Orlando Furioso

CANTO 36

AR­GU­MENT While with the fierce Marphisa at de­spite Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter wages fierce af­fray, One and the oth­er host en­gage in fight. With Bradamant Rogero wends his way. With oth­er war dis­turbs their great de­light Marphisa bold; but when that mar­tial may Has for her broth­er rec­og­nized the peer, They end their ev­ery strife with joy­ous cheer.

I Where’er they be, all hearts of gen­tle strain Still can­not choose but cour­tesy pur­sue; For they from na­ture and from habit gain What they hence­forth can nev­er more un­do. Alike the heart that is of churl­ish vein, Where’er it be, its evil kind will shew. Na­ture in­clines to ill, through all her range, And use is sec­ond na­ture, hard to change.

II Among the war­riors of an­tiq­ui­ty Much gen­tle­ness and cour­tesy ap­pear, Virtues but sel­dom seen with us; while we Of evil ways, on all sides, see and hear. Hip­poly­tus, when you, with en­sign­ry Won from the foe, and with his cap­tive gear Adorned our tem­ples; and his gal­leys bore, Laden with prey, to your pa­ter­nal shore;

III All the in­hu­man deeds which wrought by hand Of Moor, or Turk, or Tar­tar ev­er were, (Yet not by the Vene­tians’ ill com­mand, That ev­er­more the praise of jus­tice bear,) Were prac­tised by that foul and evil band Of sol­diers, who their mer­ce­nar­ies are. Of those so many fires not now I tell Which on our farms and pleas­ant places fell.

IV Though a foul vengeance in that blow was meant Main­ly at you, who be­ing at Cae­sar’s side, When Pad­ua by his lea­guer­ing host was pent, ‘Twas known, that oft, through you, was turned aside More than one raven­ing flame, and oft was spent The fire, in fane and vil­lage blaz­ing wide: What time the des­tined mis­chief ye with­stood, As to your in­born cour­tesy seemed good.

V This will I pass, nor their so many more Dis­cour­te­ous and de­spi­teous do­ings tell, Save one alone, where­at from rock-​stone hoar Whene’er the tale is told warm tears might well. That day you sent your fam­ily be­fore, Thith­er, my lord, where, un­der omens fell, Your foes in­to a well pro­tect­ed seat, Aban­don­ing their barks, had made re­treat.

VI As Hec­tor and Ae­neas, mid the flood, Fire to the band­ed fleet of Greece ap­plied, I Her­cules and Alexan­der viewed, Urged by too sovereign ar­dour, side by side, Spurring be­fore all oth­ers in their mood, Even with­in the hos­tile ram­parts ride; And prick so far, the sec­ond ’scaped with pain, And on the fore­most closed the op­pos­ing train.

VII Fer­uffine ’scaped, the good Can­tel­mo left, What coun­sel, So­ra’s duke, was thine, what heart, When thy bold son thou saw’st, of helm bereft, Amid a thou­sand swords, when — dragged apart — Thou saw’st his young head from his shoul­ders cleft, A ship­board, on a plank? I, on my part, Mar­vel, that see­ing but the mur­der done, Slew thee not, as the faul­chion slew thy son.

VI­II Cru­el Sclavo­ni­an! say, whence hast thou brought Thy ways of war­fare? By what Scythi­an rite To slay the help­less pris­on­er is it taught, Who yields his arms, nor fends him­self in fight? Was it a crime he for his coun­try fought? Ill up­on thee the sun be­stows his light. Re­morse­less aera, which hast filled the page With Atreus’, Tan­ta­lus’, Thyestes’ rage!

IX Bar­bar­ian! thou madest short­er by the head The bold­est of his age, on whom did beam The sun ‘twixt pole and pole, ‘twixt In­dus’ bed And where he sinks in Ocean’s west­ern stream; Whose years and beau­ty might have pity bred In An­thro­poph­agus, in Polypheme; Not thee; that art in wicked­ness out­done By any Cy­clops, any Lestrigon.

X I ween, mid war­riors in the days of yore, No such ex­am­ple was; they all, in field, Were full of gen­tle­ness and cour­te­ous lore, Nor against con­quered foe their bo­som steeled. Not on­ly gen­tle Bradamant for­bore To harm the knights whom, smit­ten on the shield, Her lance un­horsed; but for the van­quished crew De­tained their steeds, that they might mount anew.

XI I of that la­dy fair, of mick­le might, Told you above, how she had over­thrown Ser­pen­tine of the Star in sin­gle fight, Grando­nio and Fer­rau, and then up­on Their cours­ers had re­placed each baf­fled knight. I told more­over how the third was gone Rogero to de­fy to the ca­reer, Up­on her call, who seemed a cav­alier.

XII Rogero heard the call in joy­ous vein, And bade his arms be brought; now while in view Of Agra­mant he donned the plate and chain, Those lords the for­mer ques­tion moved anew; Who was the knight, that on the mar­tial plain The man­age of the lance so quaint­ly knew? And of Fer­rau, who spake with him whilere, Craved, if to him was known that cav­alier.

XI­II “Be ye as­sured,” to them Fer­rau replied, “He is not one of those I hear you cite To me (for I his open face de­scried). Ri­nal­do’s youth­ful broth­er seemed the knight. But since his doughty val­our I have tried, And wot not such is Richard­et­to’s might, I ween it is his sis­ter, who, I hear, Re­sem­bles much in mien that mar­tial peer.

XIV “The damsel equals well, so Ru­mour tells, Ri­nal­do, and ev­ery pal­adin in fray. But broth­er she and cousin both ex­cels, Mea­sured by that which I have seen to-​day.” Hear­ing him, while up­on her praise he dwells, As the sky red­dens with the morn­ing ray, Rogero’s face is flushed with crim­son hue, And his heart throbs, nor knows he what to do.

XV Stung, at these tid­ings, by the amorous dart — With­in, new fire in­flames the cav­alier; And strait, to­geth­er with the burn­ing smart, Shoots through his bones a chill, pro­duced by fear; Fear, that new wrath had sti­fled in her heart That mighty love, where­with she burned whilere. Con­fused he stands, ir­res­olute and slow, And un­de­cid­ed if to stay or go.

XVI Now fierce Marphisa, who was there, and prest By huge de­sire to meet the stranger wight, And armed with­al (for, save in iron vest, Her sel­dom would you find by day or night). Hear­ing Rogero is in ar­mour drest, Fear­ing to lose the hon­our of the fight, If first that cham­pi­on with the stranger vies; Thinks to pre­vent the youth and win the prize.

XVII She leapt up­on her horse, and thith­er hied Where Ay­mon’s daugh­ter on the list­ed plain, With pal­pi­tat­ing heart, up­on her side, Wait­ed Rogero; whom the damsel fain Would make her pris­on­er, and but schemed to guide Her lance in mode the stripling least to pain. Marphisa from the city por­tal fares, And on her gal­lant helm a phoenix wears.

XVI­II Whether the maid would pub­lish, in her pride, That she was sin­gle in the world, for might; Or whether by that sym­bol sig­ni­fied, That she would live, ex­empt from bridal rite. Her close­ly Ay­mon’s mar­tial daugh­ter eyed; When see­ing not those fea­tures, her de­light, She craves the damsel’s name be­fore they move, And hears that it is she who joys her love:

XIX Or rather she, that gen­tle la­dy thought, Had joyed her love; and whom she hat­ed so, Her to Death’s door her anger would have brought, Un­less she venged her sor­row on the foe. She wheeled her cours­er round, with fury fraught, Less with de­sire to lay her ri­val low, Than with the lance to pierce her in mid breast, And put her ev­ery jeal­ousy at rest.

XX Par­force to ground must go the roy­al maid, To prove it hard or soft the list­ed plain, And be with such un­wont­ed scorn ap­paid, That she is near­ly mad­dened by dis­dain. Scarce was she thrown, be­fore her tren­chant blade She bared, and hur­ried to avenge the stain. Cried Ay­mon’s daugh­ter, no less proud of heart, “What art thou do­ing? Thou my pris­on­er art.”

XXI “Though I have cour­tesy for oth­ers, none” (She said) “from me, Marphisa, shalt thou find. Since ev­er­more I hear of thee, as one To pride and ev­ery churl­ish­ness in­clined.” Marphisa, at these words, was heard to groan, As roars in some sea-​rock the pris­oned wind. She screamed an an­swer; but its sense was drowned (Such rage con­fused that damsel) in the sound.

XXII She whirls this while her faul­chion, and would fain Wound horse or rid­er in the paunch or breast; But Ay­mon’s watch­ful daugh­ter turns the rein; And on one side her cours­er leaps; pos­sest With fu­ri­ous anger and with fierce dis­dain, She at her op­po­site her lance ad­drest; And hard­ly touched the damsel, ere, as­tound, Marphisa fell, re­versed up­on the ground.

XXI­II Scarce down, Marphisa start­ed from the plain, In­tent fell mis­chief with her sword to do, Bradamant couched her gold­en spear again, And yet again the damsel over­threw. Yet Bradamant, though blest with might and main, Was not so much the stronger of the two As to have flung the maid in ev­ery just, But that such pow­er was in the lance’s thrust.

XXIV This while some knights (some knights up­on our side, I say) forth is­su­ing from the city, go To­wards the field of strife, which did di­vide The squadrons, here and there, of ei­ther foe — Not half a league of one an­oth­er wide — See­ing their knight such mighty prowess show; Their knight, but whom no oth­er­wise they knew Than as a war­rior of the Chris­tian crew.

XXV Troy­ano’s gen­er­ous son, who had es­pied This band ap­proach­ing to the city-​wall, For due de­fence would ev­ery means pro­vide, And ev­ery per­il, ev­ery case fore­stall: And or­ders many to take arms, who ride Forth from the ram­parts, at the monarch’s call. With them Rogero goes, in ar­mour cased, Balked of the bat­tle by Marphisa’s haste.

XXVI The en­am­oured youth, with beat­ing heart, in­tent, Stood by, the is­sue of the just to view. For his dear cousin fear­ing the event, In that he well Marphisa’s val­our knew; — At the be­gin­ning I would say — when, bent On mis­chief, fierce­ly closed the fu­ri­ous two: But when that du­el’s turn the stripling eyes, He stands amazed and stupid with sur­prize;

XXVII And when he saw un­fin­ished was the fight, At the first on­set, like the justs whilere, Mis­doubt­ing some strange ac­ci­dent, in sprite, Sore vexed, this while re­mained the cav­alier. To ei­ther maid wished well that youth­ful knight; For both were loved, but not alike were dear. For this the stripling’s love was fury, fire; For that ’twas rather fond­ness than de­sire.

XXVI­II If so Rogero could with hon­our do, He will­ing­ly the war­riors would di­vide; But his com­pan­ions, in the fear to view Vic­to­ry with King Charles’s knight abide, Es­teem­ing him the bet­ter of the two, Break in be­tween and turn their arms aside; Up­on the oth­er part, the Chris­tian foes Ad­vance, and both di­vi­sions come to blows.

XXIX On this side and that oth­er, rings the alarm, Which in those camps is sound­ed ev­ery day, Bid­ding the un­mount­ed mount, the un­armed arm, And all their stan­dards seek, with­out de­lay, Where, un­der sep­arate flags, the squadrons swarm, More than one shrilling trump is heard to bray; And as their rat­tling notes the rid­ers call, Rous­ing the foot, beat drum and ata­ball.

XXX As fierce as thought could think, ‘twixt ei­ther host Kin­dled the fell and san­guinary fray. The dar­ing damsel, fair Dor­dona’s boast, Sore vexed and trou­bled, that in the af­fray She can­not com­pass what she cov­ets most, — Marphisa with aveng­ing steel to slay, — Now here, not there, amid the med­ley flies, Hop­ing to see the youth for whom she sighs.

XXXI By the ea­gle ar­gent on the shield of blue She rec­og­nized Rogero, mid the rest. With eyes and thought in­tent, she stops to view The war­rior’s man­ly shoul­ders and his breast, Fair face and move­ments full of grace­ful shew; And then the maid, with mick­le spite pos­sest, Think­ing an­oth­er joys the stripling’s love, Thus speaks, as sovereign rage and fury move.

XXXII “Shall then an­oth­er kiss those lips so bright And sweet, if those fair lips are lost to me? Ah! nev­er oth­er shall in thee de­light; For it not mine, no oth­er’s shalt thou be. Rather than die alone and of de­spite, I with this hand will slay my­self and thee, That if I lose thee here, at least in hell With thee I to eter­ni­ty may dwell.

XXXI­II “If thou slay’st me, there is good rea­son, I The com­fort too of vengeance should ob­tain; In that all edicts and all eq­ui­ty The death of him that caus­es death or­dain; Nor, since you just­ly, I un­just­ly, die, Deem I that thine is equal to my pain. I him who seeks my life, alas! shall spill, Thou her that loves and wor­ships thee wouldst kill.

XXXIV “My hand, why hast thou not the hardi­ment To rive with steel the bo­som of my foe, That me so many times to death has shent, Un­der the faith of love, in peace­ful show; Him, who to take my life can now con­sent, Nor even have pity of my cru­el woe? Dare, valiant heart, this im­pi­ous man to slay, And let his death my thou­sand deaths ap­pay!”

XXXV So said, she spurred at him amid the throng; But, first — “De­fend thee, false Rogero!” — cried. “No more, if I have pow­er, in spoil and wrong, Done to a vir­gin heart, shalt thou take pride.” Hear­ing that voice the hos­tile ranks among, He deems — and tru­ly deems — he hears his bride; Whose voice the youth re­mem­bers in such wise, That mid a thou­sand would he rec­og­nize.

XXXVI Her fur­ther mean­ing well did he di­vine, Ween­ing that him she in that speech would blame, For hav­ing broke their pact; and — with de­sign, The oc­ca­sion of his fail­ure to pro­claim, — Of his de­sire for par­ley made a sign: But she, with vi­zor closed, al­ready came, Rag­ing and grieved, in­tent, with venge­ful hand, To fling the youth; nor hap­ly up­on sand.

XXXVII Rogero, when he saw her so of­fend­ed, Fixed him­self firm­ly in his arms and seat, He rests his lance, but holds the stave sus­pend­ed, So that it shall not harm her when they meet, She that to smite and pierce the Child in­tend­ed, Piti­less, and in­flamed with fu­ri­ous heat, Has not the courage, when she sees him near, To fling, or do him out­rage with the spear.

XXXVI­II Void of ef­fect, ’tis thus their lances go; And it is well; since Love with burn­ing dart, Tilt­ing this while at one and the oth­er foe, Has lanced the en­am­oured war­riors in mid-​heart. Un­able at the Child to aim her blow, The la­dy spent her rage in oth­er part, And mighty deeds achieved, which fame will earn, While over­head the cir­cling heav­ens shall turn.

XXXIX Above three hun­dred men in that af­fray In lit­tle space by her dis­mount­ed lie, Alone that war­like damsel wins the day; From her alone the Moor­ish peo­ple fly. To her Rogero, cir­cling, threads his way, And says: “Un­less I speak with you I die. Hear me, for love of heav­en! — what done I done, Alas! that ev­er mine ap­proach ye shun?”

XL As when soft south­ern breezes are un­pent, Which with a tepid breath from sea­ward blow, The snows dis­solve, and tor­rents find a vent, And ice, so hard erewhile, is seen to flow; At those en­treaties, at that brief lament, Ri­nal­do’s sis­ter’s heart is soft­ened so; Forth­with com­pas­sion­ate and pi­ous grown; Which anger fain had made more hard than stone.

XLI Would she not, could she not, she nought replied, But spurred aslant the ready Ra­bi­cane, And, sign­ing to Rogero, rode as wide As she could wend from that em­bat­tled train; Then to a shel­tered val­ley turned aside, Where­in em­bo­somed was a lit­tle plain. In the mid lawn a wood of cy­press grew, Whose saplings of one stamp ap­peared to view.

XLII With­in that thick­et, of white mar­ble wrought, Is a proud mon­ument, and new­ly made; And he that makes en­quiry, here is taught In few brief vers­es who there­in is laid. But of those lines, me­thinks, took lit­tle thought, Fair Bradamant, ar­riv­ing in that glade. Rogero spurred his cours­er, and pur­sued And over­took that damsel in the wood.

XLI­II But turn we to Marphisa, that anew Dur­ing this space was seat­ed on her steed, And sought again the valiant cham­pi­on, who At the first on­set cast her on the mead; And saw, how from the min­gling host with­drew Rogero, af­ter that strange knight to speed; Nor deemed the youth pur­sued in love; she thought He but to end their strife and quar­rel sought.

XLIV She pricks her horse be­hind the two, and gains, Well nigh as soon as they, that val­ley; how Her com­ing thith­er ei­ther lover pains, Who lives and loves, un­taught by me, may know: But sor­est vext sad Bradamant re­mains; Be­hold­ing her whence all her sor­rows flow. Who shall per­suade the damsel but that love For young Rogero brings her to that grove?

XLV And him per­fid­ious she anew did name. — “Per­fid­ious, was it not enough (she said) That I should know thy per­fidy from fame, But must the wit­ness of thy guilt be made? I wot, to drive me from thee is thine aim; And I, that thy de­sires may be ap­paid, Will die; but strive, in yield­ing up my breath, She too shall die, the oc­ca­sion of my death.”

XLVI An­gri­er than ven­omed viper, with a bound, So say­ing, she up­on Marphisa flies; And plants so well the spear, that she, as­tound, Fell back­ward on the cham­paigne in such guise, Nigh half her helm was buried in the ground: Nor was the damsel tak­en by sur­prise: Nay, did her best the en­counter to with­stand; Yet with her helmed head she smote the sand.

XLVII Bradamant who will die, or in that just Will put to death Marphisa, rages so, She has no mind again with lance to thrust, Again that mar­tial maid to over­throw: But thinks her head to sev­er from the bust, Where it half buried lies, with mur­der­ous blow: Away the en­chant­ed lance that damsel flings, Un­sheathes the sword, and from her cours­er springs.

XLVI­II But is too slow with­al; for on her feet She finds Marphisa, with such fierce dis­dain In­flamed, at be­ing in that sec­ond heat So eas­ily re­versed up­on the plain, She hears in vain ex­claim, in vain en­treat, Rogero, who be­holds their strife with pain. So blind­ed are the pair with spite and rage, That they with des­per­ate fury bat­tle wage.

XLIX At half-​sword’s en­gage the strug­gling foes; And — such their stub­born mood — with short­ened brand They still ap­proach, and now so fierce­ly close, They can­not choose but grap­ple, hand to hand. Her sword, no longer need­ful, each fore­goes; And ei­ther now new means of mis­chief planned. Rogero both im­plores with earnest suit: But sup­pli­cates the twain with lit­tle fruit.

L When he en­treaties un­avail­ing found, The youth pre­pared by force to part the two; Their poniards snatched away, and on the ground, Be­neath a cy­press-​tree, the dag­gers threw. When they no weapons have where­with to wound, With prayer and threat, he in­ter­feres anew: But vain­ly; for, since bet­ter weapons lack, Each oth­er they with fists and feet at­tack.

LI Rogero ceased not from his task; he caught, By hand or arm, the fierce­ly strug­gling pair, Till to the ut­most pitch of fury wrought The fell Marphisa’s an­gry pas­sions were. She, that this am­ple world es­teemed at nought, Of the Child’s friend­ship had no fur­ther care. Plucked from the foe, she ran to seize her sword, And fas­tened next up­on that youth­ful lord.

LII “Like a dis­cour­te­ous man and churl ye do, Rogero, to dis­turb an­oth­er’s fight; A deed (she cried) this hand shall make ye rue, Which I in­tend, shall van­quished both.” The knight Sought fierce Marphisa’s fury to sub­due With gen­tle speech; but full of such de­spite He found her, and in­flamed with such dis­dain, All par­ley was a waste of time and pain.

LI­II At last his faul­chion young Rogero drew; For ire as well had flushed that cav­alier: Nor is it my be­lief, that ev­er shew Athens or Rome, or city what­soe’er Wit­nessed, which ev­er so re­joiced the view, As this re­joic­es, as this sight is dear To Bradamant, when, through their strife dis­placed, Ev­ery sus­pi­cion from her breast is chased.

LIV Bradamant took her sword, and to de­scry The du­el of those cham­pi­ons stood apart. The god of war, de­scend­ed from the sky, She deemed Rogero, for his strength and art: If he seemed Mars, Marphisa to the eye Seemed an in­fer­nal Fury, on her part. ‘Tis true, that for a while the youth­ful knight Against that damsel put not forth his might.

LV He knew the virtues of that weapon well, Such proof there­of the knight erewhile had made. Where’er it falls par­force is ev­ery spell An­nulled, or by its stronger virtue stayed. Hence so Rogero smote, it nev­er fell Up­on its edge or point, but still the blade De­scend­ed flat: he long this rule ob­serves; Yet once he from his pa­tient pur­pose swerves.

LVI In that, a mighty stroke Marphisa sped, Mean­ing to cleave the brain­pan of her foe: He raised the buck­ler to de­fend his head, And the sword smote up­on its bird of snow, Nor broke nor bruised the shield, by spell best­ed; But his arm rang as­tound­ed by the blow; Nor aught but Hec­tor’s mail the sword had stopt, Whose fu­ri­ous blow would his left arm have lopt;

LVII And had up­on his head de­scend­ed shear, Where­at de­signed to strike the sav­age fair. Scarce his left arm can good Rogero rear; Can scarce the shield and bla­zoned bird up­bear. All pity he casts off, and ‘twould ap­pear As in his eyes a light­ed torch did glare. As hard as he can smite, he smites; and woe To thee, Marphisa, if he plants the blow!

LVI­II I can­not tell you tru­ly in what wise, That faul­chion swerves against a cy­press-​stock, In such close-​ser­ried ranks the saplings rise, Buried above a palm with­in the block. As this the moun­tain and the plain that lies Be­neath it, with a fu­ri­ous earth­quake rock; And from that mar­ble mon­ument pro­ceeds A voice, that ev­ery mor­tal voice ex­ceeds.

LIX The hor­rid voice ex­claims, “Your quar­rel leave; For ’twere a deed un­just and in­hu­mane, That broth­er should of life his sis­ter reave, Or sis­ter by her broth­er’s hand be slain. Rogero and Marphisa mine, be­lieve! The tale which I de­liv­er is not vain. Seed of one fa­ther, on one womb ye lay; And first to­geth­er saw the light of day.

LX “Gala­ciel­la’s chil­dren are ye, whom She to Rogero, hight the sec­ond, bare. Whose broth­ers, hav­ing, by un­righ­teous doom, Of your un­hap­py sire de­prived that fair, Not heed­ing that she car­ried in her womb Ye, who yet suck­ers of their lin­eage are, Her in a rot­ten car­case of a boat, To founder in mid ocean, set afloat.

LXI “But For­tune, that had des­tined you whilere, And yet un­born, to many a fair em­prize, Your moth­er to that lone­ly shore did steer, Which over­right the sandy Syrtes lies. Where, hav­ing giv­en you birth, that spir­it dear Forth­with as­cend­ed in­to Par­adise. A wit­ness of the piteous case was I, So Heav­en had willed, and such your des­tiny!

LXII “I to the dame as de­scent buri­al gave As could be giv­en up­on that desert sand. Ye, well en­veloped in my vest, I save, And bear to Mount Care­na from the strand; And make a li­oness leave whelps and cave, And is­sue from the wood, with sem­blance bland. Ye, twice ten months, with mick­le fond­ness bred, And from her paps the milky moth­er fed.

LXI­II “Need­ing to quit my home up­on a day, And jour­ney through the coun­try, (as you can Hap­ly re­mem­ber by an Arab clan. Those rob­bers thee, Marphisa, bore away: While young Rogero ’scaped, who bet­ter ran. Be­reaved of thee, they wo­ful loss I wept, And with more watch­ful care thy broth­er kept.

LX­IV “Rogero, if At­lantes watched thee well, While yet he was alive, thou best dost know. I the fixed stars had heard of thee fore­tell, That thou shouldst per­ish by a treach­er­ous foe In Chris­tian land; and still their in­flu­ence fell Was end­ed, laboured to avert the blow; Nor hav­ing pow­er in fine thy will to guide, I sick­ened sore, and of my sor­row died.

LXV “But here, be­fore my death, for in this glade I knew thou should’st with bold Marphisa fight, I with huge stones, amassed by hellish aid, Had this fair mon­ument of mar­ble dight; And I to Charon with loud out­cries said; I would not he should hence con­vey my sprite, Till here, pre­pared in dead­ly fray to strive, Rogero and his sis­ter should ar­rive.

LXVI “Thus has my spir­it for this many a day Wait­ed thy com­ing in these beau­teous groves; So be no more to jeal­ous fears a prey, O Bradamant, be­cause Rogero loves. But me to quit the cheer­ful realms of day, And seek the dark­some clois­ters it be­hoves.” Here ceased the voice; which in the Child amazed And those two damsels mighty mar­vel raised.

LXVII Glad­ly a sis­ter in the mar­tial queen Rogero, she in him a broth­er knows; Who now em­brace, nor move her jeal­ous spleen, That with the love of young Rogero glows; And cit­ing what, and when, and where had been Their child­ish deeds, as they to mem­ory rose, In sum­ming up past times, more sure they hold The things where­of the wiz­ard’s spir­it told.

LXVI­II Rogero from Marphisa does not hide, How Bradamant to him at heart is dear; And by what obli­ga­tions he is tied In mov­ing words re­lates the cav­alier; Nor ceas­es till he has, on ei­ther side, Turned to firm love the hate they bore whilere. When, as a sign of peace, and dis­cord chased, They, at his bid­ding, ten­der­ly em­braced.

LX­IX Marphisa to Rogero makes re­quest To say what sire was theirs, and what their strain; And how he died; by band­ed foes op­prest, Or at close bar­ri­ers, was the war­rior slain? And who it was had is­sued the be­hest To drown their moth­er in the stormy main? For of the tale, if ev­er heard be­fore, Lit­tle or noth­ing she in mem­ory bore.

LXX “Of Tro­jan an­ces­tors are we the seed, Through fa­mous Hec­tor’s line,” (Rogero said,) “For af­ter young Astyanax was freed, From fierce Ulysses and the toils he spread, Leav­ing an­oth­er stripling in his stead, Of his own age, he out of Phry­gia fled. Who, af­ter long and wide sea-​wan­der­ing, gained Sici­ly’s shore, and in Messi­na reigned.

LXXI “Part of Cal­abria with­in Faro held The war­rior’s heirs, who af­ter a long run Of suc­ces­sors, de­part­ed thence and dwelled In Mars’ im­pe­ri­al city: more than one Famed king and em­per­or, who that list have swelled, In Rome and oth­er part has filled the throne; And from Con­stan­tius and good Con­stan­tine, Stretched to the son of Pepin, is their line.

LXXII “Rogero, Gam­baron, Buo­vo hence suc­ceed; And that Rogero, sec­ond of the name, Who filled our fruit­ful moth­er with his seed; As thou At­lantes may’st have heard pro­claim. Of our fair lin­eage many a no­ble deed Shalt thou hear blazed abroad by sound­ing Fame.” Of Agolant’s in­road next the stripling told, With Agra­mant and with Al­montes bold;

LXXI­II And how a love­ly daugh­ter, who ex­celled In feats of arms, that king ac­com­pa­nied; So stout she many pal­adins had quelled; And how, in fine, she for Rogero sighed; And for his love against her sire re­belled; And was bap­tized, and was Rogero’s bride; And how a traitor loved (him Bertram name) His broth­er’s wife with an in­ces­tu­ous flame;

LXXIV And coun­try, sire, and brethren two be­trayed, Hop­ing he so the la­dy should have won; How Risa open to the foe he laid, By whom all scathe was on those kins­men done; How Agolant’s two fu­ri­ous sons con­veyed Their moth­er, great with child, and six months gone, Aboard a helm­less boat, and with its charge, In wildest win­ter, turned adrift the barge.

LXXV Valiant Marphisa, with a tran­quil face, Heard young Rogero thus his tale pur­sue, And joyed to be de­scend­ed of a race Which from so fair a font its wa­ters drew: Whence Cler­mont, whence renowned Mon­grana trace Their no­ble line, the mar­tial damsel knew; Bla­zoned through years and cen­turies by Fame, Un­ri­valled, both, in arms of mighty name.

LXXVI When af­ter­wards she from her broth­er knew Agra­mant’s un­cle, sire, and grand­sire fell, In treach­er­ous wise, the first Rogero slew And brought to cru­el pass Gala­cielle, Marphisa could not hear the sto­ry through: To him she cries, “With par­don, what you tell, Broth­er, con­victs you of too foul a wrong, In leav­ing thus our sire un­venged so long.

LXXVII “Could’st thou not in Al­montes and Troy­ane, As dead whilere, your thirsty faul­chion plant, By you those monarch’s chil­dren might be slain. Are you alive, and lives King Agra­mant? Nev­er will you ef­face the shame­ful stain, That ye, so of­ten wronged, not on­ly grant Life to that king, but as your lord obey; Lodge in his court, and serve him for his pay?

LXXVI­II “Here hearti­ly in face of Heav­en I vow, That Christ my fa­ther wor­shipped, to adore; And till I venge my par­ents on the foe To wear this ar­mour, and I will de­plore Your deed, Rogero, and de­plore even now, That you should swell the squadrons of the Moor, Or oth­er fol­low­er of the Moslem faith, Save sword in hand, and to the payn­im’s scathe.”

LXXIX Ah! how fair Bradamant up­lifts again Her vis­age at that speech, re­joiced in sprite! Rogero she ex­horts in earnest vein To do as his Marphisa coun­sels right; And bids him seek the camp of Charle­magne, And have him­self ac­knowl­edged in his sight, Who so reveres and lauds his fa­ther’s worth, He even deems him one un­matched on earth.

LXXX In the be­gin­ning so he should have done, (War­ily young Rogero an­swer made,) But, for the tale was not so ful­ly known, As since, the deed had been too long de­laid. Now, see­ing it was fierce Troy­ano’s son That had be­girt him with the knight­ly blade, He, as a traitor, well might be ab­horred, If he slew one, ac­cept­ed as his lord.

LXXXI But, as to Bradamant whilere, he cries, He will all mea­sures and all means as­say, Where­by some fair oc­ca­sion may arise To leave the king; and had there been de­lay, And he whilere had done in oth­er­wise, She on the Tar­tar king the fault must lay: How sore­ly han­dled that re­doubt­ed foe Had left him in their bat­tle, she must know;

LXXXII And she, that ev­ery day had sought his bed, Must of this truth the fittest wit­ness be. Much up­on this was an­swered, much was said, Be­tween those damsels, who at last agree; And as their last re­solve, last coun­sel read, He should re­join the payn­im’s en­sign­ry, Till he found fair oc­ca­sion to re­sort From Agra­mant’s to Charles’s roy­al court.

LXXXI­II To Bradamant the bold Marphisa cries: “Let him be­gone, nor doubt am I, be­fore Many days pass, will man­age in such wise, That Agra­mant shall be his lord no more.” So says the mar­tial damsel, nor im­plies The se­cret pur­pose which she has in store. Mak­ing his con­gees to the friend­ly twain, To join his king Rogero turns the rein.

LXXXIV When a com­plaint is heard from val­ley near: All now stand lis­ten­ing, to the noise at­tent; And to that plain­tive voice in­cline their ear, A wom­an’s (as ‘twould seem) that makes lament. But I this strain would glad­ly fin­ish here, And, that I fin­ish it, be ye con­tent: For bet­ter things I promise to re­port, If ye to hear an­oth­er strain re­sort.