Orlando Furioso

CANTO 44

AR­GU­MENT Ri­nal­do his sis­ter to the Child hath plight, And to Mar­seilles is with the war­rior gone: And hav­ing crim­soned wide the field in fight, There­in ar­rives King Otho’s valiant son. To Paris thence: where to that squadron bright Is mighty grace and won­der­ous hon­our done. The Child de­parts, re­solved on Leo’s slaugh­ter, To whom Duke Ay­mon had be­trothed his daugh­ter.

I In poor abode, mid pal­try walls and bare, Amid dis­com­forts and calami­ties, Of­ten in friend­ship heart unit­ed are, Bet­ter than un­der roof of lord­ly guise, Or in some roy­al court, be­set with snare, Mid en­vi­ous wealth, and ease, and lux­uries; Where char­ity is spent on ev­ery side, Nor friend­ship, un­less coun­ter­feit, is spied.

II Hence it en­sues that peace and pact be­tween Princes and peers are of such short-​lived wear. To-​day king, pope, and em­per­or leagued are seen, And on the mar­row dead­ly foe­men are. Be­cause such is not as their out­ward mien The heart, the spir­it, that those sovereigns bear. Since, whol­ly care­less as to right or wrong, But to their prof­it look the faith­less throng.

III Though lit­tle prone to friend­ship is that sort, Be­cause with those she loveth not to dwell, Who, be their talk in earnest or in sport, Speak not, ex­cept some coz­en­ing tale to tell; Yet if to­geth­er in some poor re­sort They pris­oned are by For­tune false and fell, What friend­ship is they speed­ily dis­cern; Though years had past, and this was yet to learn.

IV In his re­treat that an­cient eremite Could bind his in­mates with a faster noose, And in true love more firm­ly them unite, Than oth­er could in domes where courtiers use; And so en­dur­ing was the knot and tight, That noth­ing short of death the tie could loose. Be­nig­nant all the her­mit found that crew; Whiter at heart than swans in out­ward hue.

V All kind he found them, and of cour­te­ous lore; Un­taint­ed with in­iq­ui­ty, in wise Of them I paint­ed, and who nev­er­more Go forth, un­less con­cealed in some dis­guise. Of in­juries among them done be­fore All mem­ory, by those com­rades buried lies: Nor could they bet­ter love, if from one womb And from one seed that war­like band had come.

VI Ri­nal­do more than all that lord­ly train Rogero graced and lov­ing­ly ca­ressed; As well be­cause be on the list­ed plain Had proved the peer so strong in mar­tial gest, As that he was more cour­te­ous and hu­mane Than any knight that e’er laid lance in rest: But much more; that to him on many a ground By mighty obli­ga­tion was he bound.

VII The fear­ful risk by Richard­et­to run He knew, and how Rogero him best­ed; What time the Span­ish monarch’s hest was done, And with his daugh­ter he was seized in bed; And how he had de­liv­ered ei­ther son Of good Duke Buo­vo (as erewhile was said) From Berto­la­gi of Ma­ga­nza’s hand, His evil fol­low­ers, and the payn­im band.

VI­II To hon­our and to hold Rogero dear, Him, Sir Ri­nal­do thought, this debt con­strained; And that he could not so have done whilere, The war­like lord was sore­ly grieved and pained; When one for Africk’s monarch couched the spear, And one the cause of roy­al Charles main­tained: Now he Rogero for a Chris­tian knew, What could not then be done he now would do.

IX Wel­come, with end­less prof­fers, on his side, And hon­our he to good Rogero paid. The pru­dent sire that in such kind­ness spied An open­ing made for more, the pass as­sayed: “And noth­ing else re­mains,” that her­mit cried, “Nor will, I trust, my coun­sel be gain­said) But that, con­joined by friend­ship, you shall be Yet faster cou­pled by affin­ity.

X “That from the two bright pro­ge­nies, which none Will equal in il­lus­tri­ous blood be­low, A race may spring, that brighter than the sun Will shine, wher­ev­er that bright sun may glow; And which, when years and ages will have run Their course, will yet en­dure and fair­er show, While in their or­bits burn the heav­en­ly fires: So me, for your in­struc­tion, God in­spires.”

XI And his dis­course pur­su­ing still, the seer So spake, he moves Ri­nal­do by his rede To give his sis­ter to the cav­alier; Al­beit with ei­ther small en­treaties need. To­geth­er with Or­lan­do, Olivi­er The coun­sel lauds, and would that union speed: King Charles and Ay­mon will, he hopes, ap­prove, And France will wel­come wide their wed­ded love.

XII So spake to­geth­er peer and pal­adine: Nor knew that Ay­mon, with King Charles’ con­sent, Un­to the Gre­cian em­per­or Con­stan­tine To give his gen­tle daugh­ter had in­tent; Who for young Leo, of his lofty line The heir and hope, to crave the maid had sent. Such warmth the prais­es of her worth in­spired, With love of her un­seen was Leo fired.

XI­II To him hath Ay­mon an­swered: he, alone, Can­not con­clude there­on in oth­er sort, Un­til he first hath spo­ken with his son, Ri­nal­do, ab­sent then from Charles’s court; Who with winged haste, he deems, will thith­er run, And joy in kins­man of such high re­port; But from the high re­gard he bears his heir, Can nought re­solve till thith­er he re­pair.

XIV Now good Ri­nal­do, of his fa­ther wide, And of the im­pe­ri­al prac­tice know­ing nought, Promised his beau­teous sis­ter as a bride, Up­on his own, as well as Roland’s thought And the oth­ers, har­boured in that cell be­side; But most of all on him the her­mit wrought; And by such mar­riage, ’twas the peer’s be­lief, He could not choose but plea­sure Cler­mont’s chief.

XV That day and night, and of the fol­low­ing day Great part, with that sage monk the war­riors spent; Scarce mind­ful that the crew their com­ing stay, Al­beit the wind blew fair for their in­tent, But these, im­pa­tient at their long de­lay, More than one mes­sage to the war­riors sent; And to re­turn those barons urged so sore, Par­force they part­ed from the her­mit hoar.

XVI The Child who, so long ban­ished, had not stayed From the lone rock, where­on the wa­ters roared, His farewell to that holy mas­ter made, Who taught him the true faith: anew with sword Or­lan­do girt his side, and with the blade, Fron­ti­no and mar­tial Hec­tor’s arms re­stored; As know­ing horse and arms were his whilere, As well as out of kind­ness to the peer;

XVII And, though the en­chant­ed sword with bet­ter right Would have been worn by good Anglantes’ chief, Who from the fear­ful gar­den by his might Had won the blade with mick­le toil and grief, Than by Rogero, who that faul­chion bright Re­ceived with good Fron­ti­no, from the thief, He will­ing­ly there­of, as with the rest, As soon as asked, the war­rior re­pos­sest.

XVI­II The her­mit bless­ings on the band im­plores: They to their bark in fine re­turn; their sails Give to the winds, and to the waves their oars; And such clear skies they have and gen­tle gales, Nor vow nor prayer the pa­tron makes; and moors His pin­nace in the haven of Mar­seilles. There, safe­ly har­boured, let the chiefs re­main, Till I con­duct As­tolpho to that train.

XIX When of that bloody, dear-​brought vic­to­ry The scarce­ly joy­ful tale As­tolpho knew, He, see­ing ev­er­more fair France would be Se­cure from mis­chief from the Moor­ish crew, Home­ward to send the king of Aethiopy De­vised, to­geth­er with his army, through The sandy desert, by the self-​same track, Through which he led them to Bis­er­ta’s sack.

XX Erewhile re­stored, in Afric wa­ters ride Sir Dudon’s ships which did the payn­ims rout; Whose prows (new mir­acle!) and poop, and side, As soon as all their sable crews are out, Are changed anew to leaves; which far and wide, Raised by a sud­den breeze, are blown about; And scat­tered in mid-​air, like such light gear, Go ed­dy­ing with the wind, and dis­ap­pear.

XXI Home, horse and foot, the Nu­bian host ar­raid By squadrons, all, from wast­ed Africk go; But to their king, first, thanks As­tolpho paid, And said, he an eter­nal debt should owe; In that he had in per­son giv­en him aid With all his might and main against the foe. The skins As­tolpho gave them, which con­fined The tur­bid and tem­pes­tu­ous south­ern wind.

XXII I say, en­closed in skins that wind he gave, Which in such fury blows at noon, on high I moves the shift­ing plain in many a wave, And fills the ed­dy­ing sand the trou­bled sky, To car­ry with them, and from scathe to save Their squadrons, lest the dusty whirl­wind fly; And bids them, when ar­rived at home, un­noose The blad­der’s vent, and let their pris­on­ers loose.

XXI­II When they have lofty At­las pass­es won, The hors­es that the Nu­bian rid­ers bear, Turpin re­lates, are changed at once to stone; So that the steeds re­turn to what they were. But it is time the Duke to France was gone; Who hav­ing thus pro­vid­ed, in his care, For the main places in the Moor­ish land, Made the hip­pogryph anew his wings ex­pand;

XXIV He reached Sar­dinia at one flight and shear, Cor­si­ca from Sar­dinia; and then o’er The foam­ing sea his ven­tur­ous course did steer, In­clin­ing some­what left the grif­fin’s soar. In the sea-​marsh­es last his light ca­reer He stopt, on rich Provence’s pleas­ant shore: Where to the hyp­pogryph by him is done What was erewhile en­joined by saint­ed John.

XXV To him the charge did saint­ed John com­mit, When to Provence by that winged cours­er borne, Him nev­er­more with sad­dle or with bit To gall, but let him to his lair re­turn. Al­ready had the plan­et, whith­er flit Things lost on earth, of sound de­prived his horn: For this not on­ly hoarse but mute re­mained, As soon as the holy place As­tolpho gained.

XXVI Thence to Mar­seilles he came; and came the day Or­lan­do, and Ri­nal­do, and Olivi­er Ar­rived there­in, up­on their home­ward way, With good So­bri­no, and the bet­ter peer, Rogero: not so tri­umphs that ar­ray, Touched by the death of him, their com­rade dear, As they for such a glo­ri­ous vic­to­ry won — But for that sad dis­as­ter — would have done.

XXVII Of the kings slain up­on the payn­im part, The news from Sici­ly to Charles were blown, So­bri­no’s fate, and death of Brandi­mart; Nor less of good Rogero had been shown. Charles stood with jo­cund fate and glad­some heart, Re­joic­ing he had from his shoul­ders thrown The in­tol­er­able load where­of the weight Will for long time pre­vent his stand­ing straight.

XXVI­II To hon­our those fair pil­lars that sus­tain The state — the holy em­pire’s cor­ner-​stone — The no­bles of his king­dom Charle­magne Dis­patched, to meet the knights, as far as Saone; And from his city with his wor­thi­est train, King, duke, and her, the part­ner of his throne, Is­sued amid a fair and gor­geous band Of no­ble damsels, up­on ei­ther hand.

XXIX The em­per­or Charles with bright and cheer­ful brow, Lords, pal­adins and peo­ple, kins­men, friends, Fair love to Roland and the oth­ers show. Mon­grana and Cler­mont’s cry the welkin rends. No soon­er, mid that kind and fes­tal show, The in­ter­change of fond em­brace­ments ends, Than Roland and his friends Rogero bring, And mid those lords present him to the king;

XXX And him Rogero of Risa’s son de­clare, And vouch in val­our as his fa­ther’s peer, “Wit­ness­es of his worth our squadrons are, They best can tell his prowess with the spear.” Mean­while, the no­ble and the love­ly pair, Marphisa and gen­tle Bradamant ap­pear. This runs to fold Rogero to her heart; More coy, that oth­er stands somedeal apart.

XXXI The em­per­or bids Rogero mount again, Who from his horse had lit, in rev­er­ence due; And, side by side, with him his cours­er rein; Nor aught omits that monarch which may do The war­rior hon­our, mid his mar­tial train: How the true faith he had em­braced he knew; Of all in­struct­ed by that band be­fore; When first those pal­adins set foot ashore.

XXXII With pomp tri­umphal and with fes­tive cheer The troop re­turns with­in the city-​walls: With leaves and gar­lands green the streets ap­pear, And tapestried all about with gor­geous palls. Of herbs and flow­ers a min­gled rain, where’er They wend, up­on the con­quer­ing squadron falls, Which with full hands from stand and win­dow throw Damsel and dame up­on the knights be­low.

XXXI­II At ev­ery turn, in var­ious places are, Of sud­den struc­ture arch and tro­phy high, Where­on Bis­er­ta’s sack is paint­ed fair, Ru­in and fire, and feat of chival­ry: Scaf­folds, up­raised for dif­fer­ent sports else­where And mer­ri­make and stage-​play meet the eye; And, writ with truth, above, be­low, be­tween, To THE EM­PIRE’S SAVIOURS, ev­ery­where is seen.

XXXIV With sound of shrilling pipe and trum­pet proud, And oth­er fes­tive mu­sic, laugh­ter light, Ap­plause and favour of the fol­low­ing crowd, Which scarce found room, be­girt with dames and knight, The mighty em­per­or, mid those greet­ings loud. Be­fore the roy­al palace did alight: Where many days he feast­ed high in hall His lords, mid tour­ney, mum­mery, mask and ball.

XXXV His son to Ay­mon on a day made known His sis­ter he would make Rogero’s bride; And, be­fore Olivi­er and Mi­lo’s son, Her to the Child by promise had affied; Who think with him that kin­dred is there none Where­with to league them­selves, on any side, For val­our or no­bil­ity of blood, Bet­ter than his; nay, none so pass­ing good.

XXXVI Duke Ay­mon heard his heir with some dis­dain; That, with­out con­cert with him, and alone He dared to plight his daugh­ter, whom he fain Would mar­ry to the Gre­cian em­per­or’s son; And not to him that has no king­ly reign, Nay has not ought that he can call his own; And should not know, how lit­tle no­ble­ness Is val­ued with­out wealth; how virtue less.

XXXVII But Beat­rice, his wife, with more de­spite Ar­raigns her son, and calls him ar­ro­gant; And moves each open way and hid­den sleight To break Rogero’s match with Bradamant; Re­solved to tax her ev­ery means and might To make her em­press of the wide Lev­ant. Firm in his pur­pose is Mon­tal­ban’s lord, Nor will in ought forego his plight­ed word.

XXXVI­II Beat­rice who be­lieves the high­mind­ed fair Is at her hest, ex­horts her to re­ply, Rather than she will be con­strained to pair With a poor knight, she is re­solved to die; Nor, if this wrong she from Ri­nal­do bear Will she re­gard her with a moth­er’s eye: Let her refuse and keep her sted­fast course; For her free will Ri­nal­do can­not force.

XXXIX Silent stands mourn­ful Bradamant, nor dares Mean­while her la­dy-​moth­er’s speech gain­say; To whom such rev­er­ence, and re­spect, she bears, She thinks no choice is left but to obey. Yet a foul fault it in her eyes ap­pears, If what she will not do, she false­ly say: She will not, for she can­not; since above All guid­ance, great or small, is mighty Love.

XL De­ny she dared not, nor yet seem con­tent; So, sighed and spake not; but — when un­con­trolled She could — she gave her se­cret sor­row vent, While from her eyes the tears like bil­lows rolled; A por­tion of the pains that her tor­ment, In­flict­ing on her breast and locks of gold: For this she beat, and those up­tore and brake; And thus she made lament, and thus she spake.

XLI “Ah! shall I will what she wills not, by right More sovereign mis­tress of my will than I? Hers shall I hold so cheap­ly, so to slight A moth­er’s will, my own to sat­is­fy? Alas! what blem­ish is so foul to sight In damsel? What so ill, as to affy My­self to hus­band, reck­less of her will, Which ’tis my du­ty ev­er to ful­fil?

XLII “Wo worth the while! and shall I then to thee By fil­ial love be forced to be un­true, O my Rogero, and sur­ren­der me To a new hope, a new love, and a new De­sire; or rather from those ties break free, From all good chil­dren to good par­ents due; Ob­ser­vance, rev­er­ence cast aside; and mea­sure My du­ty by my hap­pi­ness, my plea­sure?

XLI­II “I know, alas! what I should do; I know That which a du­teous daugh­ter doth be­hove; I know; but what avails it, if not so My rea­son moves me as my sens­es move; If she re­tires be­fore a stronger foe; Nor can I of my­self dis­pose, for Love; Nor think how to dis­pose; so strict his sway; Nor, sav­ing as he dic­tates, do and say?

XLIV “Ay­mon and Beat­rice’s child, the slave Of Love am I; ah! mis­er­able me! I from my par­ents am in hope to have Par­don and pity, if in fault I be: But, if I anger Love, whose prayer shall save Me from his fury, till one on­ly plea, Of mine the God­head shall vouch­safe to hear; Nor doom me dead as soon as I ap­pear?

XLV “Alas! with long and ob­sti­nate pur­suit, To our faith to draw Rogero have I wrought; And fi­nal­ly have drawn; but with what boot, If my fair deed for oth­er’s good be wrought? So year­ly by the bee, whose labour’s fruit Is lost for her, is hive with hon­ey fraught. But I will die ere I the Child for­sake, And oth­er hus­band than Rogero take.

XLVI “If I shall not obey my fa­ther’s hest, Nor moth­ers, I my broth­er’s shall obey, Of greater wis­dom far than them pos­sest; Nor Time hath made that war­rior’s wit his prey; And what he wills by Roland is pro­fest; And, one and the oth­er, on my side are they; A pair more feared and hon­oured far and wide Than all the mem­bers of my house be­side.

XLVII “If them the flow­er of Cler­mont’s no­ble tree, The glo­ry and the splen­dor all ac­count; If all be­lieve our oth­er chival­ry They, more than head o’er­tops the foot, sur­mount; Why would I Ay­mon should dis­pose of me, Rather than good Ri­nal­do and the Count? I should not; so much less, as not affied To Leo, and Rogero’s promised bride.”

XLVI­II If cru­el thoughts the af­flict­ed maid tor­ment, Rogero’s mind en­joys not more re­pose; For al­beit those sad tid­ings have not vent Yet in the city, he the se­cret knows. He o’er his hum­ble for­tunes makes lament Which his en­joy­ing such a good op­pose; As un­en­dowed with rich­es or with reign, Dis­pensed so wide­ly to a worth­less train.

XLIX Of oth­er goods which Na­ture’s hand sup­plies, Or which ac­quired by man’s own study are, He such a por­tion in him­self es­pies, Such and so large was nev­er oth­er’s share: In that, no beau­ty with his beau­ty vies; In that, re­sis­tance to his might is rare. The palm by none from him can chal­lenged be, In re­gal splen­dour, mag­na­nim­ity.

L But they at whose dis­pos­al hon­ours lie, Who give at will, and take away renown; The vul­gar herd; and from the vul­gar I, Ex­cept the pru­dent man, dis­tin­guished none; Nor em­per­or, pope, nor king, is raised more high Than these by scep­tre, mitre, or by crown, Nor save by pru­dence; save by judge­ment, giv­en But to the favoured few by par­tial Heav­en;

LI This vul­gar (to say out what I would say) Which on­ly hon­ours wealth, there­with more smit Than any world­ly thing be­side, nor they Aught heed or aught es­teem, un­graced with it, Be beau­ty or be dar­ing what it may, Dex­ter­ity or prowess, worth, or wit, Or good­ness — yet more vul­gar stands con­fest In that where­of I speak than in the rest.

LII Rogero said: “If Ay­mon is dis­posed An em­press in his Bradamant to see, Let not his treaty be so quick­ly closed With Leo; let a year be grant­ed me: In that, mean­while, I hope, by me de­posed Shall Leo with his roy­al fa­ther be, And I, en­cir­cled with their for­feit crown, Shall be for Ay­mon no un­wor­thy son.

LI­II “But if he give with­out de­lay, as said, His daugh­ter to the son of Con­stan­tine, If to that promise no re­gard be paid, Which good Ri­nal­do and the pal­adine, His cousin, erst be­fore the her­mit made, The Mar­quis Olivi­er and King So­brine, What shall I do? such grievous wrong shall I En­dure, or, rather than en­dure it, die?

LIV “What shall I do? her fa­ther then pur­sue, On whom for vengeance this grave out­rage cries? I heed not that the deed is hard to do, Or if the at­tempt in me is weak or wise: — But pre­sup­pose that, with his kin­dred crew Slain by my hand that un­just el­der dies; This will in noth­ing fur­ther my con­tent; Nay it will whol­ly frus­trate my in­tent.

LV ” `Twas ev­er my in­tent, and still ’tis so To have the love, not ha­tred, of that fair; But should I Ay­mon slay, or bring some woe By plot or prac­tice, on his house or heir, Will she not just­ly hold me as her foe, And me, that foe­man, as her lord for­swear? What shall I do, en­dure such in­jury? Ah! no, by Heav­en! far rather I will die.

LVI “Nay die I will not; but with bet­ter right Shall Leo die, who so dis­turbs my joy; He and his un­just sire; less dear his flight With He­len paid her paramour of Troy; Nor yet in old­er time that foul de­spite, Done to Pros­er­pina, cost such an­noy To bold Pirit­hous, as for her I’ve lost My grief of heart shall son and fa­ther cost.

LVII “Can it be true, my life, that to for­sake Thy cham­pi­on for this Greek should grieve not thee? And could thy fa­ther force thee him to take, Though joined thy brethren with thy sire should be? But ’tis my fear that thou would’st rather make Ac­cord with­al with Ay­mon than with me; And that it seemeth bet­ter in thy sight To wed with Cae­sar than with sim­ple wight.

LVI­II “Can it be true that roy­al name should blind, Im­pe­ri­al ti­tle, pomp and majesty, And taint my Bradamant’s egre­gious mind, Her mighty val­our and her virtue high, So that, as cheap­er, she should cast be­hind Her plight­ed faith, and from her promise fly? Nor soon­er she a foe to Love be made, Than she no longer say, what once she said?”

LIX These things Rogero said, and more be­side, Dis­cours­ing with him­self, and in such strain Of­ten­times the af­flict­ed war­rior cried, That stander-​by o’er­heard the knight com­plain, And more than once his grief was sig­ni­fied To her that was the oc­ca­sion of his pain; Who no less for his cru­el woe, when known, Lament­ed than for sor­rows of her own.

LX But most, of all the sor­rows that were said To vex Rogero, most it works her woe To hear that he af­flicts him­self, in dread Lest for the Gre­cian prince she him forego. Hence this be­lief, this er­ror, from his head To drive, com­fort on the knight be­stow, The trusti­est of her bow­er-​wom­en, one day, She to Rogero bade these words con­vey.

LXI “Rogero, I what I was till death will be; And be more faith­ful, if I can be more: Deals Love in kind­ness or in scorn with me; Hath doubt­ful For­tune good or ill in store; I am a very rock of faith, by sea And winds un­moved, which round about it roar Nor I have changed for calm or storm, nor I Will ev­er change to all eter­ni­ty.

LXII “Soon­er shall file or chis­el made of lead To the rough di­amond var­ious forms im­part, Than any stroke, by fick­le For­tune sped, Or Love’s keen anger, break my con­stant heart: Soon­er re­turn, to Alp, their foun­tain-​head, The trou­bled streams that from its sum­mit part, Than e’er, for change or chances, good or nought, Shall wan­der from its way my sted­fast thought.

LXI­II “All pow­er o’er me have I be­stowed on you, Rogero; and more than oth­ers may di­vine: I know that to a prince whose throne is new Was nev­er feal­ty sworn more true than mine; Nor ev­er sur­er state, this wide world through, By king or keysar was pos­sest than thine. Thou need’st not dig a ditch nor build a tow­er, In fear lest any rob thee of that pow­er.

LX­IV “For if thou hire no aids, as­sault is none, But what there­on shall aye be made in vain; Nor shall it be by any rich­es won: So vile a price no gen­tle heart can gain: Nor by no­bil­ity, nor king­ly crown, That daz­zle so the sil­ly vul­gar train; Nor beau­ty, puis­sant with the weak and light, Shall ev­er make me thee for oth­er slight.

LXV “Thou hast no cause, amid thy griefs, to fear My heart should ev­er bear new im­press more: So deeply is thine im­age graven here, It can­not be re­moved: that my heart’s core Is not of wax is proved; for Love whilere Smote it a hun­dred times, not once, be­fore He by his blows a sin­gle scale dis­placed, What time there­in his hand thine im­age traced.

LXVI “Ivory, gem, and ev­ery hard-​grained stone That best re­sists the grid­ing tool, may break: But, save the form it once hath tak­en, none Will ev­er from the graver’s iron take. My heart like mar­ble is, or thing least prone Be­neath the chis­el’s tren­chant edge to flake: Love this may whol­ly splin­ter, ere he may An­oth­er’s beau­ty in its core en­lay.”

LXVII Oth­er and many words with com­fort rife, And full of love and faith, she said be­side; Which might a thou­sand times have giv­en him life, Al­beit a thou­sand times the knight had died: But, when most clear of the tem­pes­tu­ous strife, In friend­ly port these hopes ap­peared to ride, These hopes a foul and fu­ri­ous wind anew Far from the shel­ter­ing land to sea­ward blew.

LXVI­II In that the gen­tle Bradamant, who fain Would do far more than she hath sig­ni­fied, With wont­ed dar­ing armed her heart again; And bold­ly cast­ing all re­spect aside, One day stood up be­fore King Charle­magne; And, “Sire, if ev­er yet,” the damsel cried, “I have found favour in your eyes for deed Done hereto­fore, de­ny me not its meed;

LX­IX “And I en­treat, be­fore I claim my fee, That you to me your roy­al promise plight, To grant my prayer; and fain would have you see That what I shall de­mand is just and right.” “Thy val­our, damsel dear, de­serves from me The boon where­with thy worth I should re­quite” (Charles an­swered), “and I to con­tent thee swear, Though of my king­dom thou should’st claim a share.”

LXX “The boon for which I to your high­ness sue, Is not to let my par­ents me ac­cord (Pur­sued the mar­tial damsel) save he shew More prowess than my­self, to any lord. Let him con­tend with me in tour­ney, who Would have me, or as­say me with the sword. Me as his wife let him that wins me, wear; Let him that los­es me, with oth­er pair.”

LXXI With cheer­ful face the em­per­or made re­ply, The en­treaty was well wor­thy of the maid; And that with tran­quil mind she might re­ly, He would ac­cord the boon for which she prayed. This au­di­ence was not giv­en so se­cret­ly, But that the news to oth­ers were con­veyed; Which on that very day with­al were told In the ears of Beat­rice and Ay­mon old;

LXXII Who against Bradamant with fury flame, And both alike, with sud­den anger fraught, (For plain­ly they per­ceive, that in her claim She for Rogero more than Leo wrought) And ac­tive to pre­vent the damsel’s aim From be­ing to a safe con­clu­sion brought, Priv­ily take her from King Charles’s court, And thence to Roc­ca Forte’s tow­er trans­port.

LXXI­II A cas­tle this, which roy­al Charle­magne Had giv­en to Ay­mon some few days be­fore, Built be­tween Car­cas­son and Per­pig­nan, On a com­mand­ing point up­on the shore. Re­solved to send her east­ward, there the twain As in a prison kept her ev­er­more. Will­ing or nilling, so must she for­sake Rogero, and for lord must Leo take.

LXXIV The mar­tial maid of no less mod­est vein Than bold and full of fire be­fore the foe, Al­beit no guard on her the castel­lain Hath set, and she is free to come or go, Ob­ser­vant of her sire, obeys the rein: Yet prison, death, and ev­ery pain and woe To suf­fer is re­solved that con­stant maid Be­fore by her Rogero be be­trayed.

LXXV Ri­nal­do, who thus rav­ished from his hand, By an­cient Ay­mon’s craft his sis­ter spied, And saw he could no more in wed­lock’s band Dis­pose of her, by him in vain affied, Of his old sire com­plains, and him doth brand, Lay­ing his fil­ial love and fear aside: But lit­tle him Ri­nal­do’s words mo­lest; Who by the maid will do as likes him best.

LXXVI Rogero, bear­ing this and sore afraid That he shall lose his bride; and Leo take, If left alive, by force or love the maid, Re­solved with­in him­self (but noth­ing spake) Con­stan­tine’s heir should per­ish by his blade; And of Au­gus­tus him a god would make. He, save his hope de­ceived him and was vain, Would sire and son de­prive of life and reign.

LXXVII His limbs in arms, which Tro­jan Hec­tor’s were, And af­ter­wards the Tar­tar king’s, he steeled; Bade rein Fron­ti­no, and his wont­ed wear Ex­changed, crest, sur­coat and em­bla­zoned shield. On that em­prize it pleased him not to bear His ar­gent ea­gle on its azure field. White as a lily, was a uni­corn By him up­on a field of crim­son worn.

LXXVI­II He chose from his at­ten­dant squires the best, And willed none else should him ac­com­pa­ny; And gave him charge, that ne’er by him ex­prest Rogero’s name in any place should be; Crost Meuse and Rhine, and pricked up­on his quest Through the Aus­tri­an coun­tries in­to Hun­gary; Along the right bank of the Danube made, And rode an-​end un­til he reached Bel­grade.

LXXIX Where Save in­to dark Danube makes de­scent, And to the sea, in­creased by him, doth flow, He saw the im­pe­ri­al en­signs spread, and tent And white pavil­ion, thronged with troops be­low. For Con­stan­tine to have that town was bent Anew, late won by the Bul­gar­ian foe. In per­son, with his son, is Con­stan­tine, With all the em­pire’s force his host to line.

LXXX With­in Bel­grade, and through the neigh­bour­ing peak, Even to its bot­tom which the wa­ters lave, The Bul­gar fronts him; and both armies seek A wa­ter­ing-​place in the in­ter­me­di­ate Save. A bridge across that rapid stream the Greek Would fling; the Bul­gar would de­fend the wave; When thith­er came Rogero; and en­gaged Be­held the hosts in fight, which hot­ly raged.

LXXXI The Greeks in that af­fray were four to one, And with pon­toons to bridge the stream sup­plied; And a bold sem­blance through their host put on Of cross­ing to the riv­er’s fur­ther side. Leo mean­while was from the riv­er gone With covert guile; he took a cir­cuit wide, Then thith­er made re­turn; his bridges placed From bank to bank, and past the stream in haste.

LXXXII With many horse and foot in bat­tle dight, Who noth­ing un­der twen­ty thou­sand rank, Along the riv­er rode the Gre­cian knight; And fierce­ly charged his en­emies in flank. The em­per­or, when his son ap­peared in sight. Lead­ing his squadrons on the far­ther bank, Unit­ing bridge and bark to­geth­er, crost Up­on his part the stream with all his host.

LXXXI­II King Va­tran, chief of the Bul­gar­ian band, Wise, bold, with­al a war­rior, here and there Laboured in vain such on­set to with­stand, And the dis­or­der of his host re­pair; When Leo prest him sore, and with strong hand The king to earth be­neath his cours­er bare; Whom at the prince’s hest, for all to fierce Is he to yield, a thou­sand faul­chions pierce.

LXXXIV The Bul­gar host hath hith­er­to made head; But when they see their sovereign is laid low, And ev­ery­where that tem­pest wax and spread, They turn their backs where erst they faced the foe. The Child, who mid the Greeks, from whom they fled, Was borne along, be­held that over­throw, And bowned him­self their bat­tle to re­store, As hat­ing Con­stan­tine and Leo more.

LXXXV He spurs Fron­ti­no, that in his ca­reer Is like the wind, and pass­es ev­ery steed; He over­takes the troop, that in their fear Fly to the moun­tain and desert the mead. Many he stops and turns; then rests his spear; And, as he puts his cours­er to his speed, So fear­ful is his look, even Mars and Jove Are fright­ed in their azure realms above.

LXXXVI Ad­vanced be­fore the oth­ers, he de­scried A cav­alier, in crim­son vest, where­on With all its stalk in silk and gold was spied A pod, like mil­let, in em­broi­dery done: Con­stan­tine’s nephew, by the sis­ter’s side, He was, but was no less beloved than son: He split like glass his shield and scaly rind; And the long lance ap­peared a palm be­hind.

LXXXVII He left the dead, and drew his shin­ing blade Up­on a squadron, whom he saw most nigh; And now at once, and now at oth­er made; Cleft bod­ies, and made hearts from shoul­ders fly. At throat, at breast and flank the war­rior laid; Smote hand, and arm, and shoul­der, bust, and thigh; And through that cham­paign ran the reek­ing blood, As to the val­ley foams the moun­tain-​flood.

LXXXVI­II None that be­hold those strokes main­tain their place; So are they all be­wil­dered by their fear. Thus sud­den­ly the bat­tle changed its face: For, catch­ing courage from the cav­alier, The Bul­gar squadrons ral­ly, turn, and chase The Gre­cian troops that fled from them whilere. Lost was all or­der in a thought, and they With all their ban­ners fled in dis­ar­ray.

LXXXIX Leo Au­gus­tus on a swelling height, See­ing his fol­low­ers fly, hath tak­en post; Where woe­ful and be­wil­dered (for to sight Noth­ing in all the coun­try round is lost) He from his lofty sta­tion eyes the knight, Who with his sin­gle arm de­stroys that host; And can­not choose, though so his prowess harms, But praise that peer and own his worth in arms.

XC He knew full well by en­sign­ry dis­plaid, By sur­coat and by gild­ed panoply, That al­beit to the foe he fur­nished aid, That cham­pi­on was not of his chival­ry; Won­der­ing his su­per­hu­man deeds sur­veyed; And now an an­gel seemed in him to see, To scourge the Greeks from quires above de­scend­ed, Whose sins so oft and oft had heav­en of­fend­ed;

XCI And, as a man of great and no­ble heart, (Where many oth­ers would have ha­tred sworn) En­am­oured of such val­our, on his part, Would not de­sire to see him suf­fer scorn: For one that died, six Gre­cians’ death less smart Would cause that prince; and bet­ter had he borne To lose as well a por­tion of his reign, Than to be­hold so good a war­rior slain.

XCII As ba­by, al­beit its fond moth­er beat And drive it forth in anger, in its fear Nei­ther to sire nor sis­ter makes re­treat; But to her arms re­turns with fondling cheer: So Leo, though Rogero in his heat Slaugh­ters his rout­ed van and threats his rear, Can­not that cham­pi­on hate; be­cause above His anger is the ad­mir­ing prince’s love.

XCI­II But if young Leo loved him and ad­mired, Meseems that he an ill ex­change hath made; For him Rogero loathed; nor aught de­sired More than to lay him life­less with his blade: Him with his eyes he sought; for him in­quired; But Leo’s for­tune his de­sire gain­sayed; Which with the pru­dence of the prac­tised Greek, Made him in vain his hat­ed ri­val seek.

XCIV Leo, for fear his bands be whol­ly spent, Bids sound the as­sem­bly his Greek squadrons through: He to his fa­ther a quick couri­er sent, To pray that he would pass the stream anew; Who, if the way was open, well con­tent Might with his bar­gain he; and with a few Whom he col­lects, the Gre­cian cav­alier Re­crost the bridge by which he past whilere.

XCV In­to the pow­er o’ the Bul­gars many fall, Stal­in from the hill-​top to the riv­er-​side; And they in­to their hands had fall­en all, But for the riv­er’s in­ter­ven­ing tide. From the bridge many drop, and drown with­al; And many that ne’er turned their heads aside, Thence to a dis­tant ford for safe­ty made; And many were dragged pris­on­ers to Bel­grade.

XCVI When done was that day’s fight, where­in (since borne To ground the Bul­gar king his life did yield) His squadrons would have suf­fered scathe and scorn, Had not for them the war­rior won the field, The war­rior, that the snowy uni­corn Wore for his bla­zon on a crim­son shield, To him all flock, in him with joy and glee The win­ner of that glo­ri­ous bat­tle see.

XCVII Some bow and some salute him; of the rest Some kist the war­rior’s feet, and some his hand. Round him as close­ly as they could they prest, And hap­py those are deemed, that near­est stand; More those that touch him; for to touch a blest And su­per­nat­ural thing be­lieves the band. On him with shouts that rent the heav­ens they cried, To be their king, their cap­tain, and their guide.

XCVI­II As king or cap­tain them will he com­mand As liked them best, he said, but will not lay On scep­tre or on lead­ing-​staff his hand; Nor yet Bel­grade will en­ter on that day: For first, ere far­ther flies young Leo’s band, And they across the riv­er make their way, Him will he fol­low, nor forego, un­til That Gre­cian lead­er he o’er­take and kill.

XCIX A thou­sand miles and more for this alone He thith­er mea­sured, and for nought be­side. He saith; and from the mul­ti­tude is gone, And by a road that’s shown to him doth ride. For to­wards the bridge is roy­al Leo flown; Hap­ly lest him from this the foe di­vide: Be­hind him pricks Rogero with such fire, The war­rior calls not, nor awaits, his squire.

C Such van­tage Leo has in flight (to flee He rather may be said than to re­treat) The pas­sage open hath he found and free; And then de­stroys the bridge and burns his fleet. Rogero ar­rived not, till be­neath the sea The sun was hid; nor lodg­ing found; his beat He still pur­sued; and now shone forth the moon: But town or vil­lage found the war­rior none.

CI Be­cause he wots not where to lodge, he goes All night, nor from his load Fron­ti­no frees. When the new sun his ear­ly ra­di­ance shows, A city to the left Rogero sees; And there all day de­ter­mines to re­pose, As where he may his wea­ried cours­er ease, Whom he so far that live­long night had pressed; Nor had he drawn his bit, nor giv­en him rest.

CII Un­gia­rdo had that city in his guard, Con­stan­tine’s liege­man, and to him right dear; Who, since up­on the Bul­gars he had warred, Much horse and foot had sent that em­per­or; here Now en­tered (for the en­trance was not barred) Rogero, and found such hos­pitable cheer, He to fare fur­ther had no need, in trace Of bet­ter or of more abun­dant place.

CI­II In the same hostel­ry with him a guest Was lodged that evening a Ro­ma­ni­an knight; Present what time the Child with lance in rest Suc­coured the Bul­gars in that cru­el fight; Who hard­ly had es­caped his hand, sore prest And scared as nev­er yet was liv­ing wight; So that he trem­bled still, dis­turbed in mind, And deemed the knight of the uni­corn be­hind.

CIV He by the buck­ler knew as soon as spied The cav­alier, whose arms that bla­zon bear, For him that rout­ed the Byzan­tine side; By hand of whom so many slaugh­tered were. He hur­ried to the palace, and ap­plied For au­di­ence, weighty tid­ings to de­clare; And, to Un­gia­rdo led forth­with, re­hearsed What shall by men in oth­er strain be versed.