Orlando Furioso

CANTO 46

AR­GU­MENT Af­ter long search for good Rogero made, Him Leon finds, and yields to him his prize: In­formed of all — al­ready with that maid He wives; al­ready in her bo­som lies: When thith­er he that Sarza’s scep­tre swayed To in­fect such bliss with im­pi­ous ven­om hies, But falls in com­bat; and, blas­phem­ing loud, To Acheron de­scends his spir­it proud.

I I, if my chart de­ceives me not, shall now In lit­tle time be­hold the neigh­bour­ing shore; So hope with­al to pay my promised vow To one, so long my guide through that wide roar Of wa­ters, where I feared, with trou­bled brow, To scathe my bark or wan­der ev­er­more. But now, me­thinks — yea, now I see the land; I see the friend­ly port its arms ex­pand.

II A burst of joy, like thun­der to my ear, Rum­bles along the sea and rends the sky. I chim­ing bells, I shrilling trum­pets hear, Con­found­ed with the peo­ple’s cheer­ful cry; And now their forms, that swarm on ei­ther pier Of the thick-​crowd­ed har­bour, I de­scry. All seem re­joiced my task is smooth­ly done, And I so long a course have safe­ly run.

III What beau­teous dames and sage, here wel­come me! With them what cav­aliers the shore adorn! What friends! to whom I owe eter­ni­ty Of thanks for their de­light at my re­turn. Mam­ma, Ginevra, with the rest I see, Cor­reg­gio’s seed, on the har­bour’s fur­thest horn. Veron­ica de Gam­bara is here, To Phoe­bus and the Ao­ni­an choir so dear.

IV With Ju­lia, a new Ginevra is in sight, An­oth­er off­set from the self­same tree; Hip­poli­ta Sforza, and Trivul­tia bright, Bred in the sa­cred cav­ern, I with thee Emil­ia Pia, and thee, Margherite, An­gela Bor­gia, Graziosa, see, And fair Richar­da d’Este, Lo! the twain, Blanche and Di­ana, with their sis­ter train!

V Beau­teous, but wis­er and more chaste than fair, I Bar­bara Tur­ca, linked with Lau­ra, know: Nor beams the sun up­on a bet­ter pair ‘Twixt Ind and where the Moor­ish wa­ters flow. Be­hold Ginevra! that rich gem and rare Which gilds the house of Malat­es­ta so, That nev­er wor­thi­er or more hon­oured thing Adorned the dome of Keysar or of king.

VI If she had dwelt in Ri­mi­ni of yore, What time, from con­quered Gaul re­turn­ing home, Julius stood fear­ing on the riv­er-​shore, To ford the stream and make a foe of Rome, He ev­ery ban­ner would have bowed be­fore That dame, dis­charged his tro­phies, and such doom, Such pact would have re­ceived as liked her best; And hap­ly ne’er had Free­dom been op­prest.

VII The con­sort of my lord of Boz­zo­lo Be­hold! the moth­er, sis­ters, cous­in­hood; Them of Torel­lo, Ben­tivoglio, Pallavig­ini’s and Vis­con­ti’s brood! Lo! she to whom all liv­ing dames forego The palm, and all of Gre­cian, Latin blood, Or bar­barous, all that ev­er were, whose name For grace and beau­ty most is noised by Fame;

VI­II Ju­lia Gon­za­ga, she that where­soe’er She moves, where’er she turns her lu­cid eyes, Not on­ly is in charms with­out a peer, But seems a god­dess light­ed from the skies: With her is paired her broth­er’s wife, who ne’er Swerved from her plight­ed faith — aye good and wise — Be­cause ill For­tune bore her long de­spite; Lo! Ar­rag­oni­an An­na, Vas­to’s light!

IX Anne gen­tle, cour­te­ous, and as sage as fair, Tem­ple of Love and Truth and Chasti­ty: With her, her sis­ter dims all beau­ty, where Her ra­di­ance shines. Lo! one that hath set free Her con­quer­ing lord from Or­cus’ dark re­pair, And him in spite of death and des­tiny (Be­yond all mod­ern in­stance) raised on high, To shine with end­less glo­ry in the sky.

X My ladies of Fer­rara, those of gay Urbino’s court are here; and I de­scry Man­tua’s dames, and all that fair ar­ray Which Lom­bardy and Tus­can town sup­ply. The cav­alier amid that band, whom they So hon­our, un­less daz­zled is mine eye By those fair faces, is the shin­ing light Of his Arez­zo, and Ac­colti hight.

XI Adorned with scar­let hat, and scar­let pall, His nephew Bene­dict, lo! there I see; With him Campeg­gio and Man­tua’s car­di­nal; Glo­ry and light of the con­sis­to­ry; And (if I dote not) mark how one and all In face and ges­ture show such mighty glee At my re­turn, no easy task ‘twould seem So vast an obli­ga­tion to re­deem.

XII With them Lac­tan­tius is, Claude Ptole­my, Trissi­no, Pansa, and Capilupi mine, Lati­no Giove­nal, it seems to me; Sas­so, and Molza, and Flo­ri­an hight Mon­tine; With him, by whom through short­er path­way we Are led to the As­craean font di­vine, Julio Camil­lo; and meseems that I Berna, and San­ga, and Flaminio spy.

XI­II Lo! Alexan­der of Far­nese, and O Learned com­pa­ny that fol­lows in his train! Phae­dro, Cap­pel­la, Mad­dalen’, Por­tio, Sur­named the Bolog­nese, the Volter­rane. Blo­sio, Pierio, Vi­da, famed for flow Of lofty elo­quence of ex­haust­less vein; Mus­suro, Las­cari, and Nav­agero, And An­drew Maro, and the monk Severo.

XIV Lo! two more Alexan­ders! of the tree Of the Orolo­gi one, and one Guar­ino: Mario d’ Olvi­to, and of roy­al­ty That scourge, di­vine Pietro Aretino. I two Giro­lam­os amid them see, Of Ver­itade and the Cit­tadi­no; See the Mainar­do, the Leon­iceno, Paniz­za­to, Ce­lio, and Teocre­no.

XV Bernar­do Capel, Pe­ter Be­mbo here I see, through whom our pure, sweet id­iom rose, And who, of vul­gar us­age win­nowed clear, Its gen­uine form in his ex­am­ple shows. Be­hold an Obyson, that in his rear Ad­mires the pains which he so well be­stows. I Fra­cas­toro, Bevez­zano note, And Tryphon Gabriel, Tas­so more re­mote.

XVI Up­on me Nicholas Tiepoli And Nicholas Am­manio fix their eyes; With An­tho­ny Ful­go­so, who to spy My boat near land shows plea­sure and sur­prise. There, from those dames apart, my Valery Stands with Barig­nan, hap­ly to de­vise With him how, ev­er­more by wom­an harmed, By her he shall not ev­er­more be charmed.

XVII Of high and su­per­hu­man ge­nius, tied By love and blood, lo! Pi­co and Pio true; He that ap­proach­es at the kins­men’s side, — So hon­oured by the best — I nev­er knew; But, if by cer­tain to­kens sig­ni­fied, He is the man I so de­sire to view, That San­nazaro, who per­suades the nine To leave their foun­tain for the foam­ing brine.

XVI­II Dili­gent, faith­ful sec­re­tary, lo! The learned Pistophilus, mine An­giar here, And the Ac­cia­juoli their joint plea­sure show That for my bark there is no fur­ther fear. There I my kins­man Malaguz­zo know; And mighty hope from Adoar­do hear, That these my nest-​notes shall by friend­ly wind Be blown from Calpe’s rock to fur­thest Ind.

XIX Joys Vic­tor Faus­to; Tan­cred joys to view My sail; and with them joy a hun­dred more. Wom­en and men I see, a min­gled crew, At my re­turn re­joic­ing, crowd the shore. Then, since the wind blows fair, nor much to do Re­mains, let me my course de­lay no more; And turn­ing to Melis­sa, in what way She res­cued good Rogero let me say.

XX Much bent was this Melis­sa (as I know I many times have said to you whilere) That Bradamant in wed­lock should be­stow Her hand up­on the youth­ful cav­alier; And so at heart had ei­ther’s weal and woe, That she from hour to hour of them would hear: Hence ev­er on that quest she spir­its sent, One still re­turn­ing as the oth­er went.

XXI A prey to deep and stub­born grief, re­clined Mid gloomy shades Rogero they de­scried; Firm not to swal­low food of any kind, Nor from that pur­pose to be turned aside; And so to die of hunger he de­signed: But weird Melis­sa speedy aid sup­plied; Who took a road, from home forth is­su­ing, where She met the Gre­cian em­per­or’s youth­ful heir;

XXII Leo that, one by one, dis­patched his train Of fol­low­ers, far and wide, through ev­ery bourn, And af­ter­wards, in per­son went in vain, To find the war­rior of the uni­corn. The wise en­chantress, that will sell and rein, Had on that day equipt a de­mon, borne By him, in like­ness of a hack­ney horse, Con­stan­tine’s son en­coun­tered in her course.

XXI­II “If such as your in­gen­uous mien” (she cried To Leo) “is your soul’s no­bil­ity, And cor­re­spond­ing with your fair out­side Your in­ward good­ness and your cour­tesy, Some help, some com­fort, sir, for one pro­vide In whom the best of liv­ing knights we see; Who, save ye help and com­fort quick­ly lend, Is lit­tle dis­tant from his lat­ter end.

XXIV “The best of knights will die of all, who don, Or e’er donned sword and buck­ler, the most fair And gen­tle of all war­riors that are gone, Or who through­out the world yet liv­ing are, And sim­ply for a cour­te­ous deed, if none Shall com­fort to the youth­ful suf­fer­er bear. Then come, sir, for the love of Heav­en, and try If any coun­sel suc­cour may sup­ply.”

XXV It sud­den­ly came in­to Leo’s mind The knight of whom she par­layed was that same, Whom through­out all the land he sought to find, And seek­ing whom, he now in per­son came. So that obey­ing her that would per­suade Such pi­ous work, he spurred be­hind the dame; Who thith­er led (nor te­dious was the way) Where nigh re­duced to death the stripling lay.

XXVI They found Rogero fast­ing from all food For three long days, so bro­ken down; with pain The knight could but up­on his feet have stood, To fall, al­beit un­pushed, to ground again. With helm on head, and with his faul­chion good Be­girt, he lay re­clined in plate and chain. A pil­low of his buck­ler had he made, Where the white uni­corn was seen pour­traid.

XXVII There think­ing what an in­jury he had done To his la­dy love — how in­grate, how un­true To her had been — not sim­ple grief alone O’er­whelmed him, to such height his fury grew, He bit his hands and lips; while pour­ing down His cheeks, the tears un­ceas­ing ran, and through The pas­sion that so wrapt his trou­bled sprite, Nor Leo nor Melis­sa heard the knight.

XXVI­II Nor there­fore in­ter­rupts he his lament, Nor checks his sighs, nor checks his trick­ling tears. Young Leo halts, to hear his speech in­tent; Lights from his cours­er, and to­wards him steers: He knows that of the sor­rows which tor­ment Love is the cause; but yet from nought ap­pears Who is the per­son that such grief hath bred; For by Rogero this re­mains un­said.

XXIX Ap­proach­ing near­er and yet near­er, now He fronts the weep­ing war­rior, face to face, Greets with a broth­er’s love, and stoop­ing low, His neck en­cir­cles with a fast em­brace. By the lament­ing Child I know not how Is liked his sud­den pres­ence in that place; Who fears an­noy or trou­ble at his hand; And lest he should his wish for death with­stand.

XXX Him with the sweet­est words young Leo plied, And with the warmest love that he could show, “Let it not irk thee,” to the Child he cried, “To tell the cause from whence thy sor­rows flow; For few such des­per­ate evils man be­tide, But that there is de­liv­er­ance from his woe, So that the cause be known; nor he bereft Of hope should ev­er be, so life be left.

XXXI “Much grieve I thou wouldst hide thy­self from me, That known me for thy faith­ful friend and true; Not on­ly now I am so bound to thee, That I the knot can nev­er more un­do; But even from the be­gin­ning, when to be Thy dead­ly foe­man I had rea­son due. Hope then that I will suc­cour thee with pelf, With friends, with fol­low­ing, and with life it­self.

XXXII “Nor shun to me thy sor­row to ex­plain, And I be­seech thee leave to me to try If wealth avail to free thee from thy pain, Art, cun­ning, open force, or flat­tery, If my as­sis­tance is em­ployed in vain, The last re­lief re­mains to thee to die: But be con­tent awhile this deed to shun Till all that thou canst do shall first be done.”

XXXI­II He said; and with such force­ful prayer ap­pealed; So gen­tly and be­nign­ly soothed his moan; That good Rogero could not choose but yield, Whose heart was not of iron or of stone; Who deemed, un­less he now his lips un­sealed, He should a foul dis­cour­te­ous deed have done. He fain would have replied, but made as­say Yet twice or thrice, ere words could find their way.

XXXIV “My lord, when known for what I am (and me Now shalt thou know),” he made at last re­ply, “I wot thou, like my­self, con­tent wilt be, And hap­ly more con­tent, that I should die. Know me for him so hat­ed once by thee; Rogero who re­paid that hate am I; And now ’tis many days since with in­tent Of putting thee to death from court I went.

XXXV “Be­cause I would not see my promised bride Borne off by thee; in that Duke Ay­mon’s love And favour was en­gaged up­on thy side. But, for man pur­pos­es, and God above Dis­pos­es, thy great cour­tesy, well tried In a sore need, my fixt re­solve did move. Nor on­ly I re­nounced the hate I bore, But pur­posed to be thine for ev­er­more.

XXXVI “What time I as Rogero was un­known, Thou madest suit I would ob­tain for thee The La­dy Bradamant; which was all one As to de­mand my heart and soul from me. Whether thy wish I rather than mine own Sought to con­tent, thou hast been made to see. Thine is the la­dy; her in peace pos­sess; Far more than mine I prize thy hap­pi­ness.

XXXVII “Con­tent thee, that de­prived of her, as well I should my­self of worth­less life de­prive; For bet­ter I with­out a soul could dwell Than with­out Bradamant re­main alive. And nev­er while these veins with life-​blood swell Canst thou with her le­git­imate­ly wive: For vows erewhile have been be­tween us said; Nor she at once can with two hus­bands wed.”

XXXVI­II So filled is gen­tle Leo with amaze When he the stranger for Rogero knows, With lips and brow un­moved, with sted­fast gaze And root­ed feet, he like a stat­ue shows; Like stat­ue more than man, which votaries raise In church­es, for ac­quit­tance of their vows. He deems that cour­tesy of so high a strain Was nev­er done nor will be done again;

XXXIX And that he him doth for Rogero know Not on­ly that good­will he bore whilere Abates not, but aug­ments his kind­ness so, That no less grieves the Gre­cian cav­alier Than good Rogero for Rogero’s woe. For this, as well as that he will ap­pear De­served­ly an em­per­or’s son — al­though In oth­er things out­done — he will not be De­feat­ed in the race of cour­tesy;

XL And says, “That day my host was over­thrown, Rogero, by thy wond’rous val­our, though I had thee at de­spite, if I had known Thou was Rogero, as I know it now, So me thy virtue would have made thine own, As then it made me, know­ing not my foe; So ha­tred from my bo­som would have chased, And with my present love have straight re­placed.

XLI “That I Rogero hat­ed, ere I knew Thou was Rogero, will I not de­ny. But think not that I fur­ther would pur­sue The ha­tred that I bore thee; and had I, When thee I from thy dark­some dun­geon drew, De­scried the truth, as this I now de­scry, Such treat­ment shouldst thou then have had, as thou Shalt have from me, to thine ad­van­tage, now;

XLII “And if I will­ing­ly had done so then, When not, as I am now, obliged to thee; How much more glad­ly should I now; and when, Not do­ing so, I should with rea­son be Deemed most un­grate­ful amid in­grate men; Since thou fore­goest thine ev­ery good for me! But I to thee re­store thy gift, and, more Glady than I re­ceived it, this re­store.

XLI­II “The damsel more to thee than me is due; And though for her deserts I hold her dear, If that fair prize some hap­pi­er mor­tal drew, I think not I my vi­tal thread should shear: Nor would I by thy death be free to woo: That from the hal­lowed bands of wed­lock clear Where­in the la­dy hath to thee been tied, I might pos­sess her as my law­ful bride.

XLIV “Not on­ly Bradamant would I forego, But what­soe’er I in the world pos­sess; And rather for­feit life than ev­er know That grief, through me, should such a knight op­press. To me is thy dis­trust great cause of woe, That since thou couldst dis­pose of me no less Than of thy­self, thou — rather than ap­ply To me for suc­cour — wouldst of sor­row die.”

XLV These words he spake, and more to that in­tent, Too te­dious in these vers­es to re­cite; Re­fut­ing ev­er­more such ar­gu­ment As might be used in an­swer by the knight: Who said, at last, “I yield, and am con­tent To live; but how can I ev­er re­quite The obli­ga­tion, which by me is owed To thee that twice hast life on me be­stowed?”

XLVI Melis­sa gen­er­ous wine and good­ly cheer Thith­er bade car­ry, in a thought obeyed; And com­fort­ed the mourn­ing cav­alier, Who would have sunk with­out her friend­ly aid. Mean­while the sound of steeds Fron­ti­no’s ear Had reached, and thith­er had he quick­ly made: Him Leo’s squires at his com­mand­ment caught, And sad­dled, and to good Rogero brought;

XLVII Who, though by Leo helped, with much ado And labour sore the gen­tle cours­er scaled. So wast­ed was the vigour which some few Short days be­fore, in fight­ing field, availed To over­throw a band­ed host, and do The deeds he did, in cheat­ing ar­mour mailed. De­part­ing thence, ere they had mea­sured more Than half a league, they reached an abbey hoar:

XLVI­II Where­in what of that day was yet un­worn They past, the mor­row, and suc­ceed­ing day; Un­til the war­rior of the uni­corn His vigour had re­cruit­ed by the stay. He, Leo, and Melis­sa then re­turn To Charles’s roy­al res­idence; where lay An em­bassy, ar­rived the eve be­fore, Which from the Bul­gars’ land a mes­sage bore.

XLIX Since they that had for king pro­claimed the knight Be­sought Rogero thith­er to re­pair Through these their en­voys deem­ing they would light On him in Charles’s court, where they should swear Fi­deli­ty, and yield to him his right; And he from them the crown re­ceive and wear. Rogero’s squire who served this band to steer Has pub­lished tid­ings of the cav­alier.

L He of the fight has told which at Bel­grade Erewhile Rogero for the Bul­gars won; How Leo and his sire were over­laid, And all their army slaugh­tered and un­done; Where­fore the Bul­gars him their king had made; Their roy­al line ex­clud­ing from the throne: Then how Un­gia­rdo took the war­rior brave, And him to cru­el Theodo­ra gave.

LI He speaks with that of cer­tain news, which say How good Rogero’s jail­er was found dead, The prison broke and pris­on­er away: Of what be­came of him was noth­ing said. — To­wards the city by a se­cret way (Nor was his vis­age seen) Rogero sped. He, on the fol­low­ing morn­ing, and his friend, Leo, to Charles’s court to­geth­er wend.

LII To Charles’ court he wends; the bird he bore Of gold with its two heads — of crim­son hue Its field — and that same vest and en­signs wore, As was erewhile de­vised be­tween the two; And such as in the list­ed fight be­fore His bruised and bat­tered ar­mour was in shew. So that they quick­ly knew the cav­alier From him that strove with Bradamant whilere.

LI­II In roy­al or­na­ments and cost­ly gown, Un­armed, be­side him doth young Leo fare. A wor­thy fol­low­ing and of high renown Be­fore, be­hind him, and about him are. He bowed to Charle­magne, who from his throne Had risen to do hon­our to the pair: Then hold­ing still Rogero by the hand, So spake, while all that war­rior close­ly scanned.

LIV “Be­hold the cham­pi­on good, that did main­tain From dawn till fall of day the fu­ri­ous fight; And since by Bradamant nor tak­en, slain, Nor forced be­yond the bar­ri­ers was the knight, He is as­sured his vic­to­ry is plain, Dread sir, if he your edict reads aright; And he hath won the la­dy for his wife: So comes to claim the guer­don of the strife.

LV “Be­sides that by your edict’s tenor none But him can to the damsel lift his eyes, — Is she de­served by deeds of val­our done, What oth­er is so wor­thy of the prize? — Should she by him that loves her best be won, None pass­es him, nor with the war­rior vies; And he is here to fight against all foes That would in arms his right in her op­pose.”

LVI King Charle­magne and all his peer­age stand Amazed, who well be­lieved the Gre­cian peer With Bradamant had striv­en with lift­ed brand In fight, and not that un­known cav­alier. Marphisa, thith­er borne amid the band, That crowd­ed round the roy­al chair to hear, Hard­ly till Leo made an end­ing staid; Then prest be­fore the lis­ten­ing troop, and said:

LVII “Since here Rogero is not, to con­test The bride’s pos­ses­sion with the stranger knight, Lest he, as un­de­fend­ed, be op­prest, And for­feit so with­out dis­pute his right, On his be­half I un­der­take this quest, — His sis­ter I — against what­ev­er wight Shall here as­sert a claim to Bradamant, Or more desert than good Rogero vaunt.”

LVI­II She spake this with such anger and dis­dain, Many sur­mised amid the as­sis­tant crew, That, with­out wait­ing leave from Charle­magne, What she had threat­ened she forth­with would do. No longer Leo deemed it time to feign; And from Rogero’s head the helm with­drew; And to Marphisa, “For him­self to speak, Be­hold him here and ready!” cried the Greek.

LIX As looked old Aegeus at the ac­cursed board, See­ing it was his son to whom — so willed His wicked con­sort — that Athe­ni­an lord Had giv­en the juice from dead­ly drugs dis­tilled; Whom he, if he had rec­og­nized his sword Though but a lit­tle lat­er, would have killed; So looked Marphisa when, dis­closed to view, She in the stranger knight Rogero knew;

LX And ran forth­with to clip the cav­alier; Nor could un­clasp her arms: with lov­ing show Charle­magne, Roland, and Ri­nal­do, here And there, fix friend­ly kiss­es on his brow. Nor him Sir Dudon, nor Sir Olivi­er, Nor King So­bri­no can ca­ress enow: Nor pal­adin nor peer, amid the crew, Wea­ries of wel­com­ing that war­rior true.

LXI Leo, who well can play the spokesman, now That war­like band hath ceased to clip the knight, Tells be­fore Charles and all that au­di­ence, how Rogero’s dar­ing, how Rogero’s might, — Al­beit to his good squadron’s scathe and woe — Which at Bel­grade he wit­nessed in that fight, So moved him that they over­weighed all harms In­flict­ed on him by the war­rior’s arms.

LXII So that to her Rogero be­ing brought, Who would all hav­oc of the youth have made, He set­ting all his fam­ily at nought, Had out of du­rance vile the knight con­veyed; And how Rogero, that the res­cue wrought By Leo might be worthi­ly re­paid, Did that high cour­tesy; which can by none, That ev­er were or e’er will be, out­done;

LXI­II And he from point to point con­tin­uing, said That which Rogero had for him achieved; And af­ter, how by sor­row sore best­ed, In that to leave his cher­ished wife he grieved, He had re­solved to die, and, al­most dead, Was on­ly by his time­ly aid re­lieved; And this he told so mov­ing­ly, no eye Re­mained, amid those mar­tial many, dry.

LX­IV So ef­fi­ca­cious­ly he af­ter prayed To the ob­sti­nate Duke Ay­mon, not alone The stub­born sire of Bradamant he swayed, And to forego his set­tled pur­pose won; But that proud lord in per­son did per­suade To beg Rogero’s par­don, and his son And son-​in-​law to be be­seech the knight; And thus to him his Bradamant was plight.

LXV To her, where, of her fee­ble life in doubt, She in a se­cret cham­ber made lament, Through many a mes­sen­ger, with joy­ful shout And mick­le haste, the hap­py tid­ings went. Hence the warm blood, that stag­nat­ed about Her heart, by her first sor­row thith­er sent, Ebbed at this no­tice in so full a tide, Well nigh for sud­den joy the damsel died.

LXVI Of all her vigour is she so fore­gone, She can­not on her fee­ble feet re­ly: Yet what her force must needs to you be known, And what the damsel’s mag­na­nim­ity. None doomed to prison, wheel or hal­ter, none Con­demned some oth­er evil death to die, About whose brows the sable band is tied, Re­joic­es more to hear his par­don cried.

LXVII Joys Cler­mont’s, joys Mon­grana’s no­ble house, Those kin­dred branch­es that fresh know to view. With equal grief Count Anselm over­flows, Gan, Fal­con, Gi­ni and Gi­na­mi’s crew: Yet they mean­while be­neath con­tent­ed brows Con­ceal the dark and en­vi­ous thoughts they brew. As the fox waits the mo­tions of the hare, They wait their time for vengeance, and for­bear.

LXVI­II Be­sides that of­ten­times be­fore the rage Of Roland and Ri­nal­do on them fell, Though they were calmed by Charles’s coun­sel sage, And com­mon dan­ger from the in­fi­del, They had new cause for grief in Berto­lage Slain by their foe­men and Sir Pinnabel: But they con­cealed their ha­tred, and en­dured Those griefs, as of the mat­ter ill as­sured.

LX­IX Those en­voys of the Bul­gars that had made For Charles’s court (as hath erewhile been shown), Hop­ing to find the knight, whose shield pour­trayed The uni­corn, elect­ed to their throne, Bless the good for­tune which their hope re­payed, See­ing that valiant war­rior, and fall down Be­fore his feet, and him in hum­ble speech Again to seek their Bul­gary be­seech;

LXX Where kept for him in Adri­anople are The scep­tre and the crown, his roy­al due: But let him suc­cour to his king­dom bear; For — to their fur­ther scathe — ad­vices shew Con­stan­tine doth a mighty host pre­pare, And thith­er­ward in per­son moves anew; And they — of their elect­ed king pos­sest — Hope the Greek em­pire from his hands to wrest.

LXXI He ac­cepts the realm, by their en­treaties won; And, to af­ford them aid against their foes, Will went to Bul­gary when three months are done; Save For­tune oth­er­wise of him dis­pose. When this is heard by that Greek em­per­or’s son, He bids Rogero on his faith re­pose; For since by him the Bul­gar’s realm is swayed, Peace be­tween them and Con­stan­tine is made;

LXXII Nor needeth he de­part in haste, to guide His Bul­gar bands against the Gre­cian foe; For all that he had con­quered far and wide, He will per­suade his fa­ther to forego. None of the virtues, in Rogero spied, Moved Bradamant’s am­bi­tious moth­er so, Or so to en­dear her son-​in-​law availed, As hear­ing now that son a sovereign hailed.

LXXI­II The rich and roy­al nup­tials they pre­pare As well be­fits him, by whose care ’tis done, ‘Tis done by Charles; and with such cost and care As if ’twere for a daugh­ter of his own. For such the mer­its of the damsel are, And such had all her mar­tial kin­dred shown, Charles would not think he should ex­ceed due mea­sure If spent for her was half his king­dom’s trea­sure.

LXXIV He a free court bids cry; whith­er his way Se­cure­ly ev­ery one that wills may wend; And of­fers open lists till the ninth day To whoso­ev­er would in arms con­tend; And bids build bow­ers afield, and in­ter­lay Green boughs there­in, and flow­ers and fo­liage blend; And make those bow­ers so gay with silk and gold, No fair­er place this am­ple world doth hold.

LXXV Guest­ed with­in fair Paris can­not be The count­less for­eign bands that thith­er fare; Who, rich and poor, of high and low de­gree, And Greeks and Latins and Bar­bar­ians are. There is no end of lord and em­bassy That thith­er from all ends of earth re­pair; All lodged con­ve­nient­ly, to their con­tent, Be­neath pavil­ion, booth, and bow­er and tent.

LXXVI The weird Melis­sa against the com­ing night With sin­gu­lar and match­less or­na­ment Had for that pair the nup­tial cham­ber dight; Where­on long time be­fore she had been bent: Long time be­fore de­sirous of the rite Had been that dame, pre­sage­ful of the event; Pre­sage­ful of fu­tu­ri­ty, she knew What good­ly fruit should from their stems en­sue.

LXXVII She had pre­pared the ge­nial, fruit­ful bed, Un­der a broad pavil­ion; one more rich, Adorned, and jo­cund, nev­er over­head (Did this for peace or war its mas­ter pitch) Was in the world, be­fore or af­ter, spread; And this from Thra­cian strand had borne the witch. The cost­ly prize from Con­stan­tine she bore, Who for dis­port was tent­ed on that shore.

LXXVI­II She with young Leo’s leave, or rather so The Gre­cian’s ad­mi­ra­tion to ob­tain, And a rare to­ken of that art to show, Which on Hell’s mighty drag­on puts the rein, And at her plea­sure rules that im­pi­ous foe Of Heav­en, to­geth­er with his evil train, Bade demons the pavil­ion through mid air To Paris from Con­stantino­ple bear.

LXXIX From Con­stan­tine that lay there­in, who swayed The Gre­cian em­pire’s scep­tre, at mid-​day This with its cordage, shaft where­by ’twas stayed, And all with­in and out, she bore away; And of the cost­ly tent, through air con­veyed, For young Rogero made a lodg­ing gay. The bridal end­ed, this her de­mon crew Thith­er, from whence ’twas brought, con­veyed anew.

LXXX Two thou­sand te­dious years were nigh com­plete, Since this fair work was fash­ioned by the lore Of Tro­jan maid, warmed with prophet­ic heat; Who, ‘mid long labour and ‘mid vig­il sore, With her own fin­gers all the sto­ried sheet Of the pavil­ion had em­broi­dered o’er; Cas­san­dra hight; that maid to Hec­tor brave (Her broth­er he) this cost­ly present gave.

LXXXI The curtiest cav­alier, the kindli­est shoot That ev­er from her broth­er’s stock should grow (Al­beit she knew far dis­tant from its root, With many a branch be­tween, should be that bough) In silk and gold up­on the gor­geous suit Of hang­ings had she wrought in good­ly show. Much prized that gift, while liv­ing, Pri­am’s son, For its rare work and her by whom ’twas done.

LXXXII But when by treach­ery per­ished Pri­am’s heir, And Greeks the Tro­jans scathed in cru­el sort, When her gates opened by false Sinon were, And di­rer ill was done than tales re­port, This plun­der fell to Menelaus’ share, Where­with to Egypt’s land he made re­sort; There left it to King Pro­teus, Egypt’s lord, In ran­som for his pris­oned wife re­stored;

LXXXI­II She He­len hight: her Menelaus to free, To Pro­teus the pavil­ion gave away; Which, pass­ing through the line of Ptole­my, To Cleopa­tra fell; from her in fray Agrip­pa’s band on the Leu­ca­di­an sea Bore off the trea­sure, amid oth­er prey. Au­gus­tus and Tiberius heired the loom, Kept till the time of Con­stan­tine in Rome:

LXXXIV That Con­stan­tine, whom thou shall ev­er rue Fair Italy, while the heav­ens above are rolled. Con­stan­tine to Byzan­tium, when he grew Weary of Ty­ber, bore the tent of old. Melis­sa from his name­sake this with­drew, Its pole of ivory and its cord of gold, And all its cloth with beau­teous fig­ures fraught; Fair­er Apelles’ pen­cil nev­er wrought.

LXXXV Here the three Graces in gay ves­ture gowned As­sist­ed the de­liv­ery of a queen. Not in four ages in this earth­ly round Was ev­er born a boy so fair of mien. Jove, Venus, Mars, and Mer­cury renowned For flu­ent speech, about the child are seen: Him have they strewed, and stew with heav­en’s per­fume, Am­brosial odours and aethe­ri­al bloom.

LXXXVI Hip­poly­tus a lit­tle la­bel said, In­scribed up­on the ba­by’s swad­dling clothes. By the hand him For­tune leads in age more staid; And Val­our as a guide be­fore him goes. An un­known band in sweep­ing vest ar­raid, With long de­scend­ing locks, the tapestry shows, De­put­ed by Corv­inus to de­sire The ten­der in­fant from his prince­ly sire.

LXXXVII He rev­er­ent­ly parts from Her­cules’ side, From her, his la­dy moth­er, Eleanor; And to the Danube wends; where far and wide They meet the boy, and as a god adore. The pru­dent king of Hun­gary is de­scried, Who does due hon­our to his ripened lore, In yet un­ripe, yea, raw and ten­der years, And ranks the stripling above all his peers.

LXXXVI­II One is there that in his green age and new Places Strigo­nia’s crozi­er in his hand. Him ev­er at Corv­inus’ side we view; Whether he doth in court or camp com­mand, Whether against the Turk, or Ger­man crew The puis­sant monarch leads his mar­tial band, Watch­ful Hip­poly­tus is at his side, And gath­ers virtue from his gen­er­ous guide.

LXXXIX There is it seen, how he his bloom­ing age Di­vides mid arts and whole­some dis­ci­pline: The se­cret spir­it of the an­cient page There Fus­cus well in­structs him to di­vine: “This must thou shun, that fol­low” — seems the sage To say — “if thou im­mor­tal­ly wouldst shine.” Fash­ioned with­al with so much skill and care By her who wrought that work, their ges­tures were.

XC A car­di­nal he next is seen, though young In years, at coun­cil in the Vat­ican; Where for deep wis­dom graced by elo­quent tongue, With won­der him the as­sem­bled con­clave scan. “What will he be” — they seem to say among Them­selves — “when he is ripened in­to man? Oh! if on him St. Pe­ter’s man­tle fall, What a blest aera! what a hap­py call!”

XCI That brave youth’s lib­er­al pas­times are de­signed In oth­er place; on Alpine moun­tain hoar Here he af­fronts the bear of rugged kind; And there in rushy bot­tom bays the boar: Now on his jen­net he out­goes the wind, And drives some goat or gal­lant hind be­fore; Which falls o’er­tak­en on the dusty plain, By his de­scend­ing faul­chion cleft in twain.

XCII He is de­scried, amid a fair ar­ray Of po­ets and philoso­phers else­where This pricks for him the wan­der­ing plan­ets’ way; These earth, these heav­en for his in­struc­tion square. Some chant sad ele­gies, some vers­es gay Lays lyric or hero­ic; singers there He with rich mu­sic hears; nor moves a pace But what in ev­ery step is sovereign grace.

XCI­II The first part of the sto­ried walls pour­traied That no­ble prince’s gen­tle in­fan­cy. Cas­san­dra all be­side had over­laid With fears of jus­tice, pru­dence, mod­esty, Val­our, and that fifty virtue, which hath made With those fair sis­ters clos­est ami­ty; I speak of her that gives and that be­stows. With all these virtues gilt, the stripling glows.

XCIV In this part is the prince­ly youth es­pied With that un­hap­py duke, the In­sub­ri’s head; In peace they sit in coun­cil at his side, To­geth­er armed, the ser­pent-​ban­ner spread. The youth by one un­chang­ing faith is tied To him for ev­er, well or ill best­ed; His fol­low­ers still in flight be­fore the foe, His guide in per­il, his sup­port in woe.

XCV Him in an­oth­er quar­ter you de­scry, For his Fer­rara and her duke in fear, Who by strange proofs doth sift, and cer­ti­fy To his just broth­er, vouched by to­kens clear, The close de­vice of that ill treach­ery, Hatched by those kins­men whom he held most dear; Hence just­ly he be­comes that ti­tle’s heir, Which Rome yet free bade righ­teous Tul­ly bear.

XCVI Else­where in mar­tial panoply he shone, Hast­ing to help the church with lift­ed blade; With scanty and tu­mul­tuous levy gone Against well-​or­dered host in arms ar­raid: And lo! the com­ing of that chief alone Af­fords the priest­ly band such present aid, Ex­tin­guished are the fires be­fore they spread. He came, he saw, he con­quered, may be said.

XCVII Else­where he stands up­on his na­tive strand, Fight­ing against the might­iest ar­ma­ment, That when­so­ev­er against Ar­give land, Or Turk­ish, from Vene­tian har­bour went; Scat­ters and over­throws the hos­tile band, And — spoil and pris­on­ers to his broth­er sent — Noth­ing re­serves save that un­fad­ing bay; The on­ly prize he can­not give away.

XCVI­II Up­on those fig­ures gazed the court­ly crew, But read no mean­ing in the sto­ried wall: Be­cause there was not any one to shew That these were things here­after to be­fall. Those fair and quaint­ly fash­ioned forms they view With plea­sure, and pe­ruse the scrolls with­al: But Bradamant, to whom the whole was known, By wise Melis­sa taught, re­joiced alone.

XCIX Though not in­struct­ed in that his­to­ry Like gen­tle Bradamant, the af­fi­anced knight Re­mem­bers how amid his proge­ny At­lantes of­ten praised this Hip­poly­te. — Who faith­ful­ly could verse such cour­tesy, As Charle­magne vouch­safed to ev­ery wight? With var­ious games that solemn feast was cheered, And charged with viands aye the board ap­peared.

C Who is a valiant knight, is here de­scried; For dai­ly broke a thou­sand lances lay: Singly to com­bat or in troops they ride; On horse­back or afoot, they mix in fray. Wor­thi­est of all Rogero is es­pied, Who al­ways con­quers, joust­ing night and day; And so, in wrestling, dance, and ev­ery deed, Still from its ri­vals bears away the meed.

CI On the last day, when at their fes­tive cheer Was seat­ed solemn­ly the as­sem­bled band, Where at Charles’ left was placed the wed­ded peer, And Bradamant up­on his bet­ter hand, Across the fields an armed cav­alier, Of sem­blance haughty, and of stature grand, Was seen to ride to­wards the roy­al ta­ble; Him­self and cours­er whol­ly clothed in sable.

CII The King of Argi­er he; that for the scorn Re­ceived from her, when on the bridge he fell, Nev­er to clothe him­self in arms had sworn, Nor draw the faul­chion nor be­stride the sell, Till he had like an an­choret out­worn A year and month and day in low­ly cell. So to chas­tise them­selves for such like crimes Were cav­aliers ac­cus­tomed in those times.

CI­II Al­beit of Charles and Agra­mant the Moor Had heard the sev­er­al for­tunes while away, Not to foreswear him­self, he armed no more Than if in nought con­cerned in that af­fray: But when the year and month were whol­ly o’er, And whol­ly past was the suc­ceed­ing day, With oth­er cours­er, har­ness, sword, and lance, The king be­took him to the court of France.

CIV He nei­ther light­ed from his horse, nor bowed His head; and, with­out sign of rev­er­ence due, His scorn for Charle­magne by ges­tures showed, And the high pres­ence of so fair a crew. As­tound and full of won­der stood the crowd, Such li­cense in that haughty man to view. All leave their meat, all leave their talk, to hear The pur­pose of the stranger cav­alier.

CV To Charles and to Rogero op­po­site, With a loud voice, and in proud ac­cent, “I Am Rodomont of Sarza,” said the knight, “Who thee, Rogero, to the field de­fy; And here, be­fore the sun with­draws his light, Will prove on thee thine in­fi­deli­ty; And that thou, as a traitor to thy lord, De­serv’st not any hon­our at this board.

CVI “Al­beit thy felony be plain and clear, Which thou, as chris­tened, canst not dis­avow; Nath­less to make it yet more plain ap­pear, This will I prove up­on thee; and, if thou Canst find a knight to com­bat for thee here, Him will ac­cept; — if one be not enow — Will four, nay six ac­cept; and will main­tain My words against them all in list­ed plain.”

CVII Rogero, with the leave of Pepin’s son, Up­rose at that ap­peal, and thus replied: That he — nor he alone — but ev­ery one, Who thus im­peached him as a traitor, lied; That so he by his king had ev­er done, Him none could just­ly blame; and on his side, He was pre­pared in list­ed field to shew He ev­er­more by him had done his due.

CVI­II He can de­fend him­self; nor need he crave An­oth­er war­rior’s help that course to run; And ’tis his hope to show him he would have Enough, per­haps would have too much, of one. Thith­er Or­lan­do and Ri­nal­do, brave Olivi­er, and his white and sable son, Thith­er good Dudon and Marphisa wend; Who fain with that fierce payn­im will con­tend.

CIX They tell Rogero that, as new­ly wed The com­bat he in per­son should refuse. “Take ye no fur­ther pains,” the war­rior said, “For such would be for me a foul ex­cuse.” The Tar­tar’s arms were brought, which cut the thread Of more de­lay and of all fur­ther truce: With spurs Or­lan­do deck’d the youth­ful lord, King Charle­magne be­girt him with the sword.

CX Marphisa and Bradamant in corslet case His breast, and clothe him in his oth­er gear. As­tolpho led his horse of no­ble race: Sir Dudon held his stir­rup: far and near Ri­nal­do and Na­mus made the mob give place, As­sist­ed by the Mar­quis Olivi­er. All from the crowd­ed lists they drive with speed, Ev­er­more kept in or­der for such need.

CXI The pale-​faced dames and damsels troop, in guise Of pi­geons round the lists, a timid show; When, home­ward bound, from fruit­ful field they rise, Scared by wide-​sweep­ing winds, which loud­ly blow, Mid flash and clap; and when the sable skies Threat hail and rain, the har­vest’s waste and woe: A timid troop, they for Rogero fear, Ill matched they deem with that fierce cav­alier.

CXII So him deemed all the rab­ble; and so most Of those bold cav­alier and barons thought; In that they had not yet the mem­ory lost Of what that payn­im had in Paris wrought, When singly fire and sword the war­rior tost, And much of that fair town to ru­in brought; Whose signs re­mained, and yet will long re­main: Nor ev­er greater hav­oc plagued that reign.

CXI­II Bradamant’s heart above those oth­ers’ beat: Not that she deemed the Sara­cen in might, Or val­our which in the heart-​core hath its seat, Was of more prowess than the youth­ful knight; Nor (what oft gives suc­cess in mar­tial feat That with the payn­im was the bet­ter right. Yet can­not she her some ill mis­giv­ings quell. But up­on those that love such fear sits well.

CX­IV Oh! in her fear for him, how will­ing­ly She bat­tle for Rogero would have done! If life­less on the list­ed field to lie Sur­er than sure, — in fight with Ulien’s son. More than one death would she con­sent to die, If she with­al could suf­fer more than one, Rather than she in that un­hap­py strife Would see her cher­ished con­sort risk his life.

CXV But prayer availed not on the damsel’s part To make Rogero leave to her the quest: She then with mourn­ful face and beat­ing heart Stood by to view that pair to fight ad­drest. From right and left the peer and payn­im start, And at each oth­er run with lance in rest. The spears seem ice, as they in shiv­ers fly. The frag­ments birds, that mount through mid­dle sky.

CXVI Rodomont’s lance which smote in the ca­reer Up­on mid-​shield, yet harmed it lit­tle; so Per­fect was fa­mous Hec­tor’s iron gear, Hard­ened by Vul­can’s hand, and safe from blow. As well against the shield his lev­elled spear Rogero guides, and that good buck­ler — though Well steeled with­in and out, with bone be­tween, And nigh a palm in thick­ness — pierces clean;

CXVII And — but his lance re­sists not that fierce shock, And at the first as­sault its splin­ters fly, And bits and frag­ments of the shiv­ered stock Seem fledged with feath­ers they as­cend so high; Were his arms hewn from adaman­tine rock, The spear would pierce the payn­im’s panoply; And end that bat­tle: but it breaks with­al, And on their croups both stag­ger­ing cours­ers fall.

CXVI­II With bri­dle and with spur the mar­tial pair Raise their proud hors­es nim­bly from the ground; And hav­ing broke their spears, with faul­chions bare Re­turn, to bandy fierce and cru­el wound. Wheel­ing with won­drous mas­tery, here and there, The bold and ready cours­ers in a round, The war­riors with their bit­ing swords be­gin To try where ei­ther’s ar­mour is most thin.

CX­IX Rodomont had not that hard drag­on-​hide Which hereto­fore had cased the war­rior’s breast; Nor Nim­rod’s tren­chant sword was at his side; Nor the ac­cus­tomed helm his tem­ples prest. For on that bridge which spanned the nar­row tide, A los­er to Dor­dona’s la­dy, vest And arms sus­pend­ed from the vo­tive stone He left; as I, meseems, erewhile have shown.

CXX Clad was the king in oth­er good­ly mail; Yet not like that first panoply se­cure: But nei­ther this, nor that, nor hard­er scale Could Bal­is­ar­da’s dead­ly dint en­dure; Against which nei­ther work­man­ship avail, En­chant­ment, tem­per, nor prime steel and pure. So here so there Rogero plied his sword, He more than once the payn­im’s ar­mour bored.

CXXI When Rodomont be­holds in that fierce close His wide­ly crim­soned arms, nor can re­strain The greater por­tion of those grid­ing blows From bit­ing to the quick, through plate and chain, He with more fury, with more rage o’er­flows, Than in mid win­ter the tem­pe­strous main Flings down his shield, and with both hands out­right Lays at Rogero’s helm with all his might.

CXXII With that ex­ces­sive force, where­with the gin, Erect­ed in two barges up­on Po, And raised by men and wheels, with deaf­en­ing din De­scends up­on the sharp­ened piles be­low, With all his might he smote the pal­adin With ei­ther hand; was nev­er di­rer blow: Him the charmed hel­met helped, or — such its force — The stroke would have di­vid­ed man and horse.

CXXI­II As if about to fall, the youth­ful lord Twice nod­ded, open­ing legs and arms; anew Rodomont smote, in that he would af­ford His foe no time his spir­its to re­new: Then threat­ened oth­er stroke; but that fine sword Bore not such ham­mer­ing, and in shiv­ers flew; And the bold Sara­cen, bereft of brand Was in the com­bat left with un­armed hand.

CXXIV But not for this doth Rodomont re­frain: He swoops up­on the Child, un­heed­ing aught: So sore as­tound­ed is Rogero’s brain; So whol­ly over­cloud­ed is his thought. But him the payn­im well awakes again, Whom by the neck he with strong arm has caught, And gripes and grap­ples with such mighty force, He falls on earth, pulled head­long from his horse.

CXXV Yet leaps from earth as nim­bly, moved by spleen Far less than shame; for on his gen­tle bride He turned his eyes, and that fair face serene Now trou­bled the dis­dain­ful war­rior spied. She in sore doubt her cham­pi­on’s fall had seen; And well nigh at that sight the la­dy died. Rogero, quick­ly to re­venge the af­front, Clutch­es his sword and faces Rodomont.

CXXVI He at Rogero rode, who that rude shock Shunned war­ily, re­tir­ing from his ground, And, as he past, the payn­im’s bri­dle took With his left had, and turned his cours­er round; While with his right he at his rid­er struck, Whom he in bel­ly, flank and breast would wound; And twice sore an­guish felt the monarch, gored In flank and thigh, by good Rogero’s sword.

CXXVII Rodomont, grasp­ing still in that close fight The hilt and pom­mel of his bro­ken blade, Layed at Rogero’s hel­met with such might, That him an­oth­er stroke might have dis­maid: But good Rogero, who should win of right, Seiz­ing his arm, the king so rude­ly swayed, Bring­ing his left his bet­ter hand to speed, That he pulled down the payn­im from his steed.

CXXVI­II Through force or skill, so fell the Moor­ish lord, He stood his match, I rather ought to say Fell on his feet; be­cause Rogero’s sword Gave him, ’twas deemed, ad­van­tage in the fray. Rogero stands aloof, with wary ward As fain to keep the payn­im king at bay. For the wise cham­pi­on will not let a wight So talk and bulky close with him in fight;

CXXIX Rogero flank and thigh dyed red be­held, And oth­er wounds; and hoped he would have failed By lit­tle and by lit­tle, as it welled; So that he fi­nal­ly should have pre­vailed. His hilt and pom­mel in his fist yet held The payn­im, which with all his might he scaled At young Rogero; whom he smote so sore, The stripling nev­er was so stunned be­fore.

CXXX In the hel­met-​cheek and shoul­der-​bone be­low The Child was smit, and left so sore as­tound, He, trip­ping still and stag­ger­ing to and fro, Scarce kept him­self from falling to the ground. Rodomont fain would close up­on his foe; But his foot fails him, weak­ened by the wound, Which pierced his thigh: he over­tasked his might; And on his kneep­an fell the payn­im knight.

CXXXI Rogero lost no time, and with fierce blows Smote him in face and bo­som with his brand; Ham­mered, and held the Sara­cen so close, To ground he bore that cham­pi­on with his hand. But he so stirred him­self, again he rose: He gripes Rogero so, fast locked they stand. Sec­ond­ing their huge vigour by ad­dress, They cir­cle one an­oth­er, shake, and press.

CXXXII His wound­ed thigh and gap­ing flank had sore Weak­ened the vigour of the Moor­ish king: Rogero had ad­dress; had mick­le lore; Was great­ly prac­tised in the wrestlers’ ring: He marked his van­tage, nor from strife for­bore; And, where he saw the blood most freely spring, And where most wound­ed was the war­rior, prest The payn­im with his feet, his arms, and breast.

CXXXI­II Rodomont filled with spite and rage, his foe Takes by the neck and shoul­ders, and now bends To­wards him, and now push­es from him; now Rais­es from earth, and on his chest sus­pends; Whirls here and there and grap­ples; and to throw The stripling sore­ly in that strife con­tends. Col­lect­ed in him­self, Rogero wrought, To keep his van­tage tax­ing strength and thought.

CXXXIV So shift­ing oft his hold, about the Moor His arms the good and bold Rogero wound; Against his left flank shoved his breast, and sore Strained him with all his strength en­gir­dled round. At once he past his bet­ter leg be­fore Rodomont’s knees and pushed, and from the ground Up­lift­ed high in air the Moor­ish lord; Then hurled him down head fore­most on the sward.

CXXXV Such was the shock where­with King Rodomont With bat­tered head and spine the cham­pi­on smote, That, is­su­ing from his wounds as from a font, Streams of red blood the crim­soned herbage float. Rogero, hold­ing For­tune by the front, Lest he should rise, with one hand griped his throat, With one a dag­ger at his eyes ad­drest; And with his knees the payn­im’s bel­ly prest.

CXXVI As some­times where they work the gold­en vein With­in Pan­non­ian or Iberi­an cave, In un­ex­pect­ed ru­in whelm the train By im­pi­ous avarice there con­demned to slave, So with the load they lie op­prest, with pain A pas­sage can their pris­oned spir­it have: No less op­prest the doughty payn­im lay, Pinned to the ground in that dis­as­trous fray.

CXXXVII Rogero at his vi­zor doth present His naked poniard’s point, with threat­en­ing cry, That he will slay him, save he yields, con­tent To let him live, if he for grace ap­ply. But Rodomont, who rather than be shent For the least deed of shame, pre­ferred to die, Writhed, strug­gled, and with all his vigour tried To pull Rogero down, and nought replied.

CXXXVI­II As mas­tiff that be­low the deer-​hound lies, Fixed by the gul­let fast, with hold­ing bite, Sore­ly be­stirs him­self and vain­ly tries, With lips be­smeared with foam and eyes alight, And can­not from be­neath the con­queror rise, Who foils his foe by force, and not de­spite; So vain­ly strives the monarch of Argi­er To rise from un­der­neath the cav­alier.

CXXXIX Yet Rodomont so twists and strives, he gains The free­dom of his bet­ter arm anew; And with the right hand, which his poniard strains, For he had drawn his dead­ly dag­ger too, Would wound Rogero un­der­neath the reins: But now the wary youth the er­ror knew Through which he might have died, by his de­lay That im­pi­ous Sara­cen forth­with to slay;

CXL And smit­ing twice or thrice his hor­rid front, Rais­ing as high as he could raise in air His dag­ger, buried it in Rodomont; And freed him­self with­al from fur­ther care. Loosed from the more than icy corse, to font Of fetid Acheron, and hell’s foul re­pair, The in­dig­nant spir­it fled, blas­phem­ing loud; Erewhile on earth so haughty and so proud.