Orlando Furioso

CANTO 33

AR­GU­MENT Bradamant sees in pic­ture fu­ture fight There, where she gained ad­mis­sion by the spear. From com­bat cease, up­on Ba­iar­do’s flight, Gradas­so and Mon­tal­ban’s cav­alier. While soar­ing through the world, the En­glish knight Ar­rives in Nu­bia’s dis­tant realm, and here Driv­ing the Harpies from the roy­al board, Hunts to the mouth of hell that im­pi­ous horde.

I Timago­ras, Par­rha­sius, Polyg­note, Pro­to­genes, renowned Apol­lodore, Timan­thes, and Apelles, first of note, Zeux­is and oth­ers, famed hereto­fore, Whose mem­ory down the stream of Time will float, While we their wreck and labours lost de­plore, Whose fame will flour­ish still in Fate’s de­spite, (Gram­mer­cy au­thors!) while men read and write.

II And those, yet liv­ing or of ear­li­er day, Man­teg­na, Leonar­do, Gi­an Belline, The Dos­si, and, skilled to carve or to pour­tray, Michael, less man than an­gel and di­vine, Bas­tiano, Raphael, Titian, who (as they Urbino and Venice) makes Cadoro shine; With more, whose works re­sem­ble what he hear And cred­it of those spir­its, famed whilere;

III The painters we have seen, and oth­ers, who Thou­sands of years ago in hon­our stood, Things which had been with match­less pen­cil drew, Some work­ing up­on wall, and some on wood. But nev­er, amid mas­ters old or new, Have ye of pic­tures heard or pic­tures viewed Of things to come; yet such have been pour­trayed Be­fore the deeds were done which they dis­played.

IV Yet let not artist whether new or old, Boast of his skill such won­drous works to make; But leave this feat to spell, where­with con­trolled The spir­its of the in­fer­nal bot­tom quake. The hall, where­of in oth­er strain I told, With vol­ume sa­cred to Av­er­nus’ lake, Or Nor­sine grot, throught sub­ject Demons’ might, Was made by Mer­lin in a sin­gle night.

V That art, where­by those an­cient erst pour­trayed Such won­ders, is ex­tin­guished in our day. But to the troop, by whom will be sur­veyed The paint­ed cham­ber, I re­turn, and say; A squire at­ten­dant on a sig­nal made, Bore thith­er light­ed torch­es, by whose ray Were scat­tered from that hall the shades of night, Nor this in open day had shown more bright.

VI When thus the cas­tle’s lord ad­dressed that crew: “Know, of ad­ven­tures in this cham­ber wrought, Up to our days, have yet been wit­nessed few; A war­fare sto­ried, but its fields un­fought. Who limned the bat­tles, these as well foreknew. Here of de­feats to come and vic­to­ries taught, Whate’er in Italy our host be­falls You may dis­cern as paint­ed on these walls.

VII “The wars, where­in French armies should ap­pear, Be­yond the Alps, of foul event or fair, Even from his days un­til the thou­sandth year, By the prophet­ic Mer­lin paint­ed were. Hith­er Great Britain’s monarch sent the seer, To him, that of King Mar­comir was heir: Why hith­er sent, and why this hall was made, At the same time to you shall be dis­played.

VI­II “King Phara­mond, the first of those that passed The Rhine, amid his Franks’ vic­to­ri­ous train, When Gaul was won, bethought him how to cast On restive Italy the curb­ing rein; And this; that ev­er­more he wast­ing fast Be­held the Ro­man em­pire’s fee­ble reign; And (for both reigned at once) would make ac­cord, To com­pass his de­sign, with Britain’s lord.

IX “The roy­al Arthur, by whom nought was done With­out the ripe ad­vice of Mer­lin sage, (Mer­lin, I say, the Dev­ils mighty son, Well versed in what should chance in fu­ture age,) Know­ing through him, to Phara­mond made known, He would in many woes his host en­gage, En­ter­ing that re­gion, which, with rugged mound, Apen­nine parts, and Alp and sea sur­round.

X “To him sage Mer­lin shows, that well nigh all Those oth­er monar­chs that in France will reign, By mur­der­ous steel will see their peo­ple fall, Con­sumed by famine, or by fever slain; And that short joy, long sor­row, prof­it small, And bound­less ill shall rec­om­pense their pain; Since vain­ly will the lily seek to shoot In the Ital­ian fields its with­ered root.

XI “King Phara­mond so trust­ed to the seer That he re­solved to turn his arms else­where; And Mer­lin, who be­held with sight as clear The things to be, as things that whilom were, ‘Tis said, was brought by mag­ic art to rear The paint­ed cham­ber at the monarch’s prayer; Where­in what­ev­er deeds the Franks shall do, As if al­ready done, are plain to view.

XII “That king who should suc­ceed, might com­pre­hend, As he renown and vic­to­ry would ob­tain, Whene’er his friend­ly squadrons should de­fend From all bar­bar­ians else the Ital­ian reign; So, if to dam­age her he should de­scend, Think­ing to bind her with the grid­ing chain, — Might com­pre­hend, I say, and read his doom — How he be­yond these hills should find a tomb.”

XI­II So said, he leads the lis­ten­ing ladies where Those pic­tured his­to­ries be­gin; to show How Sigis­bert his arms will south­ward bear For what im­pe­ri­al Mau­rice shall be­stow. “Be­hold him from the Mount of Jove re­pair Thith­er where Am­bra and Ti­ci­no flow! Eu­tar be­hold, who not alone re­pels, But puts the foe to flight, and routs and quells.

XIV “Where they with Clo­vis tread the moun­tain way, More than a hun­dred thou­sand war­riors trace; See Ben­even­to’s duke the monarch stay, Whose thin­ner files his hos­tile army face. Lo! these who feign re­treat an am­bush lay. Lo! where through dan­ger, hav­oc, and dis­grace, The Franks, who to the Lom­bard wine-​fat hie, Drugged by the bait, like poi­soned mul­lets die.

XV “Where Childib­ert the bound­ary hills has crost, Head­ing what bands of France and cap­tains, see; Yet shall no more than baf­fled Clo­vis boast The con­quest or the spoil of Lom­bardy. Heav­en’s sword de­scends so heavy on his host. Choked with their bod­ies ev­ery road shall be; So pined with wa­tery flux and with­er­ing sun, That, out of ten, un­harmed re­turns not one.”

XVI He shows King Pepin, shows King Charle­magne; How in­to Italy their march they bend; And one and the oth­er fair suc­cess ob­tain, Be­cause her land they came not to of­fend. But Stephen one, the oth­er Adri­ane, And, af­ter, in­jured Leo, would de­fend. This quells As­tolpho, and that takes his heir, And re-​es­tab­lish­es the pa­pal chair.

XVII A youth­ful Pepin of the roy­al line He af­ter shows; who seemed to spread his host, Even from THE KILNS to the Isle of Pales­tine; And with a bridge, achieved at mighty cost, At Malam­oc­co, to be­stride the brine, And on Ri­al­to’s shore his bat­tle post. Then fly and leave his drown­ing bands be­hind, His bridge de­stroyed by wast­ing waves and wind.

XVI­II “Bur­gun­di­an Lewis ye be­hold de­scend Thith­er with his in­vad­ing squadrons, where, Van­quish­ing and tak­en, nev­er­more to of­fend With hos­tile arms, he is com­pelled to swear. Be­hold! he slights his solemn oath — to wend, Anew, with reck­less steps, in­to the snare. Lo! there he leaves his eyes; and his ar­ray, Blind as the mold­warp, hence their lord con­vey.

XIX “You see him named from Ar­les, vic­to­ri­ous Hugh, From Italy the Beren­gari chase! Whom, quelled and bro­ken twice and thrice, anew Now the Bavar­ians, now the Huns, re­place. O’er­matched, he then for peace is fain to sue; Nor long sur­vives, nor he who fills his place; To Beren­gar­ius yield­ing his do­mains, Who, re­pos­sest of all his king­dom, reigns.

XX “You see, her good­ly pas­tor to sus­tain, An­oth­er Charles set fire to Italy; Who has two kings in two fierce bat­tles slain, Man­fred and Con­ra­dine, and af­ter see His bands, who seem to vex the new-​won reign With many wrongs, and who dis­pers­ed­ly — Some here, some there — in dif­fer­ent cities dwell. Slain on the rolling of the ves­per-​bell.”

XXI He shows them next (but af­ter in­ter­val, ‘Twould seem, of many and many an age, not years) How through the Alps, a cap­tain out of Gaul, To war up­on the great Vis­con­tis, steers; And seems to strait­en Alexan­dria’s wall, Girt with his forces, foot and cav­aliers: A gar­ri­son with­in, an am­bus­cade With­out the works, the war­like duke has laid;

XXII And the French host, de­coyed in cun­ning wise Thith­er where the sur­round­ing toils are spread, Con­duct­ed on that evil en­ter­prise By Ar­magnac, the Gal­lic squadron’s head, Slaugh­tered through­out the spa­cious cham­paign lies, Or is to Alexan­dria cap­tive led: While, swoln not more with wa­ter than with blood, Tanarus pur­ples wide Po’s am­ple flood.

XXI­II Suc­ces­sive­ly that castel­lain dis­played One hight of Mar­ca, of the An­jouites three. How “Mar­si, Dau­ni­ans, Salen­tines,” (he said) “And Bru­ci, these shall oft mo­lest, you see: Yet not by Frank or La­tian’s friend­ly aid Shall one de­liv­ered from de­struc­tion be. Lo! from the realm, as oft as they at­tack, Alphon­so and Gon­sal­vo beat them back.

XXIV “You see the eighth Charles, amid his mar­tial train, The flow­er of France, through Alpine pass has pressed. Who Liris fords, and takes all Naples’ reign, Yet draws not sword nor lays a lance in rest: All, save that rock which — Ty­pheus’ end­less pain — Lies on the gi­ant’s bel­ly, arms, and breast: By Ini­go del Guas­to here with­stood, De­rived from Ava­lo’s il­lus­tri­ous blood.”

XXV The warder of the cas­tle, who makes clear To beau­teous Bradamant that his­to­ry, Says, hav­ing shown her Is­chia’s is­land, “Ere I lead you fur­ther oth­er things to see, I’ll tell what my great-​grand­fa­ther whilere — I then a child — was wont to tell to me. Which in like man­ner (that great-​grand­sire said), As well to him his fa­ther whilome read;

XXVI “And his from sire or grand­sire heard re­cite; So son from sire; even to that baron, who Heard it re­lat­ed by the very wight, That these fair pic­tures with­out pen­cil drew, Which you see paint­ed azure, red, and white. He when to Phara­mond (as now to you) Was shown the cas­tle on the rocky mount, Heard him re­late the things I now re­count.

XXVII “Heard him re­late, how in that for­ti­lage From that good knight should spring, who, ‘twould ap­pear, Guards it so well, he scorns the fires that rage, Even to the Pharo, flam­ing far and near, Then, or with­in short space, and in that age, (And named the week and day, as well as year,) A no­ble war­rior, un­ex­celled in worth By oth­er, that has yet ap­peared on earth.

XXVI­II “Nereus less fair, Achilles was less strong, Less was Ulysses famed for dar­ing feat; Nestor, that knew so much and lived so long, Less pru­dent; nim­ble Ladas was less fleet; Less lib­er­al and less prompt to par­don wrong, Cae­sar, whose prais­es an­cient tales re­peat. So that, com­pared with him, in Is­chia born, Each might ap­pear of vaunt­ed virtues shorn;

XXIX “And if il­lus­tri­ous Crete re­joiced of old In giv­ing birth to Coelus’ god­like heir; If Thebes in Her­cules and Bac­chus bold, If De­los boast­ed of her heav­en­ly pair, Nought should as well this hap­py isle with­hold From lift­ing high her glo­ri­ous head in air, When that great Mar­quis shall in her be born, Whom with its ev­ery grace shall Heav­en adorn.

XXX “Sage Mer­lin said — and oft re­newed that say — He was re­served to flour­ish in an age, When most op­prest the Ro­man em­pire lay, That he might free that holy her­itage: But as some deeds of his I must dis­play Here­after, these I will not now presage. So spake that wiz­ard, and re­newed the sto­ry, Which told of Charle­magne’s pre­des­tined glo­ry.

XXXI “Lewis, (so learned Mer­lin said,) is woe To have brought to Italy King Charle­magne, Whom he called in to ha­rass, not o’erthrow That an­cient ri­val of his good­ly reign; At his re­turn de­clares him­self his foe, And, leagued with Venice, would the king de­tain. Be­hold that valiant monarch couch his spear, And in his foes’ de­spite a pas­sage clear.

XXXII “But his new king­dom leav­ing to his band, Far oth­er des­tiny awaits that throng: For, with the Man­tu­an’s friend­ly suc­cour manned, Gon­sal­vo to the war re­turns so strong, He leaves not in few months, by sea or land, One liv­ing head, his slaugh­tered troops among. But then, be­cause of one by trea­son spent, In him ap­pears the joy of tri­umph shent.”

XXXI­II So say­ing, to his guests the cav­alier Alphon­so, of Pescara hight, dis­played: “Who in a thou­sand feats will shine more clear Than the re­splen­dent car­bun­cle,” he said. “Be­hold, de­ceived by faith­less treaty, here, Mid snares by the ma­lig­nant Aethiop laid, Trans­fixt with dead­ly dart the war­rior lies, In whom the age’s wor­thi­est cham­pi­on dies.”

XXXIV Un­der Ital­ian es­cort next they see Where the twelfth Lewis o’er the hills is gone; Has by its roots up­torn the mul­ber­ry, And in Vis­con­tis’ land the lilies sown: “Tread­ing in Charles’s steps, by him shall be Bridges athwart the Garigliano thrown. Yet af­ter shall he mourn his army’s slaugh­ter, Dis­persed and drown­ing in that fa­tal wa­ter.”

XXXV (The lord pur­sues) “with no less over­throw, Bro­ken in Puglia, see the Gal­lic train. In him who twice en­traps the rout­ed foe, Gon­sla­vo you be­hold, the pride of Spain. For­tune to Lewis a fair face shall show, As late a trou­bled mien, up­on that plain, Which even to where vext Adria pours her tides, Po, be­tween Alp and Apen­nine, di­vides.”

XXXVI The host re­proved him­self, while so he said, And pieced his tale, as hav­ing left un­told Things first in or­der; next to them dis­played A roy­al cas­tle by its warder sold. A pris­on­er by the faith­less Switzer made, He shows the lord who hired him with his gold: Which dou­ble trea­son, with­out couch­ing lance, Has giv­en the vic­to­ry to the king of France.

XXXVII That warder then shows Cae­sar Bor­gia, grown Puis­sant in Italy, through this king’s grace; For all Rome’s peer­age, and all lords that own Her sway, he in­to ex­ile seems to chase: Then shows the king, that will the saw take down, And pa­pal acorns in Bologna place: Then Genoa’s burghers, by this monarch broke, And rebel city stoop­ing to his yoke.

XXXVI­II “You see,” (pur­sued that warder,) “how with dead Cov­ered is Ghiarada­da’s green cham­paign. It seems each city opes her gates through dread; And Venice scarce her free­dom can main­tain. You see he suf­fers not the Church’s head, Pass­ing the nar­row con­fines of Ro­magne, Mod­ena from Fer­rara’s duke to reave; Who would not to that prince a rem­nant leave.

XXXIX “Nay he Bologna res­cues from his sway; Whith­er the Ben­tivogli them be­take. You next see Lewis siege to Bres­cia lay, And the close-​strait­ened city storm and take; Felsi­na al­most at the same time stay With suc­cour, and the pa­pal army break; And next, ‘twoud seem, that ei­ther hos­tile band Lies tent­ed up­on Chas­sis’ lev­el strand.

XL “On this side France, up­on the oth­er Spain, Ex­tend their files, and bat­tle rages high; Fast fall the men at arms in ei­ther train, And the green earth is tinged with crim­son dye. Flood­ed with hu­man gore seems ev­ery drain; Mars doubts to whom to give the vic­to­ry; When through Alphon­so’s worth the Spaniards yield, And the vic­to­ri­ous Franks main­tain the field;

XLI “And, for Raven­na sacked and rav­aged lies, The Ro­man pas­tor bites his lips through woe; Called by him, from the hills, in tem­pest’s guise, Swoop the fierce Ger­mans on the fields be­low. It seems each French­man un­re­sist­ing flies, Chased by their bands be­yond the moun­tain snow, And that they set the mul­ber­ry’s thriv­ing shoot There, whence they plucked the gold­en lily’s root.

XLII “Be­hold the Frank re­turns, and here be­hold Is bro­ken, by the faith­less Swiss be­trayed, He, that his roy­al fa­ther seized and sold, Whose suc­cour dear­ly by the youth is paid. Those over whom false For­tune’s wheel had rolled, Erewhile, be­neath an­oth­er king ar­raid, You here be­hold, prepar­ing to ef­face With venge­ful deed No­vara’s late dis­grace;

XLI­II “And see with bet­ter aus­pices re­turn The valiant Fran­cis, fore­most of his train, Who so shall break the haughty Switzer’s horn, That lit­tle short of spent their bands re­main; And them shall nev­er­more the style adorn, Usurped by that foul troop of churl­ish vein, Of scourge of princes, and the faith’s de­fence, To which those rus­tics rude shall make pre­tence.

XLIV “Lo! he takes Mi­lan, in the league’s de­spite: Lo! with the youth­ful Sforza makes ac­cord: Lo! Bour­bon the fair city keeps, in right Of Fran­cis, from the fu­ri­ous Ger­man horde: Lo! while in oth­er high em­prize and fight Else­where is oc­cu­pied his roy­al lord, Nor knows the pride and li­cense of his host, Through these the city shall anew be lost.

XLV “Lo! oth­er French who his grand­sire’s vein In­her­its, not his gen­er­ous name alone! Who by the Church’s favour will re­gain — The Gaul ex­pelled — a land which was his own. France too re­turns, but keeps a tighter rein, Nor over Italy, as wont, has flown: For Man­tua’s no­ble duke the foe shall stay, And, at Ti­ci­no’s pas­sage, bar his way.

XLVI “Though on his cheek youth’s blos­soms scarce ap­pear, Wor­thy im­mor­tal glo­ry, Fred­er­ick shines; And well that praise de­serves, since by his spear, But more by care and skill, Pavia’s lines Against the French de­fends that cav­alier, And frus­trates the sea-​li­on’s bold de­signs. You see two mar­quis­es, Italia’s boast, And both, alike the ter­ror of our host.

XLVII “Both of one blood and of one nest they are; The fore­most is the bold Alphon­so’s seed, Whom, led by that false black in­to the snare, You late be­held in pur­ple tor­rent bleed. You see de­feat­ed by his coun­sel ware, How oft the Franks from Italy re­cede. The next, of vis­age so be­nign and bright, Is lord of Guas­to and Alphon­so hight;

XLVI­II “This is that good­ly knight, whose praise you heard When rugged Is­chia’s is­land I dis­played, Of whom sage Mer­lin, with prophet­ic word, To Phara­mond such mighty mat­ters said; Whose birth should to that sea­son be de­ferred, When more than ev­er such a cham­pi­on’s aid, Against the bar­barous en­emy’s at­tack, Vext Italy, and Church, and Em­pire lack.

XLIX “He in his cousin of Pescara’s rear, — Pros­per Colon­na, chief of that em­prize — Makes the rude Switzer pay Bic­oc­ca dear, Paid by the French­man in yet dear­er wise. Be­hold where France pre­pares for fresh ca­reer, And to re­pair her many loss­es tries Be­hold one host on Lom­bardy de­scend! Be­hold that oth­er against Naples wend!

L “Bust she, that moves us like the dust which flies Be­fore the rest­less wind, which whirls it round, Lifts if aloft awhile, and from the skies Blows back anew the ris­ing cloud to ground, To a hun­dred thou­sand swells, in Fran­cis’ eyes, The sol­diers who Pavia’s walls sur­round. The monarch sees but that which he com­mands, Nor marks how wax or waste his lea­guer­ing bands.

LI ” `Tis thus that, through the greedy ser­vant’s sin, And easy sovereign’s good­ness, on his side, The files be­neath his ban­ners muster thin, When in his mid­night camp, `to arms,’ is cried, For by the wary Spaniards charged with­in His ram­parts is he; foes that with the guide Of Ava­lo’s fair lin­eage, would as­say To make to heav­en or hell their des­per­ate way.

LII “You see the best of the no­bil­ity Of all fair France ex­tin­guished on the field; How many swords, how many lances, see The Spaniards round the valiant monarch wield. Be­hold! his horse falls un­der him; yet he Will nei­ther own him­self sub­dued, or yield; Though to as­sault him from all sides is run By wrath­ful bands, and suc­cour there is none.

LI­II “The monarch well de­fends him from the foe, All over bathed with blood of hos­tile vein. But val­our stoops at last to num­bers; lo! The king is tak­en, is con­veyed to Spain; And all up­on Pescara’s lord be­stow And him of that in­sep­ara­ble twain — Of Guas­to hight — the praise and prime renown For that great king cap­tived and host o’erthrown.

LIV “This host o’erthrown up­on Pavia’s plains, That, bound for Naples, halts up­on its way: As an ill-​nour­ished lamp or ta­per wanes, For want of wax or oil, with flick­er­ing ray. Lo! the king leaves his sons in Span­ish chains, And home re­turns, his own do­main to sway. Lo! while in Italy he leads his band, An­oth­er wars up­on his na­tive land.

LV “In ev­ery part you see how Rome is woe, Mid ruth­less rap­ine, mur­der, fire, and rape. See all to wast­ing rack and ru­in go, And noth­ing hu­man or di­vine es­cape. The league’s men hear the shrieks, be­hold the glow Of hos­tile fires, and lo! they back­ward shape Their course, where they should hur­ry on their way, And leave the pon­tiff to his foes a prey.

LVI “Lautrec the monarch sends with oth­er bands; Yet not anew to war on Lom­bardy; But to de­liv­er from ra­pa­cious hands The Church’s head and limbs, al­ready free, So slow­ly he per­forms the king’s com­mands. Next, over­run by him the king­dom see, And his strong arms against the city turned, Where­in the Syren’s body lies in­urned.

LVII “Lo! the im­pe­ri­al squadrons thith­er steer, Aid to the lea­guered city to con­vey; And lo! burnt, sunk, de­stroyed, they dis­ap­pear, En­coun­tered by the Do­ria in mid-​way. Be­hold! how For­tune light does shift and veer, So friend­ly to the French­man till this day! Who slays their host with fever, not with lance; Nor of a thou­sand one re­turns to France.

LVI­II These his­to­ries and more the pic­tures shew, (For to tell all would ask too long a strain) In beau­teous colours and of dif­fer­ent hue; Since such that hall, it these could well con­tain. The paint­ing twice and thrice those guests re­view, Nor how to leave them knows the lin­ger­ing train, ‘Twould seem; pe­rus­ing oft what they be­hold In­scribed be­low the beau­teous work in gold.

LIX When with these pic­tures they their sight had fed, And talked long while — these ladies and the rest — They to their cham­bers by that Lord were led, Wont much to wor­ship ev­ery wor­thy guest. Al­ready all were sleep­ing, when her bed At last Duke Ay­mon’s beau­teous daugh­ter prest. She here, she there, her rest­less body throws, Now right, now left, but vain­ly seeks re­pose:

LX Yet slum­ber to­ward dawn, and in a dream The form of her Rogero seems to view. The vi­sion cries: “Why vex your­self, and deem Things re­al which are hol­low and un­true? Back­wards shall soon­er flow the moun­tain­stream Than I to oth­er turn my thought from you. When you I love not, then unloved by me This heart, these ap­ples of mine eyes, will be.

LXI “Hith­er have I re­paired (it seemed he said) To be bap­tized and do as I pro­fessed. If I have lin­gered, I have been de­laid, By oth­er wound than that of Love op­prest.” With that he van­ished from the mar­tial maid, And with the vi­sion bro­ken was her rest. New floods of tears the awak­ened damsel shed, And to her­self in this sad fash­ion said:

LXII “What pleased was but a dream; alas! a sheer Re­al­ity is this my wak­ing bane; My joy a dream and prompt to dis­ap­pear, No dream my cru­el and tor­ment­ing pain. Ah! where­fore what I seemed to see and hear, Can­not I, wak­ing, see and hear again? What ails ye, wretched eyes, that closed ye show Un­re­al good, and open but on woe?

LXI­II “Sweet sleep with promised peace my soul did buoy, But I to bit­ter war­fare wake anew; Sweet sleep but brought with it fal­la­cious joy, But — sure and bit­ter — wak­ing ills en­sue. If false­hood so de­light and truth an­noy, Nev­er more may I see or hear what’s true! If sleep­ing brings me weal, and watch­ing woe, The pains of wak­ing may I nev­er know!

LX­IV “Blest an­imals that sleep through half the year, Nor ope your heavy eye­lids, night nor day! For if such te­dious sleep like death ap­pear, Such watch­ing is like life, I will not say, Since — such my lot, be­yond all wont, se­vere — I death in watch­ing, life in sleep as­say. But oh! if death such sleep re­sem­ble, Death, Even now I pray three stop my fleet­ing breath!”

LXV The clouds were gone, the hori­zon over­spread With glow­ing crim­son by the new-​born sun, And in these signs, un­like the past, was read A bet­ter promise of the day be­gun: When Bradamant up­start­ed from her bed, And armed her for the jour­ney to be done, Her thanks first ren­dered to the cour­te­ous lord, For his kind of cheer and hos­pitable board.

LXVI And found, the la­dy mes­sen­ger, with maid And squire, had is­sued from the cas­tled hold, And was a-​field, where her ar­rival stayed Those three good war­riors, those the damsel bold The eve be­fore had on the cham­paign laid, Cast from their hors­es by her lance of gold; And who had suf­fered, to their mighty pain, All night, the freez­ing wind and pat­ter­ing rain.

LXVII Add to such ill, that, hun­ger­ing sore for food, They and their hors­es, through the live­long night, Tram­pling the mire, with chat­ter­ing teeth, had stood: But (what well-​nigh en­gen­dered more de­spite — Say not well nigh — more moved the war­rior’s mood) Was that they knew the damsel would re­cite How they had been un­horsed by hos­tile lance In the first course which they had run in France;

LXVI­II And — each re­solved to die or else his name Forth­with in new en­counter to re­trieve — That Ulany, the mes­sage-​bear­ing dame, (Whose style no longer I un­men­tioned leave), A fair­er no­tion of their knight­ly fame Than hereto­fore, might hap­ly now con­ceive, Bold Bradamant anew to fight de­fied, When of the draw­bridge clear they her de­scried;

LX­IX Not think­ing, how­soe’er, she was a maid, Who in no look or act the maid con­fest; Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter, loth to be de­laid, Re­fus­es, as a trav­eller that is pressed. But they so of­ten and so sore­ly prayed, That she could ill refuse the kings’ re­quest. Her lance she lev­els, at three strokes ex­tends All three on earth, and thus the war­fare ends:

LXX For Bradamant no more her cours­er wheeled, But turned her back up­on the foes o’erthrown. They, that in­tent to gain the gold­en shield, Had sought a land so dis­tant from their own, Ris­ing in sullen si­lence from the field (For speech with all their hardi­hood was gone) Ap­peared as stu­pe­fied by their sur­prise, Nor to Ula­nia dared to lift their eyes.

LXXI For they, as thith­er they their course ad­drest, Had vaunt­ed to the maid in boast­ing vein, No pal­adin or knight with lance in rest, Against the worst his sad­dle could main­tain. To make them vail yet more their haughty crest, And look up­on the world with less dis­dain, She tells them, by no pal­adin or peer Were they un­horsed, but by a wom­an’s spear.

LXXII “Now what of Roland’s and Ri­nal­do’s might, Not with­out rea­son held in such renown, Ought you to think (she said) when thus in fight Ye by a fe­male hand are over­thrown? Say, if the buck­ler one of these re­quite, — Bet­ter than by a wom­an ye have done, Will ye by those re­doubt­ed war­riors do? So think not I, nor hap­ly think so you.

LXXI­II “This may suf­fice you all; and need in none A clear­er proof of prowess to dis­play; And who de­sires, if rash­ly any one De­sires, again his val­our to as­say, Would add but scathe to shame, now made his own; Now; and the same to-​day as yes­ter­day. Un­less per­chance he thinks it praise and gain, By such il­lus­tri­ous war­riors to be slain.”

LXXIV When they by Ulany were cer­ti­fied A wom­an’s hand had caused their over­throw, Who with a deep­er black than pitch had dyed Their hon­our, hereto­fore so fair of show; And more than ten her sto­ry tes­ti­fied, Where one suf­ficed — with such o’er­whelm­ing woe Were they pos­sest, they with such fury burned, They well nigh on them­selves their weapons turned.

LXXV What arms they had up­on them, they un­bound, And cast them, strung by rage and fury sore, In­to the moat which girt that cas­tle round, Nor even kept the faul­chions which they wore; And, since a wom­an them had cast to ground, O’er­whelmed with rage and shame, the war­riors swore, Them­selves of such a cry­ing shame to clear, They, with­out bear­ing arms, would pass a year;

LXXVI And that they ev­er­more afoot would fare Up hill or down, by moun­tain or by plain, Nor, when the year was end­ed, would they wear The knight­ly mail or climb the steed again; Save that from oth­er they by force should bear, In bat­tle, oth­er steeds and oth­er chain. So, with­out arms, to pun­ish their mis­deeds, These wend a-​foot, those oth­ers on their steeds.

LXXVII Lodged in a town­ship at the fall of night, Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter, jour­ney­ing Paris-​ward, Hears how King Agra­mant was foiled in fight. Good har­bourage with­al of bed and board, She in her hos­tel found; but small de­light This and all com­forts else to her af­ford. For the sad damsel meat and sleep fore­goes, Nor finds a rest­ing place; far less re­pose.

LXXVI­II But so I will not on her sto­ry dwell, As not to seek anew the valiant twain; Who, by con­sent, be­side a lone­ly well, Had tied their good­ly cours­ers by the rein. I of their war to you somedeal will tell, A war not waged for em­pire or do­main, But that the best should buck­le to his side Good Durin­dana, and Ba­iar­do ride.

LXXIX No sig­nal they, no trum­pet they at­tend, To blow them to the lists, no mas­ter who Should teach them when to foin and when to fend, Or wake their sleep­ing wrath; their swords they drew: Then, one against the oth­er, bold­ly wend, With lift­ed blades, the quick and dex­trous two. Al­ready ‘gan the cham­pi­ons’ fury heat, And fast and hard their swords were heard to beat.

LXXX None e’er by proof two oth­er faul­chions chose For sound and sol­id, able to en­dure Three strokes alone of such con­flict­ing foes, Pass­ing all means and mea­sure; but so pure, So per­fect was their tem­per, from all blows By such re­peat­ed tri­al so se­cure, They in a thou­sand strokes might clash on high, — Nay more, nor yet the sol­id met­al fly.

LXXXI With mick­le in­dus­try, with mighty pain And art, Ri­nal­do, shift­ing here and there, Avoids the dead­ly dint of Durin­dane, Well know­ing how ’tis wont to cleave and tear. Gradas­so struck with greater might and main, But well nigh all his strokes were spent in air; Of, if he some­times smote, he smote on part, Where Durin­dana wrought less harm than smart.

LXXXII Ri­nal­do with more skill his blade in­clined, And stunned the arm of Ser­icana’s lord. Him oft he reached where casque and coat con­fined, And of­ten raked his haunch­es with the sword: But adaman­tine was his corslet’s rind, Nor link the rest­less faul­chion broke or bored. If so im­pas­sive was the payn­im’s scale, Know, charmed by mag­ic was the stub­born mail.

LXXXI­II With­out repos­ing they long time had been, Up­on their dead­ly bat­tle so in­tent, That, save on one an­oth­er’s trou­bled mien, Their an­gry eyes the war­riors had not bent. When such de­spi­teous war and dead­ly spleen, Di­vert­ed by an­oth­er strife, were spent, Hear­ing a mighty noise, both cham­pi­ons turn, And good Ba­iar­do, sore best­ed, dis­cern.

LXXXIV They good Ba­iar­do by a mon­ster view, — A bird, and big­ger than that cours­er — prest. Above three yards in length ap­peared to view The mon­ster’s beak; a bat in all the rest. Equipt with feath­ers, black as ink in hue, And pierc­ing talons was the winged pest; An eye of fire it had, a cru­el look, And, like ship-​sails, two spread­ing pin­ions shook.

LXXXV Per­haps it was a bird; but when or where An­oth­er bird re­sem­bling this was seen I know not, I, nor have I any where, Ex­cept in Turpin, heard that such has been. Hence that it was a fiend, to up­per air Evoked from depths of nether hell I ween; Which Malagi­gi raised by mag­ic sleight, That so he might dis­turb the cham­pi­ons’ fight.

LXXXVI So deemed Ri­nal­do too: and con­test sore ‘Twixt him and Malagi­gi hence be­gun; But he would not con­fess the charge; nay swore, Even by the light which lights the glo­ri­ous sun, That he might clear him of the blame he bore, He had not that which was im­put­ed done. Whether a fiend or fowl, the pest de­scends, And good Ba­iar­do with his talons rends.

LXXXVII Quick­ly the steed, pos­sessed of mick­le might, Breaks loose, and, in his fury and de­spair, Against the mon­ster strives with kick and bite; But swift­ly he re­tires and soars in air: He thence re­turn­ing, prompt to wheel and smite, Cir­cles and beats the cours­er, here and there. Whol­ly un­skilled in fence, and sore best­ed, Ba­iar­do swift­ly from the mon­ster fled.

LXXXVI­II Ba­iar­do to the neigh­bour­ing for­est flies, Seek­ing the clos­est shade and thick­est spray; Above the feath­ered mon­ster flaps, with eyes In­tent to mark where widest is the way. But that good horse the green­wood threads, and lies At last with­in a grot, con­cealed from day. When the winged beast has lost Ba­iar­do’s traces. He soars aloft, and oth­er quar­ry chas­es.

LXXXIX Ri­nal­do and Gradas­so, who de­scried Ba­iar­do’s flight, the con­queror’s des­tined meed, The bat­tle to sus­pend, on ei­ther side, Till they re­gained the good­ly horse, agreed, Saved from that fowl which chased him, far and wide; Con­di­tion­ing whichev­er found the steed, With him anew should to that foun­tain wend, Be­side whose brim their bat­tle they should end.

XC Quit­ting the fount, they fol­low, where they view New prints up­on the for­est greensward made: By much Ba­iar­do dis­tances the two, Whose tardy feet their wish­es ill obeyed. Him­self the king on his Al­fana threw, That near at hand was teth­ered in the glade, Leav­ing his foe be­hind in evil plight; — Nev­er more mal­con­tent and vext in sprite.

XCI Ri­nal­do ceased in lit­tle time to spy Ba­iar­do’s traces, who strange course had run; And made for thorny thick­et, wet or dry, Tree, rock, or riv­er, with de­sign to shun Those cru­el claws, which, pounc­ing from the sky, To him such out­rage and such scathe had done. Ri­nal­do, af­ter labour vain and sore To await him at the fount re­turned once more;

XCII In case, as erst con­cert­ed by the twain, The king should thith­er with the steed re­sort; But hav­ing sought him there with lit­tle gain, Fared to his camp afoot, with piteous port. Re­turn we now to him of Ser­icane, He that had sped with­al in oth­er sort, Who, not by judge­ment, guid­ed to his prey, But his rare for­tune, heard Ba­iar­do neigh;

XCI­II And found him shrowd­ed in his cav­erned lair, So sore more­over by his fright op­prest, He feared to is­sue in­to open air. Thus of that horse him­self the king pos­sest. Well he re­mem­bered their con­di­tions were To bring him to the fount; but lit­tle pressed Now was that knight to keep the promise made, And thus with­in him­self in se­cret said:

XCIV “Win him who will, in war and strife, I more De­sire in peace to make the steed my own: From the world’s fur­ther side, did I of yore Wend hith­er­ward, and for this end alone. Hav­ing the cours­er, he mis­takes me sore, That thinks the prize by me will be fore­gone. Him would Ri­nal­do con­quer, let him fare To Ind, as I to France have made re­pair.

XCV “For him no less se­cure is Ser­icane, Than twice for me has been his France,” he said, And pricked for Ar­les, along the road most plain, And in its haven found the fleet ar­rayed. Freight­ed with him, the steed and Durin­dane, A well-​rigged gal­ley from that har­bour weighed. Of these here­after! — I, at oth­er call, Now quit Ri­nal­do, king, and France, and all.

XCVI As­tolpho in his flight will I pur­sue, That made his hip­pogryph like pal­frey flee, With reins and sell, so quick the welkin through; That hawk and ea­gle soar a course less free. O’er the wide land of Gaul the war­rior flew From Pyre­nees to Rhine, from sea to sea. He west­ward to the moun­tains turned aside, Which France’s fer­tile land from Spain di­vide.

XCVII To Ar­ragon he past out of Navarre, — They who be­held, sore won­der­ing at the sight — Then, leaves he Tar­ragon be­hind him far, Up­on his left, Bis­cay up­on his right: Tra­versed Castile, Gal­li­cia, Lis­bon, are Seville and Cor­do­va, with rapid flight; Nor city on sea-​shore, nor in­land plain, Is un­ex­plored through­out the realm of Spain.

XCVI­II Be­neath him Cadiz and the strait he spied, Where whilom good Al­cides closed the way; From the At­lantic to the fur­ther side Of Egypt, bent o’er Africa, to stray; The fa­mous Balearic isles de­scried, And Ivi­ca, that in his pas­sage lay; To­ward Arzil­la then he turned the rein, Above the sea that sev­ers it from Spain.

XCIX Mo­roc­co, Fez, and Oran, look­ing down, Hip­pona, Argi­er, he, and Bu­gia told, Which from all cities bear away the crown, No palm or pars­ley wreath, but crown of gold; No­ble Bis­er­ta next and Tu­nis-​town, Capys, Alzer­ba’s isle, the war­rior bold, Tripoli, Ber­niche, Ptolomit­ta viewed, And in­to Asia’s land the Nile pur­sued.

C ‘Twixt At­las’ shag­gy ridges and the shore, He viewed each re­gions in his spa­cious round; He turned his back up­on Care­na hoar, And skimmed above the Cyre­naean ground; Pass­ing the sandy desert of the Moor, In Al­ba­ja­da, reached the Nu­bian’s bound; Left Bat­tus’ tomb be­hind him on the plain, And Am­mon’s, now di­lap­idat­ed, fane.

CI To oth­er Trem­izen he posts, where bred As well the peo­ple are in Ma­hound’s style; For oth­er Aethiops then his pin­ions spread, Which face the first, and lie be­yond the Nile. Be­tween Coallee and Doba­da sped, Bound for the Nu­bian city’s roy­al pile; Thread­ing the two, where, ranged on ei­ther land, Moslems and Chris­tians watch, with arms in hand.

CII In Aethiopia’s realm Sena­pus reigns, Whose scep­tre is the cross; of cities brave, Of men, of gold pos­sest, and broad do­mains, Which the Red Sea’s ex­tremest wa­ters lave. A faith well nigh like ours that king main­tains, Which man from his pri­mae­val doom may save. Here, save I err in what their rites re­quire, The swarthy peo­ple are bap­tized with fire.

CI­II As­tolpho light­ed in the spa­cious court, In­tend­ing on the Nu­bian king to wait. Less strong than sump­tu­ous is the wealthy fort, Where­in the roy­al Aethiop keeps his state, The chains that serve the draw­bridge to sup­port, The bolts, the bars, the hinges of the gate, And fi­nal­ly what­ev­er we be­hold Herewrought in iron, there is wrought in gold.

CIV High prized with­al, al­beit it so abound, Is that best met­al; lodges built in air Which on all sides the wealthy pile sur­round, Clear colon­nades with crys­tal shafts up­bear. Of green, white, crim­son, blue and yel­low ground, A frieze ex­tends be­low those gal­leries fair. Here at due in­ter­vals rich gems com­bine, And topaz, sap­phire, emer­ald, ru­by shine.

CV In wall and roof and pave­ment scat­tered are Full many a pearl, full many a cost­ly stone. Here thrives the balm; the plants were ev­er rare, Com­pared with these, which were in Jew­ry grown, The musk which we pos­sess from thence we bear, In fine those prod­ucts from this clime are brought, Which in our re­gions are so prized and sought.

CVI The sol­dan, king of the Egyp­tian land, Pays trib­ute to this sovereign, as his head, They say, since hav­ing Nile at his com­mand He may di­vert the stream to oth­er bed. Hence, with its dis­trict up­on ei­ther hand, Forth­with might Cairo lack its dai­ly bread. Sena­pus him his Nu­bian tribes pro­claim; We Priest and Prester John the sovereign name.

CVII Of all those Aethiop monar­chs, be­yond mea­sure, The first was this, for rich­es and for might; But he with all his puis­sance, all his trea­sure, Alas! had mis­er­ably lost his sight. And yet was this the monarch’s least dis­plea­sure; Vexed by a di­rer and a worse de­spite; Ha­rassed, though rich­est of those Nu­bian kings, By a per­pet­ual hunger’s cru­el stings.

CVI­II Whene’er to eat or drink the wretched man Pre­pared, by that re­sist­less need pur­sued, Forth­with — in­fer­nal and aveng­ing clan — Ap­peared the mon­strous Harpies’ crav­ing brood; Which, armed with beak and talons, over­ran Ves­sel and board, and preyed up­on the food; And what their wombs suf­fice not to re­ceive Foul and de­filed the loath­some mon­sters leave.

CIX And this, be­cause up­born by such a tide Of full blown hon­ours, in his un­ripe age, For he ex­celled in heart and nerve, be­side The rich­es of his roy­al her­itage, Like Lu­cifer, the monarch waxed in pride, And war up­on his mak­er thought to wage. He with his host against the moun­tain went, Where Egypt’s mighty riv­er finds a vent.

CX Up­on this hill which well-​nigh kissed the skies, Pierc­ing the clouds, the king had heard re­cite, Was seat­ed the ter­res­tri­al par­adise, Where our first par­ents flour­ished in de­light. With camels, ele­phants, and foot­men hies Thith­er that king, con­fid­ing in his might; With huge de­sire if peo­pled be the land To bring its na­tions un­der his com­mand.

CXI God marred the rash em­prise, and from on high Sent down an an­gel, whose de­stroy­ing sword A hun­dred thou­sand of that chival­ry Slew, and to end­less night con­demned their lord. Emerg­ing, next, from hellish cav­erns, fly These hor­rid harpies and as­sault his board; Which still pol­lute or waste the roy­al meat, Nor leave the monarch aught to drink or eat.

CXII And him had plunged in ut­ter­most de­spair One that to him erewhile had proph­esied The loath­some Harpies should his dai­ly fare Leave un­pol­lut­ed on­ly, when astride Of winged horse, ar­riv­ing through the air, An armed cav­alier should be de­scried. And, for im­pos­si­ble ap­pears the thing, De­void of hope re­mains the mourn­ful king.

CXI­II Now that with won­der­ment his fol­low­ers spy The En­glish cav­alier so make his way, O’er ev­ery wall, o’er ev­ery tur­ret high, Some swift­ly to the king the news con­vey. Who calls to mind that an­cient prophe­cy, And heed­less of the staff, his wont­ed stay, Through joy, with out­stretched arms and tot­ter­ing feet, Comes forth, the fly­ing cav­alier to meet.

CX­IV With­in the cas­tle court As­tolpho flew, And there, with spa­cious wheels, on earth de­scend­ed; The king, con­duct­ed by his court­ly crew, Be­fore the war­rior knelt, with arms ex­tend­ed, And cried: “Thou an­gel send of God, thou new Mes­si­ah, if too sore I have of­fend­ed, For mer­cy, yet, be­think thee, ’tis our bent To sin, and thine to par­don who re­pent.

CXV “Know­ing my sin, I ask not, I, to be — Such grace I dare not ask — re­stored to light; For well I ween such pow­er re­sides in thee, As Be­ing ac­cept­ed in thy Mak­er’s sight. Let it suf­fice, that I no longer see, Nor let me with per­pet­ual hunger fight. At least, ex­pel the harpies’ loath­some horde, Nor let them more pol­lute my rav­aged board;

CXVI “And I to build thee, in my roy­al hold, A holy tem­ple, made of mar­ble, swear, With all its por­tals and its roof of gold, And decked, with­in and out, with jew­els rare. Here shall thy mighty mir­acle be told In sculp­ture, and thy name the dome shall bear.” So spake the sight­less king of Nu­bia’s reign, And sought to kiss the stranger’s feet in vain.

CXVII “Nor an­gel” — good As­tolpho made re­ply — “Nor new Mes­si­ah, I from heav­en de­scend; No less a mor­tal and a sin­ner I, To such high grace un­wor­thy to pre­tend. To slay the mon­sters I all means will try, Or drive them from the realm which they of­fend. If I shall pros­per, be thy prais­es paid To God alone, who sent me to thine aid.

CXVI­II “Of­fer these vows to God, to him well due; To him thy church­es build, thine al­tars rear.” Dis­cours­ing so, to­geth­er wend the two, ‘Mid barons bold, that king and cav­alier. The Nu­bian prince com­mands the me­nial crew Forth­with to bring the hos­pitable cheer; And hopes that now the foul, ra­pa­cious band, Will not dare snatch the vict­ual from his hand.

CX­IX Forth­with a solemn ban­quet they pre­pare With­in the gor­geous palace of the king. Seat­ed alone here guest and sovereign are, And the at­ten­dant troop the viands bring. Be­hold! a whizzing sound is heard in air, Which echoes with the beat of sav­age wing. Be­hold! the band of harpies thith­er flies, Lured by the scent of vict­ual from the skies.

CXX All bear a fe­male face of pal­lid dye, And sev­en in num­ber are the hor­rid band; Ema­ci­at­ed with hunger, lean, and dry; Fouler than death; the pin­ions they ex­pand Ragged, and huge, and shape­less to the eye; The talon crook’d; ra­pa­cious is the hand; Fetid and large the paunch; in many a fold, Like snake’s, their long and knot­ted tails are rolled.

CXXI The fowls are heard in air; then swoops amain The cov­ey well nigh in that in­stant, rends The food, o’er­turns the ves­sels, and a rain Of noi­some or­dure on the board de­scends. To stop their nos­trils king and duke are fain; Such an in­suf­fer­able stench of­fends. Against the greedy birds, as wrath ex­cites, As­tolpho with his bran­dished faul­chion smites.

CXXII At croup or col­lar now he aims his blow, Now strikes at neck or pin­ion; but on all, As if he smote up­on a bag of tow, The strokes with­out ef­fect and lan­guid fall. This while nor dish nor gob­let they forego; Nor void those raven­ing fowls the re­gal hall, Till they have feast­ed full, and left the food Waste or pol­lut­ed by their rap­ine rude.

CXXI­II That king had firm­ly hoped the cav­alier Would from his roy­al seat the harpies scare. He now, that hope fore­gone, with nought to cheer, Laments, and sighs, and groans in his de­spair. Of his good horn re­mem­bers him the peer, Whose clan­gours help­ful aye in per­il are, And deems his bu­gle were the fittest mean To free the monarch from those birds un­clean;

CXXIV And first to fill their ears, to king and train, With melt­ed wax, As­tolpho gives com­mand; That ev­ery one who hears the deaf­en­ing strain May not in pan­ic ter­ror fly the land. He takes the reins, his cours­er backs again, Grasps the en­chant­ed bu­gle in his hand; And to the sew­er next signs to have the board Anew with hos­pitable vict­ual stored.

CXXV The meats he to an open gal­ley bears, And oth­er ban­quet spreads on oth­er ground. Be­hold, as wont, the harpy-​squad ap­pears; As­tolpho quick­ly lifts the bu­gle’s round; And (for un­guard­ed are their ha­rassed ears) The harpies are not proof against the sound; In ter­ror form the roy­al dome they speed, Nor meat nor aught be­side the mon­sters heed.

CXXVI Af­ter them spurs in haste the valiant peer: And on the winged cours­er forth is flown, Leav­ing be­neath him, in his swift ca­reer, The roy­al cas­tle and the crowd­ed town; The bu­gle ev­er peal­ing, far and near. The harpies fly to­ward the tor­rid zone; Nor light un­til they reach that lofti­est moun­tain Where springs, if any­where, Nile’s se­cret foun­tain.

CXXVII Al­most at that aeri­al moun­tain’s feet, Deep un­der earth, ex­tends a gloomy cell. The surest pass for him, as they re­peat, That would at any time de­scend to hell. Hith­er the preda­to­ry troop re­treat, As a safe refuge from the deaf­en­ing yell. As far, and far­ther than Co­cy­tus’ shore De­scend­ing, till that horn is heard no more.

CXXVI­II At that dark hellish in­let, which a way Opens to him who would aban­don light, The ter­ri­fy­ing bu­gle ceased to bray; — The cours­er furled his wings and stopt his flight. But, ere As­tolpho fur­ther I con­vey, — Not to de­part from my ac­cus­tomed rite — Since on all sides the pa­per over­flows, I shall con­clude my can­to and re­pose.