Orlando Furioso

CANTO 6

AR­GU­MENT Ar­io­dantes has, a wor­thy meed, With his loved bride, the fief of Al­bany. Mean­time Rogero, on the fly­ing steed, Ar­rives in false Al­ci­na’s em­pery: There from a myr­tle-​tree her ev­ery deed, A hu­man myr­tle hears, and treach­ery, And thence would go; but they who first with­drew Him from one strife, en­gage him in a new.

I Wretched that evil man who lives in trust His se­cret sin is safe in his pos­ses­sion! Since, if nought else, the air, the very dust In which the crime is buried, makes con­fes­sion, And of­ten­times his guilt com­pels the un­just, Though some­time unar­raigned in world­ly ses­sion, To be his own ac­cus­er, and be­wray, So God has willed, deeds hid­den from the day.

II The un­hap­py Po­li­nes­so hopes had nursed, Whol­ly his se­cret trea­son to con­ceal. By tak­ing off Dalin­da, who was versed In this, and on­ly could the fact re­veal; And adding thus a sec­ond to his first Of­fence, but hur­ried on the dread ap­peal, Which hap­ly he had stunned, at least de­ferred; But he to self-​de­struc­tion blind­ly spurred.

III And for­feit­ed es­tate, and life, and love Of friends at once, and hon­our, which was more. The cav­alier un­known, I said above, Long of the king and court en­treat­ed sore, At length the cov­er­ing hel­met did re­move, And showed a vis­age of­ten seen be­fore, The cher­ished face of Ar­io­dantes true, Of late lament­ed weep­ing Scot­land through;

IV Ar­io­dantes, whom with tear­ful eye His broth­er and Geneu­ra wept as dead, And king, and peo­ple, and no­bil­ity: Such light his good­ness and his val­our shed. The pil­grim there­fore might ap­pear to lie In what he of the miss­ing war­rior said. Yet was it true that from a head­land, he Had seen him plunge in­to the foam­ing sea.

V But, as it oft be­falls de­spair­ing wight, Who gris­ly Death de­sires till he ap­pear; But loathes what he had sought, on near­er sight; So painful seems the cru­el pass and drear. Thus, in the sea en­gulphed, the wretched knight, Re­pen­tant of his deed, was touched with fear; And, match­less both for spir­it and for hand, Beat back the bil­lows, and re­turned to land.

VI And, now de­spis­ing, as of fol­ly bred, The fond de­sire which did to death im­pell, Thence, soaked and drip­ping wet, his way did tread, And halt­ed at a her­mit’s hum­ble cell: And housed with­in the holy fa­ther’s shed, There se­cret­ly awhile de­signed to dwell; Till to his ears by ru­mour should be voiced, If his Geneu­ra sor­rowed or re­joiced.

VII At first he heard that, through ex­cess of woe, The mis­er­able damsel well-​nigh died: For so abroad the dole­ful tid­ings go, ‘Twas talked of in the is­land, far and wide: Far oth­er proof than that de­ceit­ful show, Which to his cru­el grief he thought he spied! And next against the fair Geneu­ra heard Lur­canio to her sire his charge pre­ferred:

VI­II Nor for his broth­er felt less en­mi­ty Than was the love he late­ly bore the maid; For he too foul, and full of cru­el­ty, Es­teemed the deed, al­though for him es­sayed; And, hear­ing af­ter, in her jeop­ardy, That none ap­peared to lend the damsel aid, Be­cause so puis­sant was Lur­canio’s might, All dread­ed an en­counter with the knight,

IX And that who well the youth­ful cham­pi­on knew, Be­lieved he was so wary and dis­creet, That, had what he re­lat­ed been un­true, He nev­er would have risqued so rash a feat, — For this the greater part the fight es­chew, Fear­ing in wrong­ful cause the knight to meet — Ar­io­dantes (long his doubts are weighed) Will meet his broth­er in Geneu­ra’s aid.

X “Alas! (he said) I can­not bear to see Thus by my cause the roy­al damsel die; My death too bit­ter and too dread would be, Did I, be­fore my own, her death de­scry; For still my la­dy, my di­vin­ity She is; — the light and com­fort of my eye. Her, right or wrong, I can­not choose but shield, And for her safe­ty per­ish in the field.

XI “I know I choose the wrong, and be it so! And in the cause shall die: nor this would move; But that, alas! my death, as well I know, Will such a love­ly dame’s de­struc­tion prove, To death I with one on­ly com­fort go, That, if her Po­li­nes­so bears her love, To her will man­ifest­ly be dis­played, That hith­er­to he moves not in her aid.

XII “And me, so wronged by her, the maid shall view En­counter death in her de­fence; and he, My broth­er, who such flames of dis­cord blew, Shall pay the debt of vengeance due to me. For well I ween to make Lur­canio rue (In­formed of the event) his cru­el­ty, Who will have thought to venge me with his brand, And will have slain me with his very hand.”

XI­II He, hav­ing this con­clud­ed in his thought, Made new pro­vi­sion of arms, steed, and shield; Black was the vest and buck­ler which he bought, Where green and yel­low striped the sable field: By haz­ard found, with him a squire he brought, A stranger in that coun­try; and, con­cealed (As is al­ready told) the un­hap­py knight, Against his broth­er came, pre­pared for fight.

XV And yield­ing to his nat­ural in­cli­na­tion, And at the suit of all his court be­side, And most­ly at Ri­nal­do’s in­sti­ga­tion, As­signed the youth the damsel as his bride. Al­bany’s duchy, now in se­ques­tra­tion, Late Po­li­nes­so’s, who in du­el died, Could not be for­feit­ed in hap­pi­er hour; Since this the monarch made his daugh­ter’s dow­er.

XVI Ri­nal­do for Dalin­da mer­cy won; Who from her fault’s due pun­ish­ment went free. She, sa­ti­ate of the world, (and this to shun, The damsel so had vowed) to God will flee: And hence, in Den­mark’s land, to live a nun, Straight from her na­tive Scot­land sailed the sea. But it is time Rogero to pur­sue, Who on his cours­er posts the welkin through.

XVII Al­though Rogero is of con­stant mind, Not from his cheek the wont­ed hues de­part. I ween that faster than a leaf i’ the wind Flut­tered with­in his breast the stripling’s heart. All Eu­rope’s re­gion he had left be­hind In his swift course; and, is­su­ing in that part, Passed by a mighty space, the south­ern sound Where great Al­cides fixed the sailor’s bound.

XVI­II That hip­pogryph, huge fowl, and strange to sight, Bears off the war­rior with such rapid wing, He would have dis­tanced, in his airy flight, The thun­der bear­ing bird of Aether’s king: Nor oth­er liv­ing crea­ture soars such height, Him in his mighty swift­ness equalling. I scarce be­lieve that bolt, or light­ning flies, Or darts more swift­ly from the part­ed skies.

XIX When the huge bird his pin­ions long had plied, In a straight line, with­out one stoop or bend, He, tired of air, with sweep­ing wheel and wide, Be­gan up­on an is­land to de­scend; Like that fair re­gion, whith­er, long un­spied Of him, her way­ward mood did long of­fend, Whilom in vain, through strange and se­cret sluice, Passed un­der sea the Vir­gin Arethuse.

XX A more de­light­ful place, wher­ev­er hurled Through the whole air, Rogero had not found: And, had he ranged the uni­ver­sal world, Would not have seen a love­li­er in his round, Than that, where, wheel­ing wide, the cours­er furled His spread­ing wings, and light­ed on the ground, ‘Mid cul­ti­vat­ed plain, de­li­cious hill, Moist mead­ow, shady bank, and crys­tal rill.

XXI Small thick­ets, with the scent­ed lau­rel gay, Cedar, and or­ange, full of fruit and flow­er, Myr­tle and palm, with in­ter­wo­ven spray, Pleached in mixed modes, all love­ly, form a bow­er; And, break­ing with their shade the scorch­ing ray, Make a cool shel­ter from the noon­tide hour. And nightin­gales among those branch­es wing Their flight, and safe­ly amorous des­cants sing.

XXII Amid red ros­es and white lilies there, Which the soft breezes fresh­en as they fly, Se­cure the cony haunts, and timid hare, And stag, with branch­ing fore­head broad and high. These, fear­less of the hunter’s dart or snare, Feed at their ease, or ru­mi­nat­ing lie: While, swarm­ing in those wilds, from tuft or steep Dun deer or nim­ble goat, dis­port­ing, leap.

XXI­II When the hyp­pogryph above the is­land hung, And had ap­proached so nigh that land­scape fair, That, if his rid­er from the sad­dle sprung, He might the leap with lit­tle dan­ger dare, Rogero lit the grass and flow­ers among, But held him, lest he should re­mount the air: And to a myr­tle, nigh the rolling brine, Made fast, be­tween a bay-​tree and a pine.

XXIV And there, close-​by where rose a bub­bling fount, Be­girt the fer­tile palm and cedar-​tree, He drops the shield, the hel­met from his front Up­lifts, and, ei­ther hand from gaunt­let free, Now turn­ing to the beach, and now the mount, Catch­es the gales which blow from hill or sea, And, with a joy­ous mur­mur, light­ly stir The lofty top of beech, or feath­ery fir:

XXV And, now, to bathe his burn­ing lips he strains; Now dab­bles in the crys­tal wave, to chase The scorch­ing heat which rages in his veins, Caught from the heavy corslet’s burn­ing case. Nor is it mar­vel if the bur­den pains; No ram­ble his in square or mar­ket-​place! Three thou­sand miles, with­out re­pose, he went, And still, at speed, in pon­der­ous ar­mour pent.

XXVI Mean­while the cours­er by the myr­tle’s side, Whom he left sta­bled in the cool re­treat, Start­ed at some­thing in the wood de­scried, Scared by I know not what; and in his heat So made the myr­tle shake where he was tied, He brought a show­er of leaves about his feet; He made the myr­tle shake and fo­liage fall, But, strug­gling, could not loose him­self with­al.

XXVII As in a stick to feed the chim­ney rent, Where scanty pith ill fills the nar­row sheath, The vapour, in its lit­tle chan­nel pent, Strug­gles, tor­ment­ed by the fire be­neath; And, till its pris­oned fury find a vent, Is heard to hiss and bub­ble, sing and seethe: So the of­fend­ed myr­tle in­ly pined, Groaned, mur­mured, and at last un­closed its rind:

XXVI­II And hence a clear, in­tel­li­gi­ble speech Thus is­sued, with a melan­choly sound; “If, as thy cheer and gen­tle pres­ence teach, Thou cour­te­ous art and good, his reign un­bound, Re­lease me from this mon­ster, I be­seech: Griefs of my own in­flict suf­fi­cient wound: Nor need I, com­passed with such ills about, Oth­er new pain to plague me from with­out.”

XXIX At the first sound, Rogero turns to see Whence came the voice, and, in un­used sur­prise, Stands, when he finds it is­sues from the tree; And swift­ly to re­move the cours­er hies. Then, with a face suf­fused with crim­son, he In an­swer to the groan­ing myr­tle, cries; “Par­don! and, what­soe’er thou art, be good, Spir­it of man, or god­dess of the wood!

XXX “Un­weet­ing of the won­der­ous prodi­gy Of spir­it, pent be­neath the knot­ty rind, To your fair leaf and liv­ing body I Have done this scathe and out­rage un­de­signed. But not the less for that, to me re­ply, What art thou, who, in rugged case con­fined, Dost live and speak? And so may nev­er hail From an­gry heav­en your gen­tle boughs as­sail!

XXXI “And if I now or ev­er the de­spite I did thee can re­pair, or aid im­part, I, by that la­dy dear, my promise plight, Who in her keep­ing has my bet­ter part, To strive with word and deed, till thou re­quite The ser­vice done with praise and grate­ful heart.” Rogero said; and, as he closed his suit, That gen­tle myr­tle shook from top to root.

XXXII Next drops were seen to stand up­on the bark, As juice is sweat­ed by the sapling-​spray, New-​sev­ered, when it yields to flame and spark, Some­time in vain kept back and held at bay. And next the voice be­gan: “My sto­ry dark, Forced by thy cour­te­ous deed, I shall dis­play; — What once I was — by whom, through mag­ic lore, Changed to a myr­tle on the pleas­ant shore.

XXXI­II “A peer of France, As­tolpho was my name, Whilom a pal­adin, sore feared in fight; Cousin I was to two of bound­less fame, Or­lan­do and Ri­nal­do. I by right Looked to all Eng­land’s crown; my law­ful claim Af­ter my roy­al fa­ther, Otho hight. More dames than one my beau­ty served to warm, And in con­clu­sion wrought my sin­gle harm.

XXXIV “Re­turn­ing from those isles, whose east­ern side The bil­lows of the In­di­an ocean beat, Where good Ri­nal­do and more knights be­side With me were pent in dark and hol­low seat, Thence, res­cued by il­lus­tri­ous Bra­va’s pride, Whose prowess freed us from that dark re­treat, West­ward I fared along the sandy shores, On which the stormy north his fury pours.

XXXV “Pur­su­ing thus our rugged jour­ney, we Came (such our evil doom) up­on the strand, Where stood a man­sion seat­ed by the sea: Puis­sant Al­ci­na owned the house and land. We found her, where, with­out her dwelling, she Had tak­en on the beach her lone­ly stand; And though nor hook nor sweep­ing net she bore, What fish she willed, at plea­sure drew to shore.

XXXVI “Thith­er swift dol­phins gam­bol, in­ly stirred, And open-​mouthed the cum­brous tun­nies leap; Thith­er the seal or por­pus’ wal­low­ing herd Troop at her bid­ding, roused from lazy sleep; Raven-​fish, salmon, salpouth, at her word, And mul­let hur­ry through the briny deep, With mon­strous backs above the wa­ter, sail Ork, phy­seter, sea-​ser­pent, shark, and whale.

XXXVII “There we be­hold a mighty whale, of size The hugest yet in any wa­ter seen: More than eleven paces, to our eyes, His back ap­pears above the sur­face green: And (for still firm and mo­tion­less he lies, And such the dis­tance his two ends be­tween) We all are cheat­ed by the float­ing pile, And idly take the mon­ster for an isle.

XXXVI­II “Al­ci­na made the ready fish obey By sim­ple words and by mere mag­ic lore: Born with Mor­gana — but I can­not say If at one birth, or af­ter or be­fore. As soon as seen, my as­pect pleased the fay; Who showed it in the coun­te­nance she wore: Then wrought with art, and com­passed her in­tent, To part me from the friends with whom I went.

XXXIX “She came to­wards us with a cheer­ful face, With grace­ful ges­tures, and a cour­te­ous air, And said: ‘So you my lodg­ing please to grace, Sir cav­alier, and will with me re­pair, You shall be­hold the won­ders of my chace, And note the dif­fer­ent sorts of fish I snare; Shag­gy or smooth, or clad in scales of light, And more in num­ber than the stars of night:

XL ” ‘And would you hear a mer­maid sing so sweet, That the rude sea grows civ­il at her song, Wont at this hour her mu­sic to re­peat, (With that she showed the mon­ster huge and long — I said it seemed an is­land — as her seat) Pass with me where she sings the shoals among.’ I, that was al­ways wil­ful, at her wish, I now lament my rash­ness, climb the fish.

XLI “To Dudon and Ri­nal­do’s sig­nal blind, I go, who warn me to mis­doubt the fay. With laugh­ing face Al­ci­na mounts be­hind, Leav­ing the oth­er two be­side the bay. The obe­di­ent fish per­forms the task as­signed, And through the yield­ing wa­ter works his way. Re­pen­tant of my deed, I curse the snare, Too far from land my fol­ly to re­pair.

XLII “To aid me swam Mount Al­ban’s cav­alier, And was nigh drowned amid the waves that rise; For a south-​wind sprang up that, far and near, Cov­ered with sud­den dark­ness seas and skies. I know not af­ter what be­fel the peer: This while Al­ci­na to con­sole me tries, And all that day, and night which fol­lowed, me De­tained up­on that mon­ster in mid-​sea,

XLI­II “Till to this isle we drift­ed with the morn, Of which Al­ci­na keeps a mighty share; By that usurp­er from a sis­ter torn, Who was her fa­ther’s uni­ver­sal heir: For that she on­ly was in wed­lock born, And for those oth­er two false sis­ters were (So well-​in­struct­ed in the sto­ry, said One who re­hearsed the tale) in in­cest bred.

XLIV “As these are prac­tised in in­iq­ui­ty, And full of ev­ery vice and evil art; So she, who ev­er lives in chasti­ty, Wise­ly on bet­ter things has set her heart. Hence, leagued against her, in con­spir­acy, Those oth­ers are, to drive her from her part: And more than once their armies have o’er­run Her realm, and towns above a hun­dred won.

XLV “Nor at this hour a sin­gle span of ground Would Lo­gis­til­la (such her name) com­mand, But that a moun­tain here, and there a sound, Pro­tects the rem­nant from the in­vad­ing band. ‘Tis thus the moun­tain and the riv­er bound Eng­land, and part it from the Scot­tish land. Yet will the sis­ters give their foe no rest, Till of her scanty rem­nant dis­pos­sest.

XLVI “Be­cause in wicked­ness and vice were bred The pair, as chaste and good they loath the dame. But, to re­turn to what I late­ly said, And to re­late how I a plant be­came; Me, full of love, the kind Al­ci­na fed With full de­lights; nor I a weak­er flame For her, with­in my burn­ing heart did bear, Be­hold­ing her so cour­te­ous and so fair.

XLVII “Clasped in her dain­ty limbs, and lapt in plea­sure, I weened that I each sep­arate good had won, Which to mankind is dealt in dif­fer­ent mea­sure, Lit­tle or more to some, and much to none. I ev­er­more con­tem­plat­ed my trea­sure, Nor France nor aught be­side I thought up­on: In her my ev­ery fan­cy, ev­ery hope Cen­tered and end­ed as their com­mon scope.

XLVI­II “By her I was as much beloved, or more; Nor did Al­ci­na now for oth­er care; She left her ev­ery lover; for be­fore, Oth­ers, in truth, the fairy’s love did share: I was her close ad­vis­er ev­er­more; And served by her, where they com­mand­ed were. With me she coun­selled, and to me re­ferred; Nor, night nor day, to oth­er spake a word.

XLIX “Why touch my wounds, to ag­gra­vate my ill, And that, alas! with­out the hope of cure? Why thus the good pos­sessed re­mem­ber still, Amid the cru­el penance I en­dure? When kind­est I be­lieved Al­ci­na’s will, And fond­ly deemed my hap­pi­ness se­cure, From me the heart she gave, the fay with­drew, And yield­ed all her soul to love more new.

L “Late I dis­cerned her light and fick­le bent, Still lov­ing and unlov­ing at a heat: Two months, I reigned not more, no soon­er spent, Than a new paramour as­sumed my seat; And me, with scorn, she doomed to ban­ish­ment, From her fair grace cast out. ‘Tis then I weet I share a thou­sand lovers’ fate, whom she Had to like pass re­duced, all wrong­ful­ly.

LI “And these, be­cause they should not scat­ter bruits, Roam­ing the world, of her las­civ­ious ways, She, up and down the fruit­ful soil, trans­mutes To olive, palm, or cedar, firs or bays. These, as you see me changed, Al­ci­na roots; While this trans­formed in­to a mon­ster strays; An­oth­er melts in­to a liq­uid rill; As suits that haughty fairy’s wan­ton will.

LII “Thou, too, that to this fa­tal isle art led By way un­wont­ed and till now un­known, That some pos­ses­sor of the fairy’s bed, May be for thee trans­formed to wave or stone, Thou shalt, with more than mor­tal plea­sures fed, Have from Al­ci­na seignio­ry and throne; But shalt be sure to join the com­mon flock, Trans­formed to beast or foun­tain, plant or rock.

LI­II “I will­ing­ly to thee this truth im­part, Not that I hope with prof­it to ad­vise: Yet ’twill be bet­ter, that in­formed, in part, Of her false ways, she harm not by sur­prise. Per­haps, as faces dif­fer, and in art And wit of man an equal dif­fer­ence lies, Thou may’st some rem­edy per­chance ap­ply To the ill, which thou­sand oth­ers could not fly.”

LIV The good Rogero, who from Fame had learned That he was cousin to the dame he wooed, Lament­ed much the sad As­tolpho, turned From his true form, to bar­ren plant and rude: And for her love, for whom so sore he burned, Would glad­ly serve the stripling if he cou’d: But, wit­less how to give the wished re­lief, Might but con­sole the un­hap­py war­rior’s grief.

LV As best he could, he strove to soothe his pain; Then asked him, if to Lo­gis­til’s re­treat Were pas­sage, whether over hill or plain; That he might so es­chew Al­ci­na’s seat. — `There was a way’, the myr­tle said again, — `But rough with stones, and rugged to the feet — If he, some lit­tle fur­ther to the right, Would scale the Alpine moun­tain’s very height:

LVI `But that he must not think he shall pur­sue The in­tend­ed jour­ney far; since by the way He will en­counter with a fre­quent crew, And fierce, who serve as ram­part to the fay, That block the road against the stranger, who Would break her bounds, and the de­sert­er stay.’ Rogero thanked the tree for all, and taught, De­part­ed thence with full in­struc­tions fraught.

LVII The cours­er from the myr­tle he un­tied, And by the bri­dle led be­hind him still; Nor would he, as be­fore, the horse be­stride, Lest he should bear him off against his will: He mused this while how safe­ly he might find A pas­sage to the land of Lo­gis­til; Firm in his pur­pose ev­ery nerve to strain, Lest em­pire over him Al­ci­na gain.

LVI­II He to re­mount the steed, and through the air To spur him to a new ca­reer again Now thought; but doubt­ed next, in fear to fare Worse on the cours­er, restive to the rein. “No, I will win by force the moun­tain stair,” Rogero said; (but the re­solve was vain) Nor by the beach two miles his way pur­sued, Ere he Al­ci­na’s love­ly city viewed.

LIX A lofty wall at dis­tance meets his eye Which girds a spa­cious town with­in its bound; It seems as if its sum­mit touched the sky, And all ap­pears like gold from top to ground. Here some one says it is but alche­my — And hap­ly his opin­ion is un­sound — And hap­ly he more wit­ti­ly di­vines: For me, I deem it gold be­cause it shines.

LX When he was nigh the city-​walls, so bright, The world has not their equal, he the straight And spa­cious way deserts, the way which dight Across the plain, con­duct­ed to the gate; And by that safer road up­on the right, Strains now against the moun­tain; but, in wait, En­coun­ters soon the crowd of evil foes, Who fu­ri­ous­ly the Child’s ad­vance op­pose.

LXI Was nev­er yet be­held a stranger band, Of mien more hideous, or more mon­strous shape. Formed down­wards from neck like men, he scanned Some with the head of cat, and some of ape; With hoof of goat that oth­er stamped the sand; While some seemed cen­taurs, quick in fight and rape; Naked, or man­tled in out­landish skin. These dot­ing sires, those striplings bold in sin.

LXII This gal­lops on a horse with­out a bit; This backs the slug­gish ass, or bul­lock slow; These mount­ed on the croup of cen­taur sit: Those perched on ea­gle, crane, or estridge, go. Some male, some fe­male, some hermaphrodit, These drain the cup and those the bun­gle blow. One bore a cord­ed lad­der, one a book; One a dull file, or bar of iron shook.

LXI­II The cap­tain of this crew, which blocked the road, Ap­peared, with mon­strous paunch and bloat­ed face; Who a slow tor­toise for a horse be­strode, That pass­ing slug­gish­ly with him did pace: Down looked, some here, some there, sus­tained the load, For he was drunk, and kept him in his place. Some wipe his brows and chin from sweat which ran, And oth­ers with their vests his vis­age fan.

LX­IV One, with a hu­man shape and feet, his crest, Fash­ioned like hound, in neck and ears and head, Bayed at the gal­lant Child with an­gry quest, To turn him to the city whence he fled. “That will I nev­er, while of strength pos­sessed To bran­dish this,” the good Rogero said: With that his tren­chant faul­chion he dis­played, And point­ed at him full the naked blade.

LXV That mon­ster would have smote him with a spear, But swift­ly at his foe Rogero sprung, Thrust at his paunch, and drove his faul­chion sheer Through his pierced back a palm; his buck­ler flung Be­fore him, and next sal­lied there and here: But all too nu­mer­ous was the wicked throng. Now grap­pled from be­hind, now punched be­fore, He stands, and plies the crowd with war­fare sore.

LXVI One to the teeth, an­oth­er to the breast, Of that foul race he cleft; since no one steeled In mail, his brows with cov­er­ing hel­met dressed, Or fought, se­cured by corslet or by shield; Yet is he so up­on all quar­ters pressed, That it would need the Child, to clear the field, And to keep off the wicked crew which swarms, More than Bri­areus’ hun­dred hands and arms.

LXVII If he had thought the mag­ic shield to show, (I speak of that the necro­mancer bore, Which dazed the sight of the as­ton­ished foe, Left at his sad­dle by the wiz­ard Moor) That hideous band, in sud­den over­throw, Blind­ed by this, had sunk the knight be­fore. But hap­ly he de­spised such mean as vile, And would pre­vail by val­our, not by guile.

LXVI­II This as it may: the Child would meet his fate, Ere by so vile a band be pris­on­er led; When, lo! forth is­su­ing from the city’s gate, Whose wall ap­peared like shin­ing gold I said, Two youth­ful dames, not born in low es­tate, If mea­sured by their mien and garb, nor bred By swain, in ear­ly wants and trou­bles versed; But amid prince­ly joys in palace nursed!

LX­IX On uni­corn was seat­ed ei­ther fair, A beast than spot­less er­mine yet more white; So love­ly were the damsels, and so rare Their garb, and with such grace­ful fash­ion dight, That he who close­ly viewed the youth­ful pair, Would need a sur­er sense than mor­tal sight, To judge be­tween the two. With such a mien Em­bod­ied Grace and Beau­ty would be seen.

LXX In­to the mead rode this and the oth­er dame, Where the foul crew op­posed the Child’s re­treat. The rab­ble scat­tered as the ladies came, Who with ex­tend­ed hand the war­rior greet. He, with a kin­dling vis­age, red with shame, Thanked the two damsels for their gen­tle feat; And was con­tent up­on their will to wait, With them re­turn­ing to that gold­en gate.

LXXI Above, a cor­nice round the gate­way goes, Somedeal pro­ject­ing from the colon­nade, In which is not a sin­gle part but glows, With rarest gems of In­dia over­laid. Propp’d at four points, the por­tal did re­pose On columns of one sol­id di­amond made. Whether what met the eye was false or true, Was nev­er sight more fair or glad to view.

LXXII Up­on the sill and through the columns there, Ran young and wan­ton girls, in frol­ic sport; Who hap­ly yet would have ap­peared more fair, Had they ob­served a wom­an’s fit­ting port. All are ar­rayed in green, and gar­lands wear Of the fresh leaf. Him these in cour­te­ous sort, With many prof­fers and fair mien en­tice, And wel­come to this open­ing Par­adise:

LXXI­II For so with rea­son I this place may call, Where, it is my be­lief, that Love had birth; Where life is spent in fes­tive game and ball, And still the pass­ing mo­ments fleet in mirth. Here hoary-​head­ed Thought ne’er comes at all, Nor finds a place in any bo­som. Dearth, Nor yet Dis­com­fort, nev­er en­ter here, Where Plen­ty fills her horn through­out the year.

LXXIV Here, where with jovial and un­cloud­ed brow, Glad April seems to wear a con­stant smile, Troop boys and damsels: One, whose foun­tains flow, On the green mar­gin sings in dul­cet style; Oth­ers, the hill or tuft­ed tree be­low, In dance, or no mean sport the hours be­guile. While this, who shuns the rev­ellers’ noisy cheer, Tells his love sor­rows in his com­rade’s ear.

LXXV Above the lau­rel and pine-​tree’s height, Through the tall beech and shag­gy fir-​tree’s spray, Sport lit­tle loves, with desul­to­ry flight: These, at their con­quests made, re­joiced and gay: These, with the well-​di­rect­ed shaft, take sight At hearts, and those spread nets to catch their prey; One wets his ar­rows in the brook which winds, And one on whirling stone the weapon grinds.

LXXVI To good Rogero here was brought a steed, Puis­sant and nim­ble, all of sorel hue; Who was ca­parisoned with cost­ly weed, Broi­dered with gold, and jew­els bright to view. That oth­er winged horse, which, at his need, Obe­di­ent to the Moor­ish wiz­ard flew, The friend­ly damsels to a youth con­signed, Who led him at a slow­er pace be­hind.

LXXVII That kind­ly pair who, by the wicked band Of­fend­ed fate, had saved the youth­ful knight; The wicked crew, that did the Child with­stand, When he the road had tak­en on his right, Ex­claimed, “Fair sir, your works al­ready scanned By us, who are in­struct­ed of your might, Em­bold­en us, in our be­half, to pray You will the prowess of your arm as­say.

LXXVI­II “We soon shall reach a bot­tom which di­vides The plain in­to two parts: A cru­el dame A bridge main­tains, which there a stream be­strides, Eriphi­la the sav­age bel­dam’s name; Who cheats, and robs, and scathes, who­ev­er rides To the oth­er shore, a gi­ant­ess in frame; Who has long poi­sonous teeth her prey to tear, And scratch­es with her talons like a bear.

LXXIX “Be­sides that she in­fests the pub­lic way, Which else were free; she of­ten rang­ing through All this fair gar­den, puts in dis­ar­ray This thing or that. Of the as­sas­sin crew, That peo­ple who with­out the por­tal gay, Late­ly with bru­tal rage as­sault­ed you, Many her sons, the whole her fol­low­ers call, As greedy and in­hos­pitable all.”

LXXX “For you not on­ly her I would as­sail, But do a hun­dred bat­tles, well con­tent: Then of my per­son, where it may avail, Dis­pose (Rogero said) to you in­tent. Sil­ver and land to con­quer, plate or mail I swear not, I, in war­like cuirass pent; But to af­ford my aid to oth­ers due; And, most of all, to beau­teous dames like you.”

LXXXI Their grate­ful thanks the ladies, worthi­ly Be­stowed on such a valiant cham­pi­on, paid: They talk­ing thus the bridge and riv­er see, And at her post the haughty dame ar­raid (Sap­phire and emer­ald decked the panoply) In arms of gold: but I awhile de­lay Till oth­er strain the is­sue of the fray.