Orlando Furioso

CANTO 45

AR­GU­MENT Young Leo doth from death Rogero free; For him Rogero Bradamant hath won, Mak­ing that maid ap­pear less strong to be, Dis­guised in fight like Leo; and, that done, Straight in de­spite would slay him­self; so he By sor­row, so by an­guish is fore­done. To hin­der Leo of his des­tined wife Marphisa works, and kin­dles mighty strife.

I By how much high­er we see poor mor­tal go On For­tune’s wheel, which runs a rest­less round, We so much soon­er see his head be­low His heels; and he is pros­trate on the ground. The Ly­di­an, Syra­cu­san, Sami­an show This truth, and more whose names I shall not sound; All in­to deep­est dolour in one day Hurled head­long from the height of sovereign sway.

II By how much more de­prest on the oth­er side, By how much more the wretch is down­wards hurled, He so much soon­er mounts, where he shall ride, If the re­volv­ing wheel again be twirled. Some on the mur­der­ous block have well-​nigh died, That on the fol­low­ing day have ruled the world. Ven­tid­ius, Servius, Mar­ius this have shown In an­cient days; King Lewis in our own;

III King Lewis, step­fa­ther of my duke’s son; Who, when his host at San­talbi­no fled, Left in his clutch by whom that field was won, Was nigh re­main­ing short­er by the head. Nor long be­fore the great Corv­inus run A yet more fear­ful per­il, worse best­ed: Both throned, when overblown was their mis­chance, One king of Hun­gary, one king of France.

IV ‘Tis plain to sight, through in­stances that fill The page of an­cient and of mod­ern sto­ry, That ill suc­ceeds to good, and good to ill; That glo­ry ends in shame, and shame in glo­ry; And that man should not trust, de­lud­ed still, In rich­es, realm, or field of bat­tle, gory With hos­tile blood, nor yet de­spair, for spurns Of For­tune; since her wheel for ev­er turns.

V Through that fair vic­to­ry, when over­thrown Were Leo and his roy­al sire, the knight Who won that bat­tle to such trust is grown, In his good for­tune and his peer­less might, He, with­out fol­low­ing, with­out aid, alone (So is he prompt­ed by his dar­ing sprite) Thinks, mid a thou­sand squadrons in ar­ray, — Foot­men and horse­men — sire and son to slay.

VI But she, that wills no trust shall e’er be placed In her by man, to him doth short­ly show, How wight by her is raised, and how abased; How soon she is a friend, how soon a foe; She makes him know Rogero, that in haste Is gone to work that war­rior shame and woe; The cav­alier, which in that bat­tle dread With much ado had from his faul­chion fled.

VII He to Un­gia­rdo has­tens to de­clare The Child who put the im­pe­ri­al host to flight, Whose car­nage many years will not re­pair, Here past the day and was to pass the night; And saith, that For­tune, tak­en by the hair, With­out more trou­ble, and with­out more fight, Will, if he pris­ons him, the Bul­gars bring Be­neath the yoke and lord­ship of his king.

VI­II Un­gia­rdo from the crowd, which had pur­sued Thith­er their flight from the en­san­guined plain, For, troop by troop, a count­less mul­ti­tude (Ar­rived, be­cause not all the bridge could gain) Knew what a cru­el slaugh­ter had en­sued: For there the moi­ety of the Greeks was slain; And knew that by a cav­alier alone One host was saved, and one was over­thrown;

IX And that un­driv­en he should have made his way In­to the net, and of his own ac­cord, Won­dered, and showed his plea­sure, at the say In vis­age, ges­ture, and in joy­ful word. He wait­ed till Rogero sleep­ing lay; Then soft­ly sent his guard to take that lord; And made the valiant Child, who had no dread Of such a dan­ger, pris­on­er in his bed.

X By his own shield ac­cused, that wit­ness true, The Child is cap­tive in Novo­gorood, To Un­gia­rdo, worst among the cru­el, who Mar­vel­lous mirth to have that pris­on­er shewed. And what, since he was naked, could he do, Bound, while his eyes were yet by slum­ber glued? A couri­er, who the news should quick­ly bear, Un­gia­rdo bids to Con­stan­tine re­pair.

XI Con­stan­tine on that night with all his host, Rais­ing his camp, from Save’s green shore had gone: With this in Belet­ic­che he takes post, An­drophilus’, his sis­ter’s hus­band’s town, Fa­ther of him, whose arms in their first joust (As if of wax had been his haber­geon) Had pierced and carved the puis­sant cav­alier, Now by Un­gia­rdo pent in dun­geon drear.

XII Here from at­tack the em­per­or makes as­sure The city walls and gates on ev­ery side; Lest, from the Bul­gar squadrons ill se­cure, Hav­ing so good a war­rior for their guide, His bro­ken Gre­cians worse than fear en­dure; Deem­ing the rest would by his hand have died. Now he is tak­en, these breed no alarms; Nor would he fear the band­ed world in arms.

XI­II The em­per­or, swim­ming in a sum­mer sea, Knows not for very plea­sure what to do: “Tru­ly the Bul­gars may be said to be Van­quished,” he cries, with bold and cheer­ful brow. As he would feel as­sured of vic­to­ry, That had of ei­ther arm de­prived his foe; So the em­per­or was as­sured, and so re­joiced, When good Rogero’s fate the war­rior voiced.

XIV No less oc­ca­sion has the em­per­or’s son For joy­ing; for be­sides that he anew Trusts to ac­quire Bel­grade, and tow­er and town Through­out the Bul­gars’ coun­try to sub­due, He would by favours make the knight his own, And hopes to rank him in his war­like crew: Nor need he en­vy, guard­ed by his blade, King Charles’, Or­lan­do’s, or Ri­nal­do’s aid.

XV Theodo­ra was by oth­er thoughts pos­sest, Whose son was killed by young Rogero’s spear; Which through his shoul­ders, en­ter­ing at his breast, Is­sued a palm’s breadth in the stripling’s rear; Con­stan­tine’s sis­ter she, by grief op­prest, Fell down be­fore him; and with many a tear That dropt in­to her bo­som, while she sued, His heart with pity soft­ened and sub­dued.

XVI “I still be­fore these feet will bow my knee, Save on this felon, good my lord,” (she cried) “Who killed my son, to venge me thou agree, Now that we have him in our hold; be­side That he thy nephew was, thou seest how thee He loved; thou seest what feats up­on thy side That war­rior wrought; thou seest if thou wilt blot Thine own good name, if thou avenge him not.

XVII “Thou seest how righ­teous Heav­en by pity stirred From the wide cham­paign, red with Gre­cian gore, Bears that fell man; and like a reck­less bird In­to the fowler’s net hath made him soar; That for short sea­son, for re­venge de­ferred, My son may mourn up­on the Sty­gian shore. Give me, my lord, I pray, this cru­el foe, That by his tor­ment I may soothe my woe.”

XVI­II So well she mourns; and in such mov­ing wise And ef­fi­ca­cious doth she make lament; (Nor from be­fore the em­per­or will arise, Though he three times and four the dame has hent, And to up­lift by word and ac­tion tries) That he is forced her wish­es to con­tent; And thus, ac­cord­ing to her prayer, com­mands The Child to be de­liv­ered to her hands;

XIX And, not there­in his or­ders to de­lay, They take the war­rior of the uni­corn To cru­el Theodo­ra; but one day Of respite has the knight: to have him torn In quar­ters, yet alive; to rend and slay Her pris­on­ers pub­licly with shame and scorn, Seems a poor pain; and he must un­der­go Oth­er un­wont­ed and un­mea­sured woe.

XX At the com­mand­ment of that wom­an dread, Chains on his neck and hands and feet they don; And put him in a dun­geon-​cell, where thread Of light was nev­er by Apol­lo thrown: He has a scanty mess of mouldy bread; And some­times is he left two days with none; And one that doth the place of jail­er fill Is prompter than her­self to work him ill.

XXI Oh! if Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter brave and fair, Of if Marphisa of ex­alt­ed mind Had heard Rogero’s sad es­tate de­clare, And how he in this guise in prison pined, To his res­cue ei­ther would have made re­pair, And would have flung the fear of death be­hind: Nor had bold Bradamant, in­tent to aid, Re­spect to Beat­rice or Ay­mon paid.

XXII Mean­while King Charle­magne up­on his side, Heed­ing his promise made in solemn sort, That none should have the damsel for his bride, That of her prowess in the field fell short; Not on­ly had his sovereign plea­sure cried With sound of trum­pet in his roy­al court, But in each city sub­ject to his crown. Hence quick­ly through the world the bruit was blown.

XXI­II Such the con­di­tion which he bids pro­claim: He that would with Duke Ay­mon’s daugh­ter wed Must with the sword con­tend against that dame From the suns rise un­til he seeks his bed; And if he for that time main­tains the game, And is not over­come, with­out more said, The la­dy is ad­judged to have lost the stake; Nor him for hus­band can refuse to take.

XXIV The choice of arms must be by her fore­gone, No mat­ter who may claim it in the course: And by the damsel this may well be done, Good at all arms alike, on foot or horse. Ay­mon, who can­not strive against the crown, — Can­not and will not — yields at length par­force. He much the mat­ter sifts, and in the end Re­solves to court with Bradamant to wend.

XXV Though for the daugh­ter choler and dis­dain The moth­er nursed, yet that she hon­our due Might have, she gar­ments, dyed in dif­fer­ent grain, Had wrought for her, of var­ious form and hue. Bradamant for the court of Charle­magne De­parts, and find­ing not her love, to her view His no­ble court ap­pears like that no more, Which had ap­peared to her so fair be­fore.

XXVI As he that hath be­held a gar­den, bright With flow­ers and leaves in April or in May, And next be­holds it, when the sun his light Hath sloped to­ward the north, and short­ened day, Finds it a desert hor­rid to the sight; So, now that her Rogero is away, To Bradamant, who thith­er made re­sort, No longer what it was ap­peared that court.

XXVII What is be­come of him she doth not dare De­mand, lest more sus­pi­cion thence be bred; But lis­tens still, and search­es here and there; That this by some, un­ques­tioned, may be said; Knows he is gone, but has no no­tion where The war­rior, when he went, his steps had sped; Be­cause, de­part­ing thence, he spake no word Save to the squire who jour­neyed with his lord.

XXVI­II Oh! how she sighs! how fears the gen­tle maid, Hear­ing Rogero, as it were, was flown! Oh! how above all oth­er ter­rors, weighed The fear, that to for­get her he was gone! That, see­ing Ay­mon still his wish gain­sayed, And that to wed the damsel hope was none, He fled, per­chance, so hop­ing to be loosed From toils where­in he by her love was noosed;

XXIX And that with fur­ther end the youth­ful lord Her from his heart more speed­ily to chase, Will rove from realm to realm, till one af­ford Some dame, that may his for­mer love ef­face; Even, as the proverb says, that in a board One nail drives out an­oth­er from its place. A sec­ond thought suc­ceeds, and paints the youth Ar­raigned of fick­le­ness, as full of truth;

XXX And her re­proves for hav­ing lent an ear To a sus­pi­cion so un­just and blind; And so, this thought ab­solves the cav­alier; And that ac­cus­es; and both au­di­ence find; And now this way, now that, she seemed to veer; Nor this, nor that — ir­res­olute of mind — Pre­ferred: yet still to what gave most de­light Most prompt­ly leaned, and loathed its op­po­site;

XXXI And think­ing, ev­er and anon, anew On that so oft re­peat­ed by the knight, As for grave sin, re­morse and sor­row grew That she had nursed sus­pi­cion and af­fright; And she, as her Rogero were in view, Would blame her­self, and would her bo­som smite; And say: “I see ’twas ill such thoughts to nurse, But he, the cause, is even cause of worse.

XXXII “Love is the cause; that in my heart in­laid Thy form, so grace­ful and so fair to see; And so thy dar­ling and thy wit pour­trayed, And worth, of all so bruit­ed, that to me It seems im­pos­si­ble that wife or maid, Blest with thy sight, should not be fired by thee; And that she should not all her art ap­ply To un­bind, and fas­ten thee with oth­er tie.

XXXI­II “Ah! well­away! if in my thought Love so Thy thought, as thy fair vis­age, had de­signed, This — am I well as­sured — in open show, As I un­seen be­lieve it, should I find; And be so quit of Jeal­ousy, that foe Would not still ha­rass my sus­pi­cious mind; And, where she is by me re­pulsed with pain, Not quelled and rout­ed would she be, but slain.

XXXIV “I am like miser, so in­tent on gear, And who hath this so buried in his heart, That he, for hoard­ed trea­sure still in fear, Can­not live glad­ly from his wealth apart. Since I Rogero nei­ther see nor hear, More puis­sant far than Hope, O Fear! thou art; To thee, though false and idle I give way; And can­not choose but yield my­self thy prey.

XXXV “But I, Rogero, shall no soon­er spy The light of thy glad coun­te­nance ap­pear, Against mine ev­ery cre­dence, from mine eye Con­cealed (and woe is me), I know not where, — Oh! how true Hope false Fear shall from on high De­pose with­al, and to the bot­tom bear! Ah! turn to me, Rogero! turn again, And com­fort Hope, whom Fear hath al­most slain.

XXXVI “As when the sun with­draws his glit­ter­ing head, The shad­ows length­en, caus­ing vain af­fright; And as the shad­ows, when he leaves his bed, Van­ish, and re­as­sure the timid wight: With­out Rogero so I suf­fer dread; Dread lasts not, if Rogero is in sight. Re­turn to me, re­turn, Rogero, lest My hope by fear should whol­ly be op­prest.

XXXVII “As ev­ery spark is in the night alive, And sud­den­ly ex­tin­guished when ’tis morn; When me my sun doth of his rays de­prive, Against me felon Fear up­lifts his horn: But they the shades of night no soon­er drive, Than Fears are past and gone, and Hopes re­turn. Re­turn, alas! re­turn, O ra­di­ance dear! And drive from me that foul, con­sum­ing Fear.

XXXVI­II “If the sun turn from us and short­en day, Earth all its beau­ties from the sight doth hide; The wild winds howl, and snows and ice con­vey; Bird sings not; nor is leaf or flow­er es­pied. So, when­so­ev­er thou thy glad­some ray, O my fair sun, from me dost turn aside, A thou­sand, and all evil, dreads, make drear Win­ter with­in me many times a year.

XXXIX “Re­turn, my sun, re­turn! and springtide sweet, Which ev­er­more I long to see, bring back; Dis­lodge the snows and ice with ge­nial hear; And clear my mind, so cloud­ed o’er and black.” As Philomel, or Progne, with the meat Re­turn­ing, which her fam­ished younglings lack, Mourns o’er an emp­ty nest, or as the dove Laments him­self at hav­ing lost is love;

XL The un­hap­py Bradamant laments her so, Fear­ing the Child is reft from her and gone; While of­ten tears her vis­age over­flow: But she, as best she can, con­ceals her moan. Oh! how — oh! how much worse would be her woe, If what she knew not to the maid were known! That, pris­oned and with pain and pine con­sumed, Her con­sort to a cru­el death was doomed.

XLI The cru­el­ty which by that bel­dam ill Was prac­tised on the pris­oned cav­alier, And who pre­pared the wretched Child to kill, By tor­ture new and pains un­used whilere, While so Rogero pined, the gra­cious will Of Heav­en con­veyed to gen­tle Leo’s ear; And put in­to his heart the means to aid, And not to let such worth be over­laid.

XLII The cour­te­ous Leo that Rogero loved, Not that the Gre­cian knew howe’er that he Rogero was, but by that val­our moved Which sole and su­per­hu­man seemed to be, Thought much, and mused, and planned, how it be­hoved — And found at last a way — to set him free; So that his cru­el aunt should have no right To grieve or say he did her a de­spite.

XLI­II In se­cret, Leo with the man that bore The prison-​keys a par­ley had, and said, He wished to see that cav­alier, be­fore Up­on the wretch was done a doom so dread. When it was night, one, faith­ful found of yore, Bold, strong, and good in brawl, he thith­er led; And — by the silent warder taught that none Must know ’twas Leo — was the door un­done.

XLIV Leo, es­cort­ed by none else be­side, Was led by the com­pli­ant castel­lain, With his com­pan­ion, to the tow­er, where stied Was he, re­served for na­ture’s lat­est pain. There round the neck of their un­wary guide, Who turns his back the wick­et to un­chain, A slip-​knot Leo and his fol­low­er cast; And, throt­tled by the noose, he breathes his last.

XLV — The trap up­raised, by rope from thence sus­pend­ed For such a need — the Gre­cian cav­alier, With light­ed flam­beau in his hand, de­scend­ed, Where, strait­ly bound, and with­out sun to cheer, Rogero lay, up­on a grate ex­tend­ed, Less than a palm’s breadth of the wa­ter clear: To kill him in a month, or briefer space, Noth­ing was need­ed but that dead­ly place.

XLVI Lov­ing­ly Leo clipt the Child, and, “Me, O cav­alier! thy match­less val­our,” cried, “Hath in in­dis­sol­uble bands to thee, In will­ing and eter­nal ser­vice, tried; And wills thy good to mine pre­ferred should be, And I for thine my safe­ty set aside, And weigh thy friend­ship more than sire, and all Whom I through­out the world my kin­dred call.

XLVII “I Leo am, that thou what fits mayst know, Come to thy suc­cour, the Greek em­per­or’s son: If ev­er Con­stan­tine, my fa­ther, trow That I have aid­ed thee, I dan­ger run To be ex­iled, or aye with trou­bled brow Re­gard­ed for the deed that I have done; For thee he hates be­cause of those thy blade Put to the rout and slaugh­tered near Bel­grade.”

XLVI­II He his dis­course with more be­side pur­sues, That might from death to life the Child re­call; And all this while Rogero’s hands doth loose. “In­fi­nite thanks I owe you,” cries the thrall, “And I the life you gave me, for your use Will ev­er ren­der back, up­on your call; And still, at all your need, I for your sake, And at all times, that life will prompt­ly stake.”

XLIX Rogero is res­cued; and the gaol­er slain Is left in that dark dun­geon in his place; Nor is Rogero known, nor are the twain: Leo the war­rior, free from bondage base, Brings home, and there in safe­ty to re­main Per­suades, in se­cret, four or six days’ space: Mean­while for him will he re­trieve the gear And cours­er, by Un­gia­rdo reft whilere.

L Open the gaol is found at dawn of light, The gaol­er stran­gled, and Rogero gone. Some think that these or those had helped his flight: All talk; and yet the truth is guessed by none. Well may they think by any oth­er wight Rather than Leo had the deed been done; For many deemed he had cause to have re­paid The Child with scathe, and none to give him aid.

LI So wildered by such kind­ness, so im­mersed In won­der, is the res­cued cav­alier, So from those thoughts is he es­tranged, that erst So many weary miles had made him steer, His sec­ond thoughts con­fronting with his first, Nor these like those, nor those like these ap­pear. He first with ha­tred, rage, and ven­om burned; With pity and with love then whol­ly yearned.

LII Much mus­es he by night and much by day; — Nor cares for ought, nor ought de­sires be­side — By equal or more cour­tesy to pay The mighty debt that him to Leo tied. Be his life long or short, or what it may, Al­beit to Leo’s ser­vice all ap­plied, Dies he a thou­sand deaths, he can do nought, But more will be de­served, Rogero thought.

LI­II Thith­er mean­while had tid­ings been con­veyed Of Charles’ de­cree: that who in nup­tial tye Would yoke with Bradamant, with tren­chant blade Or lance must with the maid his prowess try. These news the Gre­cian prince so ill ap­paid, His cheek was seen to blanch with sick­ly dye; Be­cause, as one that mea­sured well his might, He knew he was no match for her in fight.

LIV Com­muning with him­self, he can sup­ply (He sees) the val­our want­ing with his wit; And the strange knight with his own en­sign­ry, Whose name is yet un­known to him, will fit: Him he against Frank cham­pi­on, far and nigh, Be­lieves he may for force and dar­ing pit; And if the knight to that em­prize agree, Van­quished and tak­en Bradamant will be.

LV But two things must he do; must, first, dis­pose That cav­alier to un­der­take the em­prize; Then send afield the cham­pi­on, whom he chose, In mode, that none sus­pect the youth’s dis­guise: To him the mat­ter Leo doth dis­close; And af­ter prays in ef­fi­ca­cious wise, That he the com­bat with the maid will claim, Un­der false colours and in oth­er’s name.

LVI Much weighs the Gre­cian’s elo­quence; but more Than elo­quence with good Rogero weighed The mighty obli­ga­tion which he bore; That debt which can­not ev­er be re­paid. So, al­beit it ap­peared a hard­ship sore And thing well-​nigh im­pos­si­ble, he said, With blither face than heart, that Leo’s will In all that he com­mands he would ful­fil.

LVII Al­beit no soon­er he the in­tent ex­prest, Than with sore grief Rogero’s heart was shent; Which, night and day, and ev­er, doth mo­lest, Ev­er af­flict him, ev­er­more tor­ment: And though he sees his death is man­ifest, Nev­er will he con­fess he doth re­pent: Rather than not with Leo’s prayer com­ply, A thou­sand deaths, not one, the Child will die.

LVI­II Right sure he is to die; if he forego The la­dy, he fore­goes his life no less. His heart will break through his dis­tress and woe, Or, break­ing not with woe and with dis­tress, He will, him­self, the bands of life un­do, And of its clay the spir­it dis­pos­sess. For all things can he bet­ter bear than one; Than see that gen­tle damsel not his own.

LIX To die is he dis­posed; but how to die Can­not as yet the sor­row­ing lord de­cide: Some­times he thinks his prowess to be­lie, And of­fer to her sword his naked side: For nev­er death can come more hap­pi­ly Than if her hand the fa­tal faul­chion guide: Then sees, ex­cept he wins the mar­tial maid For that Greek prince, the debt re­mains un­paid.

LX For he with Bradamant, as with a foe, Promised to do, not feign, a fight in mail, And not to make of arms a seem­ing show; So that his sword should Leo ill avail. Then by his word will he abide; and though His breast now these now oth­er thoughts as­sail, All from his bo­som chased the gen­er­ous youth, Save that which moved him to main­tain his truth.

LXI With the em­per­or’s li­cence, ar­mour to pre­pare, And steeds mean­while had wrought his youth­ful son; Who with such good­ly fol­low­ing as might square With his de­gree, up­on his way was gone: With him Rogero rides, through Leo’s care, Equipt with horse and arms, that were his own. Day af­ter day the squadron pricks; nor tar­ries Un­til ar­rived in France; ar­rived at Paris.

LXII Leo will en­ter not the town; but nigh Pitch­es his broad pavil­ions on the plain; And his ar­rival by an em­bassy Makes known that day to roy­al Charle­magne. Well pleased is he; and vis­its tes­ti­fy And many gifts the monarch’s cour­te­ous vein. His jour­ney’s cause the Gre­cian prince dis­played, And to dis­patch his suit the sovereign prayed:

LXI­II To send afield the damsel, who de­nied Ev­er to take in wed­lock any lord Weak­er than her: for she should be his bride, Or he would per­ish by the la­dy’s sword. Charles un­der­took for this; and, on her side, The fol­low­ing day up­on the list­ed sward Be­fore the walls, in haste, en­closed that night, Ap­peared the mar­tial maid, equipt for fight.

LX­IV Rogero past the night be­fore the day Where­in by him the bat­tle should be done, Like that which felon spends, con­demn­ing to pay Life’s for­feit with the next suc­ceed­ing sun: He made his choice to com­bat in the fray All armed; be­cause he would dis­cov­ery shun: Nor bard­ed steed he backed, nor lance he shook; Nor oth­er weapon than his faul­chion took.

LXV No lance he took: yet was it not through fear Of that which Ar­galia whilom swayed; As­tolpho’s next; then hers, that in ca­reer Her foe­men ev­er up­on earth had laid: Be­cause none weened such force was in the spear, Nor that it was by necro­man­cy made; Ex­cept­ing roy­al Galaphron alone; Who had it forged, and gave it to his son.

LXVI Nay, bold As­tolpho, and the la­dy who Af­ter­wards bore it, deemed that not to spell, But sim­ply to their prop­er force, was due The praise that they in knight­ly joust ex­cel; And with what­ev­er spear they fought, those two Be­lieved that they should have per­formed as well. What on­ly makes that knight the joust forego Is that he would not his Fron­ti­no show.

LXVII For eas­ily that steed of gen­er­ous kind She might have known, if him she had es­pied; Whom in Mon­tal­ban, long to her con­signed, The gen­tle damsel had been wont to ride. Rogero, that but schemes, but hath in mind How he from Bran­damant him­self shall hide, Nei­ther Fron­ti­no nor yet oth­er thing. Where­by he may be known, afield will bring.

LXVI­II With a new sword will he the maid await; For well he knew against the en­chant­ed blade As soft as paste would prove all mail and plate; For nev­er any steel its fury stayed; And heav­ily with ham­mer, to re­bate Its edge, as well he on this faul­chion layed. So armed, Rogero in the lists ap­peared, When the first dawn of day the hori­zon cheered.

LX­IX To look like Leo, o’er his breast is spread The sur­coat that the prince is wont to wear; And the gold ea­gle with its dou­ble head He bla­zoned on the crim­son shield doth bear; And (what the Child’s dis­guise­ment well may stead) Of equal size and stature are the pair. In the oth­er’s form presents him­self the one; That oth­er lets him­self be seen of none.

LXX Dor­dona’s mar­tial maid is of a vein Right dif­fer­ent from the gen­tle youth’s, who sore Ham­mers and blunts the faul­chion’s tem­pered grain, Lest it his op­po­site should cleave or bore. She whets her steel, and in­to it would fain En­ter, that stripling to the quick to gore: Yea, would such fury to her strokes im­part, That each should go di­rect­ly to his heart.

LXXI As on the start the gen­er­ous barb in spied, When he the sig­nal full of fire at­tends; And paws now here now there; and opens wide His nos­trils, and his point­ed ears ex­tends; So the bold damsel, to the lists de­fied, Who knows not with Rogero she con­tends, Seemed to have fire with­in her veins, nor found Rest­ing-​place, wait­ing for the trum­pet’s sound.

LXXII As some­times af­ter thun­der sud­den wind Turns the sea up­side down; and far and nigh Dim clouds of dust the cheer­ful day­light blind, Raised in a thought from earth, and whirled heav­en-​high; Scud beasts and herd to­geth­er with the hind; And in­to hail and rain dis­solves the sky; So she up­on the sig­nal bared her brand, And fell on her Rogero, sword in hand.

LXXI­II But well-​built wall, strong tow­er, or aged oak, No more are moved by blasts that round them rave, No more by fu­ri­ous sea is moved the rock, Smote day and night by the tem­pes­tu­ous wave, Than in those arms, se­cure from hos­tile stroke, Which erst to Tro­jan Hec­tor Vul­can gave, Moved was he by that ire and ha­tred rank Which stormed about his head, and breast, and flank.

LXXIV Now aims that mar­tial maid a tren­chant blow, And now gives point; and whol­ly is in­tent ‘Twixt plate and plate to reach her hat­ed foe; So that her sti­fled fury she may vent: Now on this side, now that, now high, now low She strikes, and cir­cles him, on mis­chief bent; And ev­er­more she rages and re­pines; As balked of ev­ery pur­pose she de­signs.

LXXV As he that layeth siege to well-​walled town, And flanked about with sol­id bul­warks, still Re­news the as­sault; now fain would bat­ter down Gate­way or tow­er; now gap­ing fos­se would fill; Yet vain­ly toils (for en­trance is there none) And wastes his host, aye frus­trate of his will; So sore­ly toils and strives with­out avail The damsel, nor can open plate or mail.

LXXVI Sparks now his shield, now helm, now cuirass scat­ter, While straight and back strokes, aimed now low, now high, Which good Rogero’s head and bo­som bat­ter, And arms, by thou­sands and by thou­sands fly Faster than on the sound­ing farm-​roof pat­ter Hail­stones de­scend­ing from a trou­bled sky. Rogero, at his ward, with dex­ter­ous care, De­fends him­self, and ne’er of­fends the fair.

LXXVII Now stopt, now cir­cled, now re­tired the knight, And oft his hand his foot ac­com­pa­nied; And lift­ed shield, and shift­ed sword in fight, Where shift­ing he the hos­tile hand es­pied. Ei­ther he smote her not, or — die he smite — Smote, where he deemed least evil would be­tide. The la­dy, ere the wes­ter­ing sun de­scend, De­sires to bring that du­el to an end.

LXXVI­II Of the edict she re­mem­bered her, and knew Her per­il, save the foe was quick­ly sped: For if she took not in one day nor slew Her claimant, she was tak­en; and his head Phoe­bus was now about to hide from view, Nigh Her­cules’ pil­lars, in his wa­tery bed, When first she ‘gan mis­doubt her pow­er to cope With the strong foe, and to aban­don hope.

LXXIX By how much more hope fails the damsel, so Much more her anger wax­es; she her blows Re­dou­bling, yet the har­ness of her foe Will break, which through that day un­bro­ken shows; As he, that at his dai­ly drudgery slow, Sees night on his un­fin­ished labour close, Hur­ries and toils and moils with­out avail, Till wea­ried strength and light to­geth­er fail.

LXXX Didst thou, O mis­er­able damsel, trow Whom thou wouldst kill, if in that cav­alier Matched against thee thou didst Rogero know, On whom de­pend thy very life-​threads, ere Thou killed him thou wouldst kill thy­self; for thou, I know, dost hold him than thy­self more dear; And when he for Rogero shall be known, I know these very strokes thou wilt be­moan.

LXXXI King Charles and peers him sheathed in plate and shell Deem not Rogero, but the em­per­or’s son; And view­ing in that com­bat fierce and fell Such force and quick­ness by the stripling shown; And, with­out e’er of­fend­ing her, how well That knight de­fends him­self, now change their tone; Es­teem both well as­sort­ed; and de­clare The cham­pi­ons wor­thy of each oth­er are.

LXXXII When Phoe­bus whol­ly un­der wa­ter goes, Charle­magne bids the war­ring pair di­vide; And Bradamant (nor boots it to op­pose) Al­lots to youth­ful Leo as a bride. Not there Rogero tar­ried to re­pose; Nor loosed his ar­mour, nor his helm un­tied: On a small hack­ney, hur­ry­ing sore, he went Where Leo him await­ed in his tent.

LXXXI­II Twice in fra­ter­nal guise and of­ten­er threw Leo his arms about the cav­alier; And next his hel­met from his head with­drew, And kiss’d him on both cheeks with lov­ing cheer. “I would,” he cried, “that thou wouldst ev­er do By me what pleaseth thee; for thou wilt ne’er Weary my love: at any call I lend To thee my­self and state; these friend­ly spend;

LXXXIV “Nor see I rec­om­pense, which can re­pay The mighty obli­ga­tion that I owe; Though of the gar­land I should dis­ar­ray My brows, and up­on thee that gift be­stow.” Rogero, on whom his sor­rows press and prey, Who loathes his life, im­mersed in that deep woe, Lit­tle replies; the en­signs he had worn Re­turns, and takes again his uni­corn;

LXXXV And show­ing him­self spir­it­less and spent, From thence as quick­ly as he could with­drew, And from young Leo’s to his lodg­ings went; When it was mid­night, armed him­self anew, Sad­dled his horse, and sal­lied from his tent; (He takes no leave, and none his go­ing view;) And his Fron­ti­no to that road ad­drest, Which seemed to please the good­ly cours­er best.

LXXXVI Now by straight way and now by crooked wound Fron­ti­no, now by wood and wide cham­paign; And all night with his rid­er paced that round, Who nev­er ceased a mo­ment to com­plain: He called on Death, and there­in com­fort found; Since broke by him alone is stub­born pain; Nor saw, save Death, what oth­er pow­er could close The ac­count of his in­suf­fer­able woes.

LXXXVII “Where­of should I com­plain,” he said, “wo is me! So of my ev­ery good at once for­lorn? Ah! if I will not bear this in­jury With­out re­venge, against whom shall I turn? For I, be­sides my­self, none oth­er see That hath in­flict­ed on me scathe and scorn. Then I to take re­venge for all the harm Done to my­self, against my­self must arm.

LXXXVI­II “Yet was but to my­self this in­jury done, My­self to spare (be­cause this touched but me) I hap­ly could, yet hard­ly could, be won; Nay, I will say out­right, I could not be. Less can I be, since not to me alone, But Bradamant, is done this in­jury; Even if I could con­sent my­self to spare, It fits me not un­venged to leave that fair.

LXXXIX “Then I the damsel will avenge, and die, (Nor this dis­turbs me) what­soe’er be­tide; For, bat­ing death, I know not aught, where­by De­fence against my grief can be sup­plied. But I lament my­self alone, that I Be­fore of­fend­ing her, should not have died. O hap­pi­er For­tune! had I breathed my last In Theodo­ra’s dun­geon pris­oned fast!

XC “Though she had slain, had tor­tured me be­fore She slew, as prompt­ed by her cru­el­ty, At least the hope would have re­mained in store That I by Bradamant should pitied be: But when she knows that I loved Leo more Than her, that, of my own ac­cord and free, My­self of her, I for his good, de­prive, Dead will she right­ly hate me or alive.”

XCI These words he said and many more, with sigh And heavy sob with­al ac­com­pa­nied, And, when an­oth­er sun il­lumed the sky, Mid strange and gloomy woods him­self es­pied; And, for he des­per­ate was and bent to die, And he, as best he could, his death would hide; This place to him seemed far re­moved from view, And fit­ted for the deed that he would do.

XCII He en­tered in­to that dark wood­land, where He thick­est trees and most en­tan­gled spied: But first Fron­ti­no was the war­rior’s care, Whom he un­har­nessed whol­ly, and un­tied. “O my Fron­ti­no, if thy mer­its rare I could re­ward, thou lit­tle cause” (he cried) “Shouldst have to en­vy him, so high­ly graced, Who soared to heav­en, and mid the stars was placed.

XCI­II “Nor Cil­larus, nor Ar­ion, was whilere Wor­thi­er than thee, nor mer­it­ed more praise; Nor any oth­er steed, whose name we hear Sound­ed in Gre­cian or in Latin lays. Was any such in oth­er points thy peer, None of them, well I know, the vaunt can raise; That such high hon­our and such cour­tesy Were up­on him be­stowed, as were on thee.

XCIV “Since to the gen­tlest maid, of fairest dye, And bold­est that hath been, or ev­er­more Will be, thou wast so dear, she used to tie Thy trap­pings, and to thee thy for­age bore: Dear wast thou to my la­dy-​love: Ah! why Call I her mine, since she is mine no more? If I have giv­en her to an­oth­er lord, Why turn I not up­on my­self this sword?”

XCV If him these thoughts so ha­rass and tor­ment, That bird and beast are soft­ened by his cries; (For, sav­ing these, none hears the sad lament, Nor sees the flood that trick­les form his eyes) You are not to be­lieve that more con­tent The La­dy Bradamant in Paris lies; Who can no longer her de­lay ex­cuse, Nor Leo for her wed­ded lord refuse.

XCVI Ere she her­self to any con­sort tie, Be­side her own Rogero, she will fain Do what so can be done; her word be­lie; Anger friends, kin­dred, court, and Charle­magne; And if she noth­ing else can do, will die, By poi­son or her own good faul­chion slain: For not to live ap­pears far less­er woe, Than, liv­ing, her Rogero to forego.

XCVII “Rogero mine, ah! won­der gone” (she cried) “Art thou; and canst thou so far dis­tant be, Thou heardest not this roy­al edict cried, A thing con­cealed from none, ex­pect­ing thee? Faster than thee would none have hith­er hied, I wot, hadst thou known this; ah! wretched me! How can I e’er in fu­ture think of aught, Sav­ing the worst that can by me be thought?

XCVI­II “How can it be, Rogero, thou alone Hast read not what by all the world is read? If thou hast read it not, nor hith­er flown, How canst thou but a pris­on­er be, or dead? But well I wot, that if the truth were known, This Leo will for thee some snare have spread: The traitor will have barred thy way, in­tent Thou shouldst not him by bet­ter speed pre­vent.

XCIX “From Charles I gained the promise, that to none Less puis­sant than my­self should I be giv­en; In the re­liance thou wouldst be that one, With whom I should in arms have vain­ly striv­en. None I es­teemed, ex­cept­ing thee alone: But well my rash­ness is re­buked by Heav­en: Since I by one am tak­en in this wise Un­famed through life for any fair em­prize.

C “If I am held as tak­en, since the knight I had not force to take nor yet to slay; A thing that is not, in my judg­ment, right; Nor I to Charles’s sen­tence will give way, I know that I shall be es­teemed as light, If what I late­ly said, I now un­say; But of those many ladies that have past For light, I am not, I, the first or last.

CI “Enough I to my lover faith main­tain, And, firmer than a rock, am still found true! And far here­in sur­pass the fe­male train, That were in old­en days, or are in new! Nor, if they me as fick­le shall ar­raign, Care I, so good from fick­le­ness en­sue; Though I am lighter than a leaf be said, So I be forced not with that Greek no wed.”

CII These things and more be­side the damsel bright (’Twixt which oft sobs and tears were in­ter­posed), Ceased not to ut­ter through the live­long night Which up­on that un­hap­py day had closed. But, when with­in Cim­me­ria’s cav­erned height Noc­tur­nus with his troops of shades re­posed, Heav­en, which eter­nal­ly had willed the maid Should be Rogero’s con­sort, brought him aid:

CI­II This moves the haught Marphisa, when ’tis morn, To ap­pear be­fore the king; to whom that maid Saith, to the Child, her broth­er, mighty scorn Was done; nor should he be so ill ap­paid, That from him should his plight­ed wife be torn; And nought there­of un­to the war­rior said; And on who­ev­er lists she will in strife Prove Bradamant to be Rogero’s wife;

CIV And this, be­fore all oth­ers, will prove true On her, if to de­ny it she will dare; For she had to Rogero, in her view, Spo­ken those words, which they that mar­ry swear; And with all cer­emo­ny wont and due So was the con­tract sealed be­tween the pair, They were no longer free; nor could for­sake The one the oth­er, oth­er spouse to take.

CV Whether Marphisa true or false­ly spake, I well be­lieve that, rather with in­tent Young Leo’s pur­pose, right or wrong, to break, Than tell the truth, she speaks; and with con­sent Of Bradamant doth that avow­al make: For to ex­clude the hat­ed Leo bent, And of Rogero to be re­pos­sest, This she be­lieves her short­est way and best.

CVI Sore­ly by this dis­turbed, King Charle­magne Bade Bradamant be called, and to her told That which the proud Marphisa would main­tain; And Ay­mon present in the press be­hold! — Bradamant drops her head, nor treats as vain, Nor vouch­es what avows that vir­gin bold, In such con­fu­sion, they may well be­lieve That fierce Marphisa speaks not to de­ceive.

CVII Joy good Or­lan­do and joy Ri­nal­do show, Who view in val­or­ous Marphisa’s plea A cause the al­liance shall no fur­ther go, Which sealed al­ready Leo deemed to be; And yet, in spite of stub­born Ay­mon’s no, Bradamant shall Rogero’s con­sort be; And they may, with­out strife, with­out de­spite Done to Duke Ay­mon’s, give her to the knight.

CVI­II For if such words have pass’d be­tween the twain, Fast is the knot and can­not be un­tied; They what they vowed more fair­ly will ob­tain, And with­out fur­ther strife are these affied. “This is a plot, a plot de­vised in vain; And ye de­ceive your­selves (Duke Ay­mon cried) For, were the sto­ry true which ye have feigned, Be­lieve not there­fore that your cause is gained.

CIX “For grant­ing what I will not yet al­low, And what I to be­lieve as yet de­mur; That weak­ly to Rogero so her vow Was plight­ed, as Rogero’s was to her; Where was the con­tract made, and when and how? More clear­ly this to me must ye aver. Ei­ther it was not so, I am ad­vised; Or was be­fore Rogero was bap­tized.

CX “But if it were be­fore the youth­ful knight A Chris­tian was, I will not heed it, I; For ‘twixt a faith­ful and a payn­im wight, I deem that nought avails the mar­riage-​tie. For this not vain­ly in the doubt­ful fight Should Con­stan­tine’s fair son have risked to die; Nor Charle­magne for this, our sovereign lord Will for­feit, I be­lieve, his plight­ed word.

CXI “What now you say you should be­fore have said, While yet the mat­ter was un­broke, and ere Charles at my daugh­ter’s prayer that edict made Which has drawn Leo to the com­bat here.” Or­lan­do and Ri­nal­do were gain­sayed So be­fore roy­al Charles by Cler­mont’s peer; And equal Charle­magne heard ei­ther side, But nei­ther would for this nor that de­cide.

CXII As in the south­ern or the north­ern breeze The green­wood mur­murs; and as on the shore, When Ae­olus with the god that rules the seas Is wroth, the hoarse and hol­low break­ers roar, So a loud ru­mour of this strife, that flees Through France, and spreads and cir­cles ev­er­more, Af­fords such mat­ter to re­hearse and hear, That nought be­side is bruised far or near.

CXI­II These with Rogero, those with Leo side; But the most nu­mer­ous are Rogero’s friends, Who against Ay­mon, ten to one, di­vide. Good Charle­magne to nei­ther par­ty bends; But wills that cause shall be by jus­tice tried, And to his par­lia­ment the mat­ter sends. Marphisa, now the bridal was de­ferred, Ap­peared anew, and oth­er ques­tion stirred;

CX­IV And said, “In that an­ther can­not have Bradamant, while my broth­er is alive, Let Leo, if the gen­tle maid he crave, His foe in list­ed fight of life de­prive; And he, that sends the oth­er to his grave, Freed from his ri­val, with the la­dy wive.” Forth­with this chal­lenge, as erewhile the rest, To Leo was de­clared at Charles’ be­hest.

CXV Leo who if he had the cav­alier Of the uni­corn, be­lieved he from his foe Was safe; and thought no per­il would ap­pear Too hard a feat for him; and knew not how Thence in­to soli­tary woods and drear That war­rior had been hur­ried by his woe; Him gone for lit­tle time and for dis­port Be­lieved, and took his line in evil sort.

CXVI This short­ly Leo was con­demned to rue: For he, on whom too fond­ly he re­lied, Nor on that day nor on the fol­low­ing two Ap­peared, nor news of him were sig­ni­fied; And com­bat with Rogero was, he knew, Un­safe, un­less that knight was on his side: So sent, to es­chew the threat­ened scathe and scorn, To seek the war­rior of the uni­corn.

CXVII Through city, and through ham­let, and through town, He sends to seek Rogero, far and near: And not con­tent with this, him­self is gone In per­son, on his steed, to find the peer. But of the miss­ing war­rior tid­ings none Nor he nor any of the Court would hear But for Melis­sa: I for oth­er verse Re­serve my­self, her do­ings to re­hearse.