not come, at full she told;

LXXVI­II And ful­ly she to Bradamant ex­prest What to ex­cuse him­self Rogero said: She af­ter drew the let­ter from her breast, Where­with en­trust­ed she had thith­er sped: With vis­age which more care than hope con­fest, The pa­per Bradamant re­ceived and read; Which, but that she ex­pect­ed to have seen Rogero’s self, more wel­come would have been.

LXXIX To find her­self with writ­ten scroll ap­paid In good Rogero’s place, whom she at­tends, Marred her fair vis­age; which such fear pour­trayed, De­spite and sor­row as her bo­som rends. Ten times the page she kiss­es, while the maid As oft to him who writes her heart com­mends: The tears alone which trick­le from her eyes Keep it from kin­dling at her burn­ing sighs.

LXXX Four times, nay six, she that epis­tle read, And willed more­over that as many more The mes­sage by that damsel should be said, Who word and let­ter to Mount Al­ban bore. This while un­ceas­ing tears the la­dy shed, Nor, I be­lieve, would ev­er have giv­en o’er, Save by the hope con­soled, that she anew Should briefly her beloved Rogero view.

LXXXI Rogero’s word was pledged for his re­turn When fif­teen days or twen­ty were gone by: So had he af­ter to Hip­pal­ca sworn, Bid­ding her bold­ly on his faith re­ly. “From ac­ci­dents that chance at ev­ery turn” (Cried Bradamant) “what war­ran­ty have I, Alas! — and such are com­mon­est in war — That none the knight’s re­turn for ev­er bar?

` LXXXII “Alas! alas! Rogero, that above My­self hast ev­er­more been prized by me, Who would have thought thou more than me could’st love Any, and most thy mor­tal en­emy? And harm’st where thou should’st help; nor do I see If thou as wor­thy praise or blame re­gard Such tar­di­ness to pun­ish and re­ward.

LXXXI­II “I know not if thou know­est — the stones know — How by Troy­ano was thy fa­ther slain; And yet Troy­ano’s son, against his foe, Thou would’st de­fend, and keep from harm or stain Such vengeance up­on him do’st thou be­stow? And do his vengers, as their meed ob­tain, That I, de­scend­ed of his stock, should be The mar­tyr of the mor­tal cru­el­ty?”

LXXXIV To her Rogero, in his ab­sence, said The la­dy these sad words, and more be­side, Lament­ing aye; while her at­ten­dant maid Nor once alone, but of­ten, cer­ti­fied The stripling would ob­serve his faith, and prayed Her — who could do no bet­ter — to abide The Child’s ar­rival till the time came round When he by promise to re­turn was bound.

LXXXV The com­fort that Hip­pal­ca’s words con­vey, And Hope, com­pan­ion of the lov­ing train, Bradamant’s fear and sor­row so al­lay, That she en­joys some respite from her pain: This moves her in Mount Al­ban’s keep to stay; Nor ev­er thence that la­dy stirred again Un­til the day, that day the youth­ful knight Had fixt, who ill ob­served his promise plight.

LXXXVI But in that he his promise ill main­tained, No blame up­on Rogero should be cast; Him one or oth­er cause so long de­tained, The ap­point­ed time par­force he over­past: On a sick bed, long time, he, sore­ly pained, Was laid, where­in a month or more he past In doubt of death; so deeply him had gored Erewhile in fight the Tar­tar monarch’s sword.

LXXXVII Him on the day pre­fixed the maid at­tend­ed, Nor oth­er tid­ings of the youth had read, But those he through Hip­pal­ca had com­mend­ed, And that which af­ter Richard­et­to said; Who told how him Rogero had de­fend­ed, And freed the cap­tive pair to prison led. The tid­ings, over­joyed, she hears re­peat; Yet blend­ed with some bit­ter is the sweet.

LXXXVI­II For she had heard as well in that dis­course, For might and beau­ty voiced, Marphisa’s praise; Heard, how Rogero thith­er bends his course, To­geth­er with that la­dy, as he says, Where in weak post and with un­equal force King Agra­mant the Chris­tian army stays. Such fair com­pan­ion­ship the la­dy lauds, But nei­ther likes that union nor ap­plauds.

LXXXIX Nor light sus­pi­cion has she of that queen: For, were Marphisa beau­teous, as was said, And they to­geth­er till that time had been, ‘T were mar­vel but Rogero loved the maid: Yet would she not be­lieve; but hung be­tween Her hopes and fears, and in Mount Al­ban stayed; And close and anx­ious there, un­til the day Which was to bring her joy or sor­row, lay.

XC This while Mount Al­ban’s prince and castel­lain, Ri­nal­do, first of that fair broth­er­hood, — I say in hon­our, not in age, for twain In right of birth be­fore the war­rior stood, Who — as the sun il­lumes the star­ry train — Had by his deeds en­no­bled Ay­mon’s blood, One day at noon, with none be­side a page To serve him, reached that fa­mous for­ti­lage.

XCI Hith­er had good Ri­nal­do now re­paired; Be­cause re­turn­ing Paris ward again, From Bra­va, (whith­er had he of­ten fared, As said, to seek An­gel­ica in vain) He of that pair those evil news had heard. His Malagi­gi and his Vi­viane, How they were to Ma­ga­nza to be sent; And hence to Agris­mont his way had bent.

XCII There, hear­ing of the safe­ty of that pair, And of their en­emies’ de­feat and fall; And how Rogero and Marphisa were The au­thors of their ru­in; and how all His valiant brethren and his cousins are Re­turned, and har­boured in Mount Al­ban’s hall, Un­til he there em­brace the friend­ly throng Each hour ap­pears to him a twelve­month long.

XCI­II His course to Mont Al­bano had he ta’en; And, there em­brac­ing wife and chil­dren dear, Moth­er and brethren and the cousins twain, (They who were cap­tives to their foe whilere) A par­ent swal­low seems, amid that train, Which, with full beak, its fast­ing youth doth cheer. With them a day or more the war­rior stayed, Then is­sued forth and oth­ers thence con­veyed.

XCIV Guichard, Duke Ay­mon’s el­dest born, and they, Richard, Alar­do, and Richard­et’ com­bined, Vi­vian and Malagi­gi, wend their way In arms, the mar­tial pal­adin be­hind. Bradamant, wait­ing the ap­point­ed day, Which she, in her de­sire, too slow opined, Feigned her­self ail­ing to the brethren true, Nor would she join in arms the band­ed crew;

XCV And, say­ing that she ailed, most tru­ly said; Yet ’twas not cor­po­ral pain or fever sore, It was De­sire that on her spir­it preyed, Dis­eased with Love’s dis­as­trous fit: no more Ri­nal­do in Mount Al­ban’s cas­tle stayed: With him his kins­man’s flow­er the war­rior bore. How he for Paris jour­neyed, and how well He suc­coured Charles, shall oth­er can­to tell.