Orlando Furioso

CANTO 34

AR­GU­MENT In the in­fer­nal pit As­tolpho hears Of Ly­dia’s woe, by smoke well-​nigh op­prest. He mounts anew, and him his cours­er bears To the ter­res­tri­al par­adise ad­drest. By John ad­vised in all, to heav­en he steers; Of some of his lost sense here re­pos­sest, Or­lan­do’s wast­ed wit as well he takes, Sees the Fates spin their threads, and earth­ward makes.

I O fierce and hun­gry harpies, that on blind And erring Italy so full have fed! Whom, for the scourge of an­cient sins de­signed, Hap­ly just Heav­en to ev­ery board has sped. In­no­cent chil­dren, pi­ous moth­ers, pined With hunger, die, and see their dai­ly bread, — The or­phan’s and the wid­ow’s scanty food — Feed for a sin­gle feast that filthy brood.

II Too foul a fault was his, who did un­close That cave long shut, and made the pas­sage free, From whence that greed­iness, that filth arose, Our Italy’s in­fec­tion doomed to be. Then was good life ex­tin­guished, and re­pose So ban­ished, that with strife and pover­ty, With fear and trou­ble, is she still per­plext, And shall for many a fu­ture year be vext:

III Till she her sons has shak­en by the hair, And from Lethaean sloth to life re­stored; Ex­claim­ing, “Will none im­itate that pair, Zethes and Calais, with aveng­ing sword Res­cue from claws and stench our good­ly fare, And cleanse and glad anew the ge­nial board. As they king Phineus from those fowls re­leased, And Eng­land’s peer re­stored the Nu­bian’s feast?”

IV Hunt­ing those hideous birds, that cav­alier Aye scared them with the bu­gle’s hor­rid sound; Till at the moun­tain-​cave his long ca­reer He closed, and ran the mon­strous troop to ground: At­ten­tive to the vent he held his ear, And in that trou­bled cav­ern heard re­bound, Weep­ing and wail­ing, and eter­nal yell; Proof cer­tain that its en­trance led to hell.

V As­tolpho doubts if he with­in shall wend, And see those wretched ones ex­pelled from day; In­to the cen­tral pit of earth de­scend, And the in­fer­nal gulfs around sur­vey. “Why should I fear, that on my horn de­pend For cer­tain suc­cour?” (did the war­rior say) “Sa­tan and Plu­to so will I con­found, And drive be­fore me their three-​head­ed hound.”

VI He speed­ily his winged horse for­sook; (Him to a sapling near at hand he ties) The cav­ern en­tered next; but first he took His horn, where­on the knight in all re­lies. Not far has he ad­vanced be­fore a smoke, Ob­scure and foul, of­fends his nose and eyes. Ranker than pitch and sul­phur is the stench, Yet not there­at does good As­tolpho blench.

VII But as he more de­scends in­to that lair, So much he finds the smoke and vapour worse; And it ap­pears he can no fur­ther fare; Nay, back­ward must re­trace his way par­force. Lo! some­thing (what he knows not) he in air Es­pies, that seems in mo­tion, like a corse, Up­on whose wast­ed form long time had beat The win­ter’s rain and sum­mers scorch­ing heat.

VI­II In that dim cav­ern was so lit­tle light, — Yea, well-​nigh might be said that light was none — Nought sees or com­pre­hends the En­glish knight What wa­vers so, above that vapour dun: For sur­er proof, a stroke or two would smite With his good faul­chion Otho’s valiant son: Then deemed that duke it was a spir­it, whom He seemed to strike amid the misty gloom.

IX When him a melan­choly voice ad­dressed; “Ah! with­out harm­ing oth­er, down­ward wend. Me but too sore the sable fumes mo­lest, Which hith­er form the hellish fires as­cend.” There­at the duke, amazed, his steps represt, And to the spir­it cried: “So may Heav­en send A respite from the vapours that ex­hale, As thou shalt deign to tell thy mourn­ful tale!

X “And to be known on earth shouldst thou be fain, Thee will I sat­is­fy.” To him the sprite: So sweet it seems to me, in fame again Thus to re­turn in­to the glo­ri­ous light, My huge de­sire such favour to ob­tain, Forces my words from me in my de­spite, Con­strain­ing me to tell the things ye seek; Though ’tis an­noy­ance and fa­tigue to speak.

XI “Ly­dia, the child of Ly­dia’s king, am I, To proud es­tate and prince­ly hon­ours born, Con­demned by righ­teous doom of God on high In murky smoke eter­nal­ly to mourn: Be­cause a kind­ly lover’s con­stan­cy I, while I lived, re­paid with spite and scorn. With count­less oth­ers swarm these grots be­low, For the same sin, con­demned to the same woe.

XII “Yet low­er down, harsh Anaxarete Suf­fers worse pain where thick­er fumes arise; Heav­en changed her flesh to stone, and here to be Tor­ment­ed, her af­flict­ed spir­it sties: In that un­moved she, hung in air, could see A lover vest by her bar­bar­ities. Here Daphne learns how rash­ly she had done In hav­ing giv­en Apol­lo such a run.”

XI­II “Of hosts of in­grate wom­en in this cell Con­fined, it would be te­dious to re­cite, If, one by one, I up­on these should dwell; So many, their amount is in­fi­nite. ‘Twould be more te­dious of the men to tell, Whose base in­grat­itude due pains re­quite; And whom, in a more dis­mal prison pent, Smoke blinds, and ev­er­last­ing fires tor­ment.

XIV “Since to be­lief soft wom­an is more prone, He that de­ceives her, mer­its heav­ier pain; To The­seus and to Ja­son this is known, And him that vexed of old the La­tian reign, And him that of his broth­er Ab­sa­lon Erewhile pro­voked the pesti­lent dis­dain, Be­cause of Thamar; count­less is the horde Of those who left a wife or wed­ded lord.

XV “But, rather of my state than theirs to shew, And sin which brought me hith­er: — I was fair, But so much haugh­ti­er was than fair of hue, I know not if I ev­er equalled were: Nor which was most ex­ces­sive of the two, My pride of beau­ty, could to thee de­clare. Though it is cer­tain, Pride but took its rise In that rare love­li­ness which pleased all eyes.

XVI “There lived a Thra­cian knight, for war­like skill And prowess, up­on earth with­out a peer; Who, voiced by many a wor­thy wit­ness still, The prais­es of my match­less charms did hear. So that, of fore­thought and his own free will, Fixed all his love on me that cav­alier; Ween­ing this wife that I, up­on my part, Should for his val­our du­ly prize his heart.

XVII “He came to Ly­dia, and by faster tie Was fet­tered at my sight; and there en­rolled Amid my roy­al fa­ther’s chival­ry, In mick­le fame in­creased that baron bold. His feats of many a sort, and val­our high Would make a tale too te­dious to be told; With what his bound­less mer­it had de­served, If a more grate­ful mas­ter he had served.

XVI­II “Pam­phylia, Caria, and Cili­cia’s reign, Through him, my fa­ther brought be­neath his sway, Who nev­er moved a-​field his mar­tial train, But when that war­rior point­ed out the way: He, when he deemed he had de­served such gain, Pressed close the Ly­di­an king, up­on a day, And craved me from the monarch as his wife, As meed of all that booty made in strife.

XIX “Re­ject­ed of the monarch was the peer, Who was re­solved his child should high­ly wed; Not him who was a sim­ple cav­alier; Who, sav­ing val­our, was with nought best­ed. For on my fa­ther, bent on gain and gear And avarice, of all vice the foun­tain-​head, Man­ners and mer­it for as lit­tle pass, As the lute’s mu­sic on the lump­ish ass.

XX “Al­ces­tes, he of whom I speak (so hight That war­rior), when he sees his suit de­nied, Re­pulsed by one, by whom he had most right To think that he should most be grat­ified, Craves his dis­charge, and threat­ens he this slight Will make the Ly­di­an monarch dear abide. The Ar­me­ni­an, an old ri­val of my sire, And mor­tal for, he sought with this de­sire;

XXI “And so the monarch urged, he made him rear His ban­ner, and at­tack my sire; and, through His fa­mous feats, that Thra­cian cav­alier Was named the cap­tain of the in­vad­ing crew. For the Ar­me­ni­an sovereign, far and near, All things (so said the knight) he would sub­due; But claim­ing as his share, when all was won, My sovereign beau­ties for the ser­vice done.

XXII “I ill to you the mis­chief could ex­press Al­ces­tes did us in that war; o’erthrown By him four armies were, and he in less Than one short twelve­month left us nei­ther town, Not tow­er, save one, where cliffs for­bade ac­cess: ‘Twas here my sire, amid those of his own Whom most he loved, took refuge, in his need, With all the wealth he could col­lect with speed.

XXI­II “Us in this for­ti­lage the knight at­tacked, And short­ly to such des­per­ation drave, That glad­ly would the king have made a pact, To yield me for his con­sort, yea his slave, With half our realm, if cer­tain by that act Him­self from ev­ery oth­er loss to save; Right sure he oth­er­wise should for­feit all, And, af­ter, die in bonds, a cap­tive thrall.

XXIV “Be­fore this hap­pened, to try ev­ery way Of rem­edy the Ly­di­an king was bent; And thith­er, where Al­ces­tes’ army lay, Me, the first cause of all the mis­chief, sent. To yield my per­son to him as a prey I with in­ten­tion to Al­ces­tes went; To bid him take what por­tion of our reign He pleased, and paci­fy his fierce dis­dain.

XXV “When of my com­ing that good knight does know, Me he en­coun­ters pale and trem­bling sore: ‘Twould seem a van­quished man’s a pris­on­er’s brow, He, rather than a vic­tor’s sem­blance, bore. I who per­ceive he loves, ad­dress not now The war­rior as I was re­solved be­fore. My van­tage I de­scry, and shift my ground, To fit the state where­in that knight was found.

XXVI “To curse the war­rior’s pas­sion I be­gun, And of his cry­ing cru­el­ty com­plained, Since foul­ly by my fa­ther had he done, And me would have by vi­olence con­strained; Who with more grace my per­son would have won, Nor wait­ed many days, had he main­tained His course of courtship, as be­gun whilere. To king and all of us so pass­ing dear;

XXVII “And if the hon­est suit he hoped to gain Had been at first re­ject­ed by my sire, ‘Twas, he was somedeal of a churl­ish vein, Nor ev­er yield­ed to a first de­sire; He should not there­fore, restive to the rein, Have left his good­ly task, so prompt to ire; Sure, pass­ing aye from good to bet­ter deed, In lit­tle time to win the wished-​for meed;

XXVI­II “And if my fa­ther would not have been won, To him I would so earnest­ly have prayed, That he my lover should have made his son; Nay, had my roy­al sire my suit gain­sayed, For him in se­cret that I would have done, Where­with he should have deemed him­self ap­paid: But since, it seemed, he oth­er means de­signed, Nev­er to love him had I fixed my mind;

XXIX “And, though I sought him, at my fa­ther’s hest, And pi­ous love for him had been my guide, He might be sure, not long should be pos­sest The bliss that I, in my de­spite, sup­plied; For the red blood should is­sue from my breast As soon as his ill will was sat­is­fied On this my wretched per­son, which alone He so by bru­tal force should make his own.

XXX “With these, and words like these, I moved the peer, When I such puis­sance in my­self es­pied; And him so con­trite made, in desert drear, Was nev­er seen a saint more mor­ti­fied. Be­fore my feet the dole­ful cav­alier Fell down, and snatched a poniard from his side; Which, he protest­ed, I par­force should take, And for so foul a sin my vengeance slake.

XXXI “To push my mighty vic­to­ry to an end I scheme, when him I see in such dis­tress, And give him hopes he may even yet pre­tend That I de­served­ly his love should bless, If he his an­cient er­ror will amend, Will of his realm my fa­ther re­pos­sess, And will in fu­ture time de­serve my charms By love and ser­vice, not by force of arms.

XXXII “So promised he to do; and set me free, And let me, as I came, un­touched, de­part; Nor even to kiss my lips he ven­tured; see If he is yoked se­cure­ly, if his heart Love has well touched with the de­sire of me, If he for him need feath­er oth­er dart! He seeks the Ar­me­ni­an, why by pact should take What­ev­er spoil the con­quer­ing armies make;

XXXI­II “And him, as best he might, would fain per­suade To leave to Ly­dia’s monarch his do­main, Up­on whose wast­ed lands his host had preyed, And rest con­tent with his Ar­me­ni­an reign. — He would not hear of this (the monarch said, With cheers with fury swolen) nor would re­frain From press­ing Ly­dia’s king with armed band, So long as he pos­sessed a palm of land;

XXXIV “And if the knight, when a vile wom­an sues, His pur­pose shift, let him the evil bear: He will not, for the war­rior’s ask­ing, lose What he has hard­ly con­quered in a year. Al­ces­tes to the king his suit re­news, And next com­plains, that he re­jects his prayer. At length the Thra­cian fires, and threat­ens high, By love or force the monarch shall com­ply.

XXXV “So kin­dling anger waxed be­tween the two, It urged them from ill words to wors­er deed: Up­on the king his sword Al­ces­tes drew; Though thou­sands aid the monarch in his need, And, in de­spite of all, their sovereign slew; And made that day as well the Ar­me­ni­an bleed, Backed by the Thra­cians’ and Cili­cians’ aid And oth­er fol­low­ers, by the war­rior paid.

XXXVI “His con­quest he pur­sued, and, at his cost, With­out ex­pense to us, in less than one Short month, the king­dom by my fa­ther lost Re­stored; and, to re­pair the mis­chief done, (Be­side spoil giv­en) he con­quered with his host, — Tax­ing or tak­ing what his arms had won — Ar­me­nia and Cap­pado­cia which con­fine; And scow­ered Hyr­ca­nia to the dis­tant brine.

XXXVII “Him not to greet with tri­umphs, but to slay, Re­turn­ing from that war­fare, we in­tend; But, fear­ing fail­ure, our de­sign de­lay In that we find too many him be­friend. Feed­ing him aye with hope from day to day, I for the Thra­cian war­rior love pre­tend: But first de­clare my will that he op­pose And prove his val­our on our oth­er foes;

XXXVI­II “And him, now sole, now ill ac­com­pa­nied, On strange and per­ilous em­prize I speed; Where­in a thou­sand knights might well have died; But all things hap­pi­ly with him suc­ceed: For Vic­to­ry was ev­er on his side; And oft with hor­rid foes of mon­strous breed, With Gi­ants and with Lestrigons, who brought Dam­age in our do­mains, the war­rior fought.

XXXIX Nor Juno, nor Eu­rys­theus, in such chase Ev­er renowned Al­cides vext so sore, In Ery­manth, Ne­maea, Ler­na, Thrace, Ae­to­lia, Africa, by Ty­ber’s shore, By Ebro’s sun­ny bank, or oth­er place, As (hid­ing mur­der­ous hate, while I im­plore) I ex­er­cise my lover still in strife, With the same fell de­sign up­on his life.

XL “Un­able to achieve my first in­tent, I on a scheme of no less mis­chief fall: Through me, all deemed his friends by him are shent, Who thus bring down on him the hate of all. The Thra­cian lead­er nev­er more con­tent Than to obey, what­ev­er be the call, Is at my bid­ding ev­er prompt to smite, With­out re­gard­ing who or what the wight.

XLI “When I per­ceive that, through the war­rior’s mean, Ex­tin­guished is my fa­ther’s ev­ery foe; And, con­quered by him­self, that knight is seen — Friend­less, through us — I now the masque forego; What I, from him, be­neath a flat­ter­ing mien, Had hith­er­to con­cealed, I plain­ly show; — What deep and dead­ly hate by bo­som fired, And that I but to work his death de­sired.

XLII “Then, think­ing if such course I should pur­sue, That pub­lic shame would still the deed at­tend, (For men too well my obli­ga­tions knew, And would be prompt my cru­el­ty to shend.) Meseemed enough to drive him from my view, So that he should no more my eyes of­fend: Nor would I more ad­dress or see the peer, Nor let­ter would re­ceive or mes­sage hear.

XLI­II “This my in­grat­itude in him such pain At length pro­duced, that mas­tered by his woe, Af­ter en­treat­ing mer­cy long in vain, He sick­ened sore and sank be­neath the blow. For pain which fits my sin, dark fumes now stain My cheek, and with salt rheum mine eyes o’er­flow. Thus in eter­nal tor­ment shall I dwell; For sav­ing mer­cy helpeth not in hell.”

XLIV Since wretched Ly­dia spake no more, the peer Would fain dis­cern if more in tor­ment lay; But, those false in­grates’ curse, the dark­ness drear So waxed be­fore him, and ob­scured the way, That not one inch ad­vanced the cav­alier; Nay, back par­force re­turns that war­rior; nay, Him­self from that in­creas­ing smoke to save, Makes for the mouth of the dis­as­trous cave.

XLV The mo­tion of his quick­ly shift­ing feet More savours of a run than walk or trot. Thus mount­ing the as­cent in swift re­treat, As­tolpho sees the out­let of the grot; Where, through the dark­ness of that dis­mal seat And those foul fumes, a dawn of day­light shot; He from the cav­ern, sore­ly pained and pined, Is­sues at last, and leaves the smoke be­hind;

XLVI And next to bar the way against that band, Whose greedy bel­lies so for vict­ual crave, Picks stones, and trees lays lev­el with his brand, Which charged with pep­per or amo­mum wave; And what might seem a hedge, with busy hand, As best he can, con­structs be­fore the cave; And so suc­ceeds in block­ing that re­pair, The harpies shall no more re­vis­it air.

XLVII While in that cave As­tolpho did re­main, The fumes that from the sable pitch arose, Not on­ly what ap­peared to sight did stain; But even so searched the flesh be­neath his clothes, He sought some cleans­ing stream, long sought in vain; But found at length a limpid till, which rose Out of a liv­ing rock, with­in that wood, And bathed him­self all over in the flood.

XLVI­II Then backed the grif­fin-​horse, and soared a flight Where­by to reach that moun­tain’s top he schemes, Which lit­tle dis­tant, with its haughty height, From the moon’s cir­cle good As­tolpho deems; And, such de­sire to see it warms the knight, That he as­pires to heav­en, nor earth es­teems. Through air so more and more the war­rior strains, That he at last the moun­tain-​sum­mit gains.

XLIX Here sap­phire, ru­by, gold, and topaz glow, Pearl, jacinth, chryso­lite and di­amond lie, Which well might pass for nat­ural flow­ers which blow, Catch­ing their colour from that kind­ly sky. So green the grass! could we have such be­low, We should pre­fer it to our emer­ald’s dye. As fair the fo­liage of those pleas­ant bow­ers! Whose trees are ev­er filled with fruit and flow­ers.

L War­ble the wan­ton birds in ver­dant brake, Azure, and red, and yel­low, green and white. The qua­ver­ing rivulet and qui­et lake In limpid hue sur­pass the crys­tal bright. A breeze, which with one breath ap­pears to shake, Aye, with­out fill or fall, the fo­liage light, To the quick air such live­ly mo­tion lends, That Day’s op­pres­sive noon in nought of­fends;

LI And this, mid fruit and flow­er and ver­dure there, Ev­er­more steal­ing divers odours, went; And made of those mixt sweets a med­ley rare, Which filled the spir­it with a calm con­tent. In the mid plain arose a palace fair, Which seemed as if with liv­ing flames it brent. Such pass­ing splen­dour and such glo­ri­ous light Shot from those walls, be­yond all us­age bright.

LII Thith­er where those trans­par­ent walls ap­pear, Which cov­er more than thir­ty miles in mea­sure, At ease and slow­ly moved the cav­alier, And viewed the love­ly re­gion at his leisure; And deemed — com­pared with this — that sad and drear, And seen by heav­en and na­ture with dis­plea­sure, Was the foul world, where­in we dwell be­low: So jo­cund this, so sweet and fair in show!

LI­II As­tound with won­der, paused the ad­ven­tur­ous knight, When to that shin­ing palace he was nigh, For, than the car­bun­cle more crim­son bright, It seemed one pol­ished stone of san­guine dye. O mighty won­der! O Daedalian sleight! What fab­ric up­on earth with this can vie? Let them hence­forth be silent, that in sto­ry Ex­alt the world’s sev­en won­ders to such glo­ry!

LIV An el­der, in the shin­ing en­trance-​hall Of that glad house, to­wards As­tolpho prest; Crim­son his waist­coat was, and white his pall; Ver­mil­lion seemed the man­tle, milk the vest: White was that an­cient’s hair, and white with­al The bushy beard de­scend­ing to his breast; And from his rev­erend face such glo­ry beamed, Of the elect of Par­adise he seemed.

LV He, with glad vis­age, to the pal­adin, Who humbly, from his sell had light­ed, cries: “O gen­tle baron, that by will di­vine Have soared to this ter­res­tri­al par­adise! Al­beit nor you the cause of your de­sign, Nor you the scope of your de­sire sur­mise, Be­lieve, you not with­out high mys­tery steer Hith­er­ward, from your arc­tic hemi­sphere.

LVI “You for in­struc­tion, how to fur­nish aid To Charles and to the Church in ut­most need, With me to coun­sel, hith­er are con­veyed, Who with­out coun­sel from such dis­tance speed. But, son, as­cribe not you the jour­ney made To wit or worth; nor through your winged steed, Nor through your vir­tu­ous bu­gle had ye thriv­en, But that such help­ing grace from God was giv­en.

LVII “We will dis­course at bet­ter leisure more, And you what must be done shall af­ter hear; But you that, through long fast, must hunger sore, First brace your strength with us, with ge­nial cheer.” Con­tin­uing his dis­course, that el­der hoar Raised mighty won­der in the cav­alier, When he avouched, as he his name dis­closed, That he THE HOLY GOSPEL, had com­posed;

LVI­II He of our Lord so loved, the blessed John; Of whom a speech among the brethren went, He nev­er should see death, and hence the Son Of God with this re­buke St. Pe­ter shent; In say­ing, “What is it to thee, if one Tar­ry on earth, till I anew be sent?” Al­beit he said not that he should not die, That so he meant to say we plain de­scry.

LIX Trans­lat­ed thith­er, he found com­pa­ny, The pa­tri­arch Enoch, and the mighty seer Elias; nor as yet those saint­ed three Have seen cor­rup­tion, but in gar­den, clear Of earth’s foul air, will joy eter­ni­ty Of spring, till they an­gel­ic trum­pets hear, Sound­ing through heav­en and earth, pro­claim aloud Christ’s sec­ond ad­vent on the sil­very cloud.

LX The holy an­cients to a cham­ber lead, With wel­come kind, the ad­ven­tur­ous cav­alier; And in an­oth­er then his fly­ing steed Suf­fi­cient­ly with good­ly for­age cheer. As­tolpho they with fruits of Eden feed, So rich, that in his judg­ment ‘twould ap­pear, In some sort might our par­ents be ex­cused If, for such fruits, obe­di­ence they re­fused.

LXI When with that dai­ly pay­ment which man owes, Na­ture had been con­tent­ed by the peer, As well of due re­fresh­ment as re­pose, (For all and ev­ery com­fort found he here) And now Au­ro­ra left her an­cient spouse, Not for his many years to her less dear, Ris­ing from bed, As­tolpho at his side The apos­tle, so beloved of God, es­pied.

LXII Much that not law­ful­ly could here be shown, Tak­ing him by the hand, to him he read. “To you, though come from France, may be un­known What there hath hap­pened,” next the apos­tle said; “Learn, your Or­lan­do, for he hath fore­gone The way where­in he was en­joined to tread, Is vis­it­ed of God, that ev­er shends Him whom he loveth best, when he of­fends:

LXI­II “He, your Or­lan­do, at his birth en­dowed With sovereign dar­ing and with sovereign might, On whom, be­yond all us­age, God be­stowed The grace, that weapon him should vain­ly smite, Be­cause he was se­lect­ed from the crowd To be de­fend­er of his Church’s right. As he elect­ed Samp­son, called whilere The Jew against the Philis­tine to cheer;

LX­IV “He, your Or­lan­do, for such gifts has made Un­to his heav­en­ly Lord an ill re­turn: Who left his peo­ple, when most need­ing aid, Then most aban­doned to the hea­thens’ scorn. In­ces­tu­ous love for a fair payn­im maid Had blind­ed so that knight, of grace for­lorn, That twice and more in fell and im­pi­ous strife The count has sought his faith­ful cousin’s life.

LXV “Hence God hath made him mad, and, in this vein, Bel­ly, and breast, and naked flesh ex­pose; And so dis­eased and trou­bled is his brain, That none, and least him­self, the cham­pi­on knows, Neb­uchad­nez­zar whilom to such pain God in his vengeance doomed, as sto­ry shows; Sent, for sev­en years, of sav­age fury full, To feed on grass and hay, like slaver­ing bull.

LXVI “But yet, be­cause the Chris­tian pal­adine Has sinned against his heav­en­ly Mak­er less, He on­ly for three months, by will di­vine, Is doomed to cleanse him­self of his ex­cess. Nor yet with oth­er scope did your de­sign Of wend­ing hith­er the Re­deemer bless, But that through us the mode you should ex­plore, Or­lan­do’s miss­ing sens­es to re­store.

LXVII ” `Tis true to jour­ney fur­ther ye will need, And whol­ly must you leave this nether sphere; To the moon’s cir­cle you I have to lead, Of all the plan­ets to our world most near, Be­cause the medicine, that is fit to speed In­sane Or­lan­do’s cure, is trea­sured here. This night will we away, when over head Her down­ward rays the sil­ver moon shall shed.”

LXVI­II In talk the blest apos­tle is dif­fuse On this and that, un­til the day is worn: But when the sun is sunk i’ the salt sea ooze, And over­head the moon up­lifts her horn, A char­iot is pre­pared, erewhile in use To scow­er the heav­ens, where­in of old was borne From Jew­ry’s misty moun­tains to the sky, Saint­ed Elias, rapt from mor­tal eye.

LX­IX Four good­ly cours­ers next, and red­der far Than flame, to that fair char­iot yokes the sire; Who, when the knight and he well seat­ed are, Col­lects the reins; and heav­en­ward they as­pire. In airy cir­cles swift­ly rose the car, And reached the re­gion of eter­nal fire; Whose heat the saint by mir­acle sus­pends, While through the part­ed air the pair as­cends.

LXX The char­iot, tow­er­ing, threads the fiery sphere, And ris­es thence in­to the lu­nar reign. This, in its larg­er part they find as clear As pol­ished steel, when un­de­filed by stain; And such it seems, or lit­tle less, when near, As what the lim­its of our earth con­tain: Such as our earth, the last of globes be­low, In­clud­ing seas, which round about it flow.

LXXI Here dou­bly waxed the pal­adin’s sur­prize, To see that place so large, when viewed at hand; Re­sem­bling that a lit­tle hoop in size, When from the globe sur­veyed where­on we stand, And that he both his eyes be­hoved to strain, If he would view Earth’s cir­cling seas and land; In that, by rea­son of the lack of light, Their im­ages at­tained to lit­tle height.

LXXII Here oth­er riv­er, lake, and rich cham­paign Are seen, than those which are be­low de­scried; Here oth­er val­ley, oth­er hill and plain, With towns and cities of their own sup­plied; Which man­sions of such mighty size con­tain, Such nev­er he be­fore of af­ter spied. Here spa­cious hold and lone­ly for­est lay, Where nymphs for ev­er chased the pant­ing prey.

LXXI­II He, that with oth­er scope had thith­er soared, Paus­es not all these won­der to pe­ruse: But led by the dis­ci­ple of our Lord, His way to­wards a spa­cious vale pur­sues; A place where­in is won­der­ful­ly stored What­ev­er on our earth be­low we lose. Col­lect­ed there are all things what­soe’er, Lost through time, chance, or our own fol­ly, here.

LXXIV Nor here alone of realm and wealthy dow­er, O’er which aye turns the rest­less wheel, I say: I speak of what it is not in the pow­er Of For­tune to be­stow, or take away. Much fame is here, where­on Time and the Hour, Like wast­ing moth, in this our plan­et prey. Here count­less vows, here prayers un­num­bered lie, Made by us sin­ful men to God on high:

LXXV The lover’s tears and sighs; what time in plea­sure And play we here un­prof­itably spend; To this, of ig­no­rant men the eter­nal leisure, And vain de­signs, aye frus­trate of their end. Emp­ty de­sires so far ex­ceed all mea­sure, They o’er that val­ley’s bet­ter part ex­tend. There wilt thou find, if thou wilt thith­er post, What­ev­er thou on earth be­neath hast lost.

LXXVI He, pass­ing by those heaps, on ei­ther hand, Of this and now of that the mean­ing sought; Formed of swollen blad­ders here a hill did stand, Whence he heard cries and tu­mults, as he thought. These were old crowns of the As­syr­ian land And Ly­di­an — as that pal­adin was taught — Gre­cian and Per­sian, all of an­cient fame; And now, alas! well-​nigh with­out a name.

LXXVII Gold­en and sil­ver hooks to sight suc­ceed, Heaped in a mass, the gifts which courtiers bear, — Hop­ing there­by to pur­chase fu­ture meed — To greedy prince and pa­tron; many a snare, Con­cealed in gar­lands, did the war­rior heed, Who heard, these signs of adu­la­tion were; And in ci­calas, which their lungs had burst, Saw ful­some lays by ve­nal po­ets versed.

LXXVI­II Loves of un­hap­py end in im­agery Of gold or jew­elled bands he saw ex­prest; Then ea­gles’ talons, the au­thor­ity With which great lords their del­egates in­vest: Bel­lows filled ev­ery nook, the fume and fee Where­in the favourites of kings are blest: Giv­en to those Ganymedes that have their hour, And reft, when fad­ed is their ver­nal flow­er.

LXXIX O’er­turned, here ru­ined town and cas­tle lies, With all their wealth: “The sym­bols” (said his guide) “Of treaties and of those con­spir­acies, Which their con­duc­tors seemed so ill to hide.” Ser­pents with fe­male faces, felonies Of coin­ers and of rob­bers, he de­scried; Next bro­ken bot­tles saw of many sorts, The types of servi­tude in sor­ry courts.

LXXX He marks mighty pool of por­ridge spilled, And asks what in that sym­bol should be read, And hears ’twas char­ity, by sick men willed For dis­tri­bu­tion, af­ter they were dead. He passed a heap of flow­ers, that erst dis­tilled Sweet savours, and now noi­some odours shed; The gift (if it may law­ful­ly be said) Which Con­stan­tine to good Sylvester made.

LXXXI A large pro­vi­sion, next, of twigs and lime — Your witcheries, O wom­en! — he ex­plored. The things he wit­nessed, to re­count in rhyme Too te­dious were; were myr­iads on record, To sum the rem­nant ill should I have time. ‘Tis here that all in­fir­mi­ties are stored, Save on­ly Mad­ness, seen not here at all, Which dwells be­low, nor leaves this earth­ly ball.

LXXXII He turns him back, up­on some days and deeds To look again, which he had lost of yore; But, save the in­ter­preter the les­son reads, Would know them not, such dif­fer­ent form they wore. He next saw that which man so lit­tle needs, — As it ap­pears — none pray to Heav­en for more; I speak of sense, where­of a lofty mount Alone sur­past all else which I re­count.

LXXXI­II It was as ’twere a liquor soft and thin, Which, save well corked, would from the vase have drained; Laid up, and trea­sured var­ious flasks with­in, Larg­er or less­er, to that use or­dained. That largest was which of the pal­adin, Anglantes’ lord, the mighty sense con­tained; And from those oth­ers was dis­cerned, since writ Up­on the ves­sel was OR­LAN­DO’S WIT.

LXXXIV The names of those whose wits there­in were pent He thus on all those oth­er flasks es­pied. Much of his own, but with more won­der­ment, The sense of many oth­ers he de­scried, Who, he be­lieved, no dram of theirs had spent; But here, by to­kens clear was sat­is­fied, That scant­ily there­with were they pur­veyed; So large the quan­ti­ty he here sur­veyed.

LXXXV Some waste on love, some seek­ing hon­our, lose Their wits, some, scow­er­ing seas, for mer­chan­dise, Some, that on wealthy lords their hope re­pose, And some, be­fooled by sil­ly sor­ceries; These up­on pic­tures, up­on jew­els those; These on what­ev­er else they high­est prize. As­trologers’ and sophists’ wits mid these, And many a po­et’s too, As­tolpho sees.

LXXXVI Since his con­sent the apos­tle sig­ni­fied Who wrote the ob­scure Apoc­alypse, his own He took, and on­ly to his nose ap­plied, When (it ap­peared) it to its place was gone; And hence­forth, has Sir Turpin cer­ti­fied, That long time sage­ly lived king Otho’s son; Till oth­er er­ror (as he says) again De­prived the gen­tle baron of his brain.

LXXXVII The fullest ves­sel and of am­plest round Which held the wit Or­lan­do erst pos­sessed, As­tolpho took; nor this so light he found, As it ap­peared, when piled among the rest. Be­fore, from those bright spheres, now earth­ward bound, His course is to our low­er orb ad­dressed, Him to a spa­cious palace, by whose side A riv­er ran, con­ducts his holy guide.

LXXXVI­II Filled full of fleeces all its cham­bers were, Of wool, silk, linen, cot­ton, in their hue, Of di­verse dyes and colours, foul and fair. Yarns to her reel from all those fleeces drew, In the out­er porch, a dame of hoary hair. On sum­mer-​day thus vil­lage wife we view, When the new silk is reeled, its filmy twine Wind from the worm, and soak the slen­der line.

LXXXIX A sec­ond dame re­placed the work when done With oth­er; and one bore it off else­where; A third se­lect­ed from the fleeces spun, And min­gled by that sec­ond, foul from fair. “What is this labour?” said the peer to John; And the dis­ci­ple an­swered Otho’s heir, “Know that the Par­cae are those an­cient wives, That in this fash­ion spin your fee­ble lives.

XC “As long as one fleece lasts, life in such wise En­dureth, nor out­lasts it by a thought. For Death and Na­ture have their watch­ful eyes On the hour when each should to his end be brought. The choic­est threads are culled for Par­adise, And, af­ter, for its or­na­ments are wrought; And fash­ioned from the strands of foulest show Are galling fet­ters for the damned be­low.”

XCI On all the fleeces that erewhile were laid Up­on the reel, and culled for oth­er care, The names were graved on lit­tle plates, which made Of sil­ver, or of gold, or iron, were, These piled in many heaps he next sur­veyed; Whence an old man some skins was seen to bear, Who, seem­ing­ly un­wea­ried, hur­ried sore, His rest­less way re­trac­ing ev­er­more.

XCII That el­der is so nim­ble and so prest, That he seems born to run; he bears away Out of those heaps by lap­fulls in his vest The tick­ets that the dif­fer­ent names dis­play. Where­fore and whith­er he his steps ad­drest, To you I shall in oth­er can­to say, If you, in sign of plea­sure, will at­tend, With that kind au­di­ence ye are wont to lend.