Orlando Furioso

CANTO 8

AR­GU­MENT Rogero flies; As­tolpho with the rest, To their true shape Melis­sa does re­store; Ri­nal­do levies knights and squadrons, pressed In aid of Charles as­sault­ed by the Moor: An­gel­ica, by ruf­fi­ans found at rest, Is of­fered to a mon­ster on the shore. Or­lan­do, warned in vi­sions of his ill, De­parts from Paris sore against his will.

I How many en­chantress­es among us! oh, How many en­chanters are there, though un­known! Who for their love make man or wom­an glow, Chang­ing them in­to fig­ures not their own. Nor this by help of spir­its from be­low, Nor ob­ser­va­tion of the stars is done: But these on hearts with fraud and false­hood plot, Bind­ing them with in­dis­sol­uble knot.

II Who with An­gel­ica’s, or rather who Were for­ti­fied with Rea­son’s ring, would see Each coun­te­nance, ex­posed to open view, Un­changed by art or by hypocrisy. This now seems fair and good, whose bor­rowed hue Re­moved, would hap­ly foul and evil be. Well was it for Rogero that he wore The vir­tu­ous ring which served the truth to ex­plore!

III Rogero, still dis­sem­bling, as I said, Armed, to the gate on Ra­bi­can did ride; Found the guard un­pre­pared, not let his blade, Amid that crowd, hang idle at his side: He passed the bridge, and broke the pal­isade, Some slain, some maimed; then t’wards the for­est hied; But on that road small space had mea­sured yet, When he a ser­vant of the fairy met.

IV He on his fist a raven­ing fal­con bore, Which he made fly for pas­time ev­ery day; Now on the cham­paign, now up­on the shore Of neigh­bour­ing pool, which teemed with cer­tain prey; And rode a hack which sim­ple hous­ings wore, His faith­ful dog, com­pan­ion of his way. He, mark­ing well the haste with which he hies, Con­jec­tures tru­ly what Rogero flies.

V To­wards him came the knave, with sem­blance haught, De­mand­ing whith­er in such haste he sped: To him the good Rogero an­swers naught. He hence as­sured more clear­ly that he fled, With­in him­self to stop the war­rior thought, And thus, with his left arm ex­tend­ed, said: “What, if I sud­den­ly thy pur­pose balk, And thou find no de­fence against this hawk?”

VI Then flies his bird, who works so well his wing, Ra­bi­can can­not dis­tance him in flight: The fal­con­er from his back to ground did spring, And freed him from the bit which held him tight; Who seemed an ar­row part­ed from the string, And ter­ri­ble to foe, with kick and bite; While with such haste be­hind the ser­vant came, He sped as moved by wind, or rather flame.

VII Nor will the fal­con­er’s dog ap­pear more slow; But hunts Rogero’s cours­er, as in chace Of timid hare the pard is wont to go. Not to stand fast the war­rior deems dis­grace, And turns to­wards the swift­ly-​foot­ed foe, Whom he sees wield a rid­ing-​wand, place Of oth­er arms, to make his dog obey. Rogero scorns his faul­chion to dis­play.

VI­II The ser­vant made at him, and smote him sore; The dog his left foot wor­ried; while un­tied From rein, the light­ened horse three times and more Lashed from the croup, nor missed his bet­ter side. The hawk, oft wheel­ing, with her talons tore The stripling, and his horse so ter­ri­fied, The cours­er, by the whizzing sound dis­mayed, Lit­tle the guid­ing hand or spur obeyed.

IX Con­strained at length, his sword Rogero drew To clear the rab­ble, who his course de­lay; And in the an­imals’ or vil­lain’s view Did now its point, and now its edge dis­play. But with more hin­der­ance and vex­atious crew Swarm here and there, and whol­ly block the way; And that dis­hon­our will en­sue and loss, Rogero sees, if him they longer cross.

X He knew each lit­tle that he longer stayed, Would bring the fay and fol­low­ers on the trail; Al­ready drums were beat, and trum­pets brayed, And larum-​bells rang loud in ev­ery vale. An act too foul it seemed to use his blade On dog, and knave un­fenced with arms or mail: A bet­ter and short­er way it were The buck­ler, old At­lantes’ work, to bare.

XI He raised the crim­son cloth in which he wore The won­drous shield, en­closed for many a day; Its beams, as proved a thou­sand times be­fore, Work as they wont, when on the sight they play; Sense­less the fal­con­er tum­bles on the moor; Drop dog and hack­ney; drop the pin­ions gay, Which poised in air the bird no longer keep: Then glad Rogero leaves a prey to sleep.

XII In the mean time, Al­ci­na, who had heard How he had forced the gate, and, in the press, Slaugh­tered a mighty num­ber of her guard, Re­mained nigh dead, o’er­whelmed with her dis­tress; She tore her ves­ture, and her vis­age marred, And cursed her want of wit and wari­ness. Then made forth­with her meiny sound to arms, And round her­self ar­rayed her mar­tial swarms.

XI­II Di­vid­ed next, one squadron by the way Rogero took, she sent; the bands were two: She at the port em­barked the next ar­ray, And straight to sea dis­patched the war­like crew. With this good squadron went the des­per­ate fay, And dark­ed by loos­ened sails the bil­lows grew; For so de­sire up­on her bo­som preyed, Of troops she left her city un­pur­veyed.

XIV With­out a guard she left her palace there, Which to Melis­sa, prompt her time to seize, To loose her vas­sals that in mis­ery were, Af­ford­ed all con­ve­nience and full ease; — To range, at leisure, through the palace fair, And so ex­am­ine all her witcheries; To raze the seal, burn im­ages, and loose Or can­cel hag-​knot, rhomb, or mag­ic noose.

XV Thence, through the fields, fast hur­ry­ing from that dome, The for­mer lovers changed, a mighty train, Some in­to rock or tree, to foun­tain some, Or beast, she made as­sume their shapes again: And these, when they anew are free to roam, Fol­low Rogero’s foot­steps to the reign Of Lo­gis­til­la’s sage; and from that bourn To Scythia, Per­sia, Greece, and Ind re­turn.

XVI They to their sev­er­al homes dis­patched, re­pair, Bound by a debt which nev­er can be paid: The En­glish duke, above the rest her care, Of these, was first in hu­man form ar­rayed: For much his kin­dred and the cour­te­ous prayer Of good Rogero with Melis­sa weighed. Be­side his prayers, the ring Rogero gave; That him she by its aid might bet­ter save.

XVII Thus by Rogero’s suit the en­chantress won, To his first shape trans­formed the youth­ful peer; But good Melis­sa deemed that nought was done Save she re­stored his ar­mour, and that spear Of gold, which when­soe’er at tilt he run, At the first touch un­seat­ed cav­alier; Once Ar­galia’s, next As­tolpho’s lance, And source of mighty fame to both in France.

XVI­II The sage Melis­sa found this spear of gold, Which now Al­ci­na’s mag­ic palace graced, And oth­er ar­mour of the war­rior bold, Of which he was in that ill dome un­cased. She climbed the cours­er of the wiz­ard old, And on the croup, at ease, As­tolpho placed: And thus, an hour be­fore Rogero came, Re­paired to Lo­gis­til­la, knight and dame.

XIX Mean­time, through rugged rocks, and shagged with thorn, Rogero wends, to seek the sober fay; From cliff to cliff, from path to path for­lorn, A rugged, lone, in­hos­pitable way: Till he, with labour huge op­pressed and worn, Is­sued at noon up­on a beach, that lay ‘Twixt sea and moun­tain, open to the south, De­sert­ed, bar­ren, bare, and parched with drouth.

XX The sun­beams on the neigh­bour­ing moun­tain beat And glare, re­flect­ed from the glow­ing mass So fierce­ly, sand and air both boil with heat, In mode that might have more than melt­ed glass. The birds are silent in their dim re­treat, Nor any note is heard in wood or grass, Save the bough perched Ci­cala’s weary­ing cry, Which deaf­ens hill and dale, and sea and sky.

XXI The heat and thirst and labour which he bore By that drear sandy way be­side the sea, Along the un­hab­it­ed and sun­ny shore, Were to Rogero grievous com­pa­ny: Bur for I may not still pur­sue this lore, Nor should you bus­ied with one mat­ter be, Rogero I aban­don in this heat, For Scot­land; to pur­sue Ri­nal­do’s beat.

XXII By king, by daugh­ter, and by all de­grees, To Sir Ri­nal­do was large wel­come paid; And next the war­rior, at his bet­ter ease, The oc­ca­sion of his em­bassy dis­played: That he from thence and Eng­land, sub­si­dies Of men was seek­ing, for his monarch’s aid, In Charles’s name; and added, in his care, The justest rea­sons to sup­port his prayer.

XXI­II The king made an­swer, that `with­out de­lay, Taxed to the ut­most of his pow­ers and might, His means at Charle­magne’s dis­pos­al lay, For the hon­our of the em­pire and the right. And that, with­in few days, he in ar­ray Such horse­men, as he had in arms, would dight; And, save that he was now waxed old, would lead The ex­pe­di­tion he was prayed to speed.

XXIV `Nor like con­sid­er­ation would ap­pear Wor­thy to stop him, but that he pos­sessed A son, and for such charge that cav­alier, Mea­sured by wit and force, was wor­thi­est. Though not with­in the king­dom was the peer, It was his hope (as he as­sured his guest) He would, while yet prepar­ing was the band, Re­turn, and find it mus­tered to his hand.’

XXV So sent through all his realm, with ex­pe­di­tion, His trea­sures, to levy men and steeds; And ships pre­pared, and war­like am­mu­ni­tion, And mon­ey, stores and vict­ual for their needs. Mean­time the good Ri­nal­do on his mis­sion, Leav­ing the cour­te­ous king, to Eng­land speeds; He brought him on his way to Berwick’s town, And was ob­served to weep when he was gone.

XXVI The wind sat in the poop; Ri­nal­do good Em­barked and bade farewell to all; the sheet Still loos­en­ing to the breeze, the skip­per stood, Till where Thames’ wa­ters, wax­ing bit­ter, meet Salt ocean: waft­ed thence by tide of flood, Through a sure chan­nel to fair Lon­don’s seat, Safe­ly the mariners their course ex­plore, Mak­ing their way, with aid of sail and oar.

XXVII The Em­per­or Charles, and he, King Otho grave, Who was with Charles, by siege in Paris pressed, A broad com­mis­sion to Ri­nal­do brave, With let­ters to the Prince of Wales ad­dressed, And coun­ter­signs had giv­en, dis­patched to crave What foot and horse were by the land pos­sessed. The whole to be to Calais’ port con­veyed; That it to France and Charles might fur­nish aid.

XXVI­II The prince I speak of, who on Otho’s throne Sate in his stead, the va­cant helm to guide, Such hon­or did to Ay­mon’s valiant son, He not with such his king had grat­ified. Next, all to good Ri­nal­do’s wish, was done: Since for his mar­tial bands on ev­ery side, In Britain, or the isles which round her lay, To as­sem­ble near the sea he fixed a day.

XXIX But here, sir, it be­hoves me shift my ground, Like him that makes the spright­ly vi­ol ring, Who of­ten changes chord and varies sound, And now a graver strikes, now sharp­er string: Thus I: — who did to good Ri­nal­do bound My tale, An­gel­ica re­mem­ber­ing; Late left, where saved from him by hasty flight, She had en­coun­tered with an an­chorite.

XXX Awhile I will pur­sue her sto­ry: I Told how the maid of him with earnest care, En­quired, how she to­wards the shore might fly: Who of the loathed Ri­nal­do has such fear, She dreads, un­less she pass the sea, to die, As in­se­cure in Eu­rope, far or near, But she was by the her­mit kept in play, Be­cause he plea­sure took with her to stay.

XXXI His heart with love of that rare beau­ty glowed, And to his frozen mar­row pierced the heat; Who, af­ter, when he saw that she be­stowed Small care on him, and thought but of re­treat, His slug­gish cours­er stung with many a goad; But with no bet­ter speed he plied his feet. Ill was his walk, and worse his trot; nor spur Could that dull beast to quick­er mo­tion stir:

XXXII And for the fly­ing maid was far be­fore, And he would soon have ceased to track her steed, To the dark cave re­curred the her­mit hoar, And con­jured up of fiends a gris­ly breed: One he se­lect­ed out of many more, And first in­formed the de­mon of his need; Then in the pal­frey bade him play his part, Who with the la­dy bore away his heart:

XXXI­II And as saga­cious dog on moun­tain tried Be­fore, ac­cus­tomed fox and hare to chase, If he be­hold the quar­ry choose one side, The oth­er takes, and seems to slight the trace: But at the turn ar­riv­ing, is es­pied, Al­ready tear­ing what he crossed to face; So her the her­mit by a dif­fer­ent road Will meet, wher­ev­er she her pal­frey goad.

XXXIV What was the fri­ar’s de­sign I well sur­mise; And you shall know; but in an­oth­er page. An­gel­ica now slow, now faster, flies, Nought fear­ing this: while con­jured by the sage, The de­mon cov­ered in the cours­er lies; As fire some­times will hide its smoth­ered rage: Then blazes with de­vour­ing flame and heat, Un­quench­able, and scarce al­lows re­treat.

XXXV Af­ter the fly­ing maid had shaped her course By the great sea which laves the Gas­con shore, Still keep­ing to the rip­pling waves her horse, Where best the moist­ened sand the pal­frey bore, Him, plunged in­to the brine, the fiend per­force Dragged, till he swam amid the wa­tery roar. Nor what to do the timid damsel knew, Save that she clos­er to her sad­dle grew.

XXXVI She can­not, how­soe’er the rein she ply, Gov­ern the horse, who swims the surge to meet: Her rai­ment she col­lects and holds it high; And, not to wet them, gath­ers up her feet. Her tress­es, which the breeze still wan­ton­ly As­saults, di­shev­elled on her shoul­ders beat. The loud­er winds are hushed, per­chance in du­ty, In­tent, like ocean, on such sovereign beau­ty.

XXXVII Land­ward in vain her eyes the damsel bright Di­rects, which wa­ter face and breast with tears, And ev­er sees, de­creas­ing to her sight, The beach she left, which less and less ap­pears. The cours­er, who was swim­ming to the right, Af­ter a mighty sweep, the la­dy bears To shore, where rock and cav­ern shag the brink, As night up­on the land be­gins to sink.

XXXVI­II When in that desert, which but to de­scry Bred fear in the be­hold­er, stood the maid Alone, as Phoe­bus, plunged in ocean, sky And nether earth had left ob­scured in shade; She paused in guise, which in un­cer­tain­ty Might leave who­ev­er had the form sur­veyed, If she were re­al wom­an, or some mock Re­sem­blance, coloured in the liv­ing rock.

XXXIX She, fixed and stupid in her wretched­ness, Stood on the shift­ing sand, with ruf­fled hair: Her hands were joined, her lips were mo­tion­less, Her lan­guid eyes up­turned, as in de­spair, Ac­cus­ing Him on high, that to dis­tress And whelm her, all the fates unit­ed were. As­tound she stood awhile; when grief found vent Through eyes and tongue, in tears and in lament.

XL “For­tune what more re­mains, that thou on me Shouldst not now sa­ti­ate thy re­venge­ful thirst? What more (she said) can I be­stow on thee Than, what thou seek­est not, this life ac­curst? Thou wast in haste to snatch me from the sea, Where I had end­ed its sad days, im­mersed; Be­cause to tor­ture me with fur­ther ill Be­fore I die, is yet thy cru­el will.

XLI “But what worse tor­ment yet re­mains in store Be­yond, I am un­able to de­scry: By thee from my fair throne, which nev­er­more I hope to re­pos­sess, com­pelled to fly; I, what is worse, my hon­our lost de­plore; For if I sinned not in ef­fect, yet I Give mat­ter by my wan­der­ings to be stung For wan­ton­ness of ev­ery carp­ing tongue.

XLII “What oth­er good is left to wom­an, who Has lost her hon­our, in this earth­ly ball? What prof­its it that, whether false or true, I am deemed beau­teous, and am young with­al? No thanks to heav­en for such a gift are due, Whence on my head does ev­ery mis­chief fall. For this my broth­er Ar­galia died; To whom small help en­chant­ed arms sup­plied:

XLI­II “For this the Tar­tar king, Sir Agri­can, Sub­dued my sire, who Galaphron was hight, And of Catay in In­dia was great khan; ‘Tis hence I am re­duced to such a plight, That wan­der­ing ev­er­more, I can­not scan At morn, where I shall lay my head at night. If thou hast rav­ished what thou couldst, wealth, friends, And hon­our; say what more thy wrath in­tends.

XLIV “If death by drown­ing in the foam­ing sea Was not enough thy wrath to sa­ti­ate, Send, if thou wilt, some beast to swal­low me, So that he keep me not in pain! Thy hate Can­not de­vise a tor­ment, so it be My death, but I shall thank thee for my fate!” Thus, with loud sobs, the weep­ing la­dy cried, When she be­held the her­mit at her side.

XLV From the ex­tremest height the her­mit hoar Of that high rock above her, had sur­veyed An­gel­ica, ar­rived up­on the shore, Be­neath the cliff, af­flict­ed and dis­mayed. He to that place had come six days be­fore; For him by path un­trod had fiend con­veyed: And he ap­proached her, feign­ing such a call As e’er Hi­lar­ion might have had, or Paul.

XLVI When him, yet un­ag­nized, she saw ap­pear, The la­dy took some com­fort, and laid by, Em­bold­ened by de­grees, her for­mer fear: Though still her vis­age was of death-​like dye. “Mis­eri­cord! fa­ther,” when the fri­ar was near (She said), “for brought to evil pass am I.” And told, still broke by sobs, in dole­ful tone, The sto­ry, to her hear­er not un­known.

XLVII To com­fort her, some rea­sons full of grace, Sage and de­vout the ap­proach­ing her­mit cites: And, now his hand up­on her moist­ened face, In speak­ing, now up­on her bo­som lights: As her, se­cur­er, next he would em­brace: Him, kin­dling in­to pret­ty scorn, she smites With one hand on his breast, and back­ward throws, Then flushed with hon­est red, all over glows.

XLVI­II A pock­et at the an­cient’s side was dight, Where he a cruise of vir­tu­ous liquor wore; And at those puis­sant eyes, whence flashed the light Of the most ra­di­ant torch Love ev­er bore, Threw from the flask a lit­tle drop, of might To make her sleep: up­on the sandy shore Al­ready the re­cum­bent damsel lay, The greedy el­der’s un­re­sist­ing prey.

XLIX (Stan­za XLIX un­trans­lat­ed by Rose)

L (Lines 1-2 un­trans­lat­ed by Rose) Hope­less, at length up­on the beach he lies, And by the maid, ex­haust­ed, falls asleep. When to tor­ment him new mis­for­tunes rise: For­tune does sel­dom any mea­sure keep; Un­used to cut her cru­el pas­time short, If she with mor­tal man is pleased to sport.

LI It here be­hoves me, from the path I pressed, To turn awhile, ere I this case re­late: In the great north­ern sea, to­wards the west, Green Ire­land past, an isle is sit­uate. Ebu­da is its name, whose shores in­fest, (Its peo­ple wast­ed through the God­head’s hate) The hideous orc, and Pro­teus’ oth­er herd, By him against that race in vengeance stirred.

LII Old sto­ries, speak they false­ly or aright, Tell how a puis­sant king this coun­try swayed; Who had a daugh­ter fair, so pass­ing bright And love­ly, ’twas no won­der if the maid, When on the beach she stood in Pro­teus’ sight, Left him to burn amid the waves: sur­veyed, One day alone, up­on that shore in-​isled, Her he com­pressed, and quit­ted great with child.

LI­II This was sore tor­ment to the sire, se­vere And im­pi­ous more than all mankind; nor he, Such is the force of wrath, was moved to spare The maid, for rea­son or for piety. Nor, though he saw her preg­nant, would for­bear To ex­ecute his sen­tence sud­den­ly; But bade to­geth­er with the moth­er kill, Ere born, his grand­child, who had done no ill.

LIV Sea-​Pro­teus to his flocks’ wide charge pre­ferred By Nep­tune, of all ocean’s rule pos­sessed, In­flamed with ire, his la­dy’s tor­ment heard, And, against law and us­age, to mo­lest The land (no slug­gard in his anger) stirred His mon­sters, orc and sea-​calf, with the rest; Who waste not on­ly herds, but hu­man haunts, Farm-​house and town, with their in­hab­itants:

LV And gird­ing them on ev­ery side, the rout Will of­ten siege to walled cities lay; Where in long weari­ness and fear­ful doubt, The towns­men keep their watch by night and day. The fields they have aban­doned all about, And for a rem­edy, their last as­say, To the or­acle, de­mand­ing coun­sel, fly, Which to the sup­pli­ant’s prayer made this re­ply:

LVI `That it be­hoved them find a damsel, who A form as beau­teous as that oth­er wore, To be to Pro­teus of­fered up, in lieu Of the fair la­dy, slain up­on the shore: He, if he deems her an atone­ment due, Will keep the damsel, not dis­turb them more: If not, an­oth­er they must still present, And so, till they the de­ity con­tent.’

LVII And this it was the cru­el us­age bred; That of the damsels held most fair of face, To Pro­teus ev­ery day should one be led. Till one should in the God­head’s sight find grace. The first and all those oth­ers slain, who fed, All a de­vour­ing orc, that kept his place Be­side the port, what time in­to the main The rem­nant of the herd re­tired again.

LVI­II Were the old tale of Pro­teus’ false or true, (For this, in sooth, I know not who can read) With such a clause was kept by that foul crew The sav­age, an­cient statute, which de­creed That wom­an’s flesh the raven­ing mon­ster, who For this came ev­ery day to land, should feed. Though to be wom­an is a cry­ing ill In ev­ery place, ’tis here a greater still.

LIX O wretched maids! whom ‘mid that bar­barous rout Ill-​for­tune on that wretched shore has tost! Who for the stranger damsel prowl about, Of her to make an im­pi­ous holo­caust; In that the more they slaugh­ter from with­out, They less the num­ber of their own ex­haust. But since not al­ways wind and waves con­vey Like plun­der, up­on ev­ery strand they prey.

LX With frigate and with gal­ley wont to roam, And oth­er sort of barks they range the sea, And, as a so­lace to their mar­tyr­dom, From far, or from their isle’s vicin­ity, Bear wom­en off; with open rap­ine some, These bought by gold, and those by flat­tery: And, plun­dered from the dif­fer­ent lands they scow­er, Crowd with their cap­tives dun­geon-​cell and tow­er.

LXI Keep­ing that re­gion close aboard, to ex­plore The is­land’s lone­ly bank, a gallery creeps; Where, amid stubs up­on the grassy shore, An­gel­ica, un­hap­py damsel, sleeps. To wood and wa­ter there the sailor’s moor, And from the bark, for this, a par­ty leaps; And there that match­less flow­er of earth­ly charms Dis­cov­ers in the holy fa­ther’s arms.

LXII Oh! prize too dear, oh! too il­lus­tri­ous prey! To glut so bar­barous and so base a foe! Oh! cru­el For­tune! who be­lieved thy sway Was of such pass­ing pow­er in things be­low? That thou shouldst make a hideous mon­ster’s prey The beau­ty, for which Agri­can did glow, Brought with half Scythia’s peo­ple from the gates Of Cau­ca­sus, in Ind, to find their fates.

LXI­II The beau­ty, by Cir­cas­sian Sac­ripant Pre­ferred be­fore his hon­our and his crown, The beau­ty which made Roland, Bra­va’s vaunt, Sul­ly his whole­some judg­ment and renown, The beau­ty which had moved the wide Lev­ant, And awed, and turned its king­dom up­side down, Now has not (thus de­sert­ed and un­heard) One to as­sist it even with a word.

LX­IV Op­pressed with heavy sleep up­on the shore, The love­ly vir­gin, ere awake, they chain: With her, the en­chanter fri­ar the pi­rates bore On board their ship, a sad, af­flict­ed train. This done, they hoist­ed up their sail once more, And the bark made the fa­tal isle again, Where, till the lot shall of their prey dis­pose, Her pris­oned in a cas­tle they en­close.

LXV But such her match­less beau­ty’s pow­er, the maid Was able that fierce crew to mol­li­fy, Who many days her cru­el death de­layed, Pre­served un­til their last ne­ces­si­ty; And while they damsels from with­out pur­veyed, Spared such an­gel­ic beau­ty: fi­nal­ly, The damsel to the mon­strous orc they bring, The peo­ple all be­hind her sor­row­ing.

LXVI Who shall re­late the an­guish, the lament And out­cry which against the welkin knock? I mar­vel that the sea-​shore was not rent, When she was placed up­on the rugged block, Where, chained and void of help, the pun­ish­ment Of loath­some death awaits her on the rock. This will not I, so sor­row moves me, say, Which makes me turn my rhymes an­oth­er way;

LXVII To find a verse of less lugubri­ous strain, Till I my wea­ried spir­it shall re­store: For not the squalid snake of mot­tled stain, Nor wild and whelp­less tiger, an­gered more, Nor what of ven­omous, on burn­ing plain, Creeps ‘twixt the Red and the At­lantic shore, Could see the gris­ly sight, and choose but moan The damsel bound up­on the naked stone.

LXVI­II Oh! if this chance to her Or­lan­do, who Was gone to Paris-​town to seek the maid, Had been re­port­ed! or those oth­er two, Duped by a post, dis­patched from Sty­gian shade, They would have tracked her heav­en­ly foot­steps through A thou­sand deaths, to bear the damsel aid. But had the war­riors of her per­il known. So far re­moved, for what would that have done?

LX­IX This while round Paris-​walls the lea­guer lay Of famed Troy­ano’s son’s be­sieg­ing band, Re­duced to such ex­trem­ity one day, That it nigh fell in­to the foe­man’s hand; And, but that vows had virtue to al­lay The wrath of Heav­en, whose wa­ters drenched the land, That day had per­ished by the Moor­ish lance The holy em­pire and great name of France.

LXX To the just plaint of aged Charle­magne The great Cre­ator turned his eyes, and stayed The con­fla­gra­tion with a sud­den rain, Which hap­ly hu­man art had not al­layed. Wise whoso­ev­er seeketh, not in vain, His help, than whose there is no bet­ter aid! Well the re­li­gious king, to whom ’twas giv­en, Knew that the sav­ing suc­cour was from Heav­en.

LXXI All night long coun­sel of his weary bed, Vexed with a cease­less care, Or­lan­do sought; Now here, now there, the rest­less fan­cy sped, Now turned, now seized, but nev­er held the thought: As when, from sun or night­ly plan­et shed, Clear wa­ter has the quiv­er­ing ra­di­ance caught, The flash­es through the spa­cious man­sion fly, With reach­ing leap, right, left, and low, and high.

LXXII To mem­ory now re­turned his la­dy gay, She rather ne’er was ban­ished from his breast; And fanned the se­cret fire, which through the day (Now kin­dled in­to flame) had seemed at rest; That in his es­cort even from Catay Or far­thest Ind, had jour­neyed to the west; There lost: Of whom he had dis­cerned no to­ken Since Charles’s pow­er near Bor­deaux-​town was bro­ken.

LXXI­II This in Or­lan­do moved great grief, and he Lay think­ing on his fol­ly past in vain: “My heart,” he said, “oh! how un­worthi­ly I bore my­self! and out, alas! what pain, (When night and day I might have dwelt with thee, Since this thou didst not in thy grace dis­dain.) To have let them place thee in old Na­mus’ hand! Wit­less a wrong so cry­ing to with­stand.

LXXIV “Might I not have ex­cused my­self? — The king Had not per­chance gain­said my bet­ter right — Of if he had gain­said my rea­son­ing, Who would have tak­en thee in my de­spite? Why not have armed, and rather let them wring My heart out of my breast? But not the might Of Charles or all his host, had they been tried, Could have availed to tear thee from my side.

LXXV “Oh! had he placed her but in strong re­pair, Guard­ed in some good fort, or Paris-​town! — Since he would trust her to Duke Na­mus’ care, That he should lose her in this way, alone Sorts with my wish. — Who would have kept the fair Like me, that would for her to death have gone? Have kept her bet­ter than my heart or sight: Who should and could, yet did not what I might.

LXXVI “With­out me, my sweet life, beshrew me, where Art thou be­stowed, so beau­ti­ful and young! As some lost lamb, what time the day­light fair Shuts in, re­mains the wilder­ing woods among, And goes about lament­ing here and there, Hop­ing to warn the shep­herd with her tongue; Till the wolf hear from far the mourn­ful strain, And the sad shep­herd weep for her in vain.

LXXVII “My hope, where are thou, where? In dole­ful wise Dost thou, per­chance, yet rove thy lone­ly round? Art thou, in­deed, to raven­ing wolf a prize, With­out thy faith­ful Roland’s suc­cour found? And is the flow­er, which, with the deities, Me, in mid heav­en had placed, which, not to wound, (So rev­er­ent was my love) thy feel­ings chaste, I kept un­touched, alas! now plucked and waste?

LXXVI­II “If this fair flow­er be plucked, oh, mis­ery! oh, De­spair! what more is left me but to die? Almighty God, with ev­ery oth­er woe Rather than this, thy wretched sup­pli­ant try. If this be true, these hands the fa­tal blow Shall deal, and doom me to eter­ni­ty.” Mix­ing his plaint with bit­ter tears and sighs, So to him­self the grieved Or­lan­do cries.

LXXIX Al­ready ev­ery where, with due re­pose, Crea­tures re­stored their weary spir­its; laid These up­on stones and up­on feath­ers those, Or greensward, in the beech or myr­tle’s shade: But scarce­ly did thine eyes, Or­lan­do close, So on thy mind tor­ment­ing fan­cies preyed. Nor would the vex­ing thoughts which bred an­noy, Let thee in peace that fleet­ing sleep en­joy.

LXXX To good Or­lan­do it ap­peared as he, Mid odor­ous flow­ers, up­on a grassy bed, Were gaz­ing on that beau­teous ivory, Which Love’s own hand had tinged with na­tive red; And those two stars of pure trans­paren­cy, With which he in Love’s toils his fan­cy fed: Of those bright eyes, and that bright face, I say, Which from his breast had torn his heart away.

LXXXI He with the fullest plea­sure over­flows, That ev­er hap­py lover did con­tent: But, lo! this time a mighty tem­pest rose, And wast­ed flow­ers, and trees up­tore and rent. Not with the rage with which this whirl­wind blows, Joust war­ring winds, north, south, and east, un­pent. It seemed, as if in search of cov­er­ing shade, He, vain­ly wan­der­ing, through a desert strayed.

LXXXII Mean­while the un­hap­py lover lost the dame In that dim air, nor how he lost her, weets; And, rov­ing far and near, her beau­teous name Through ev­ery sound­ing wood and plain re­peats. And while, “Oh wretched me!” is his ex­claim, “Who has to poi­son changed my promised sweets?” He of his sovereign la­dy who with tears De­mands his aid, the lamen­ta­tion hears.

LXXXI­II Thith­er, whence comes the sound, he swift­ly hies, And toils, now here, now there, with labour sore: Oh! what tor­ment­ing grief, to think his eyes Can­not again the love­ly rays ex­plore! — Lo! oth­er voice from oth­er quar­ter cries — “Hope not on earth to en­joy the bless­ing more.” At that alarm­ing cry he woke, and found Him­self in tears of bit­ter sor­row drowned.

LXXXIV Not think­ing that like im­ages are vain, When fear, or when de­sire dis­turbs our rest, The thought of her, ex­posed to shame and pain, In such a mode up­on his fan­cy pressed, He, thun­der­ing, leaped from bed, and with what chain And plate be­hoved, his limbs all over dressed; Took Brigli­adoro from the stall he filled, Nor any squire at­ten­dant’s ser­vice willed.

LXXXV And to pass ev­ery where, yet not ex­pose By this his dig­ni­ty to stain or slight, The old and hon­oured en­sign he fore­goes, His an­cient bear­ing, quar­tered red and white. And in its place a sable en­sign shows, Per­haps as suit­ed to his mourn­ful plight, That erst he from an Amostantes bore, Whom he had slain in fight some time be­fore.

LXXXVI At mid­night he de­part­ed silent­ly, Not to his un­cle spake, not to his true And faith­ful com­rade Brandi­mart, whom he So dear­ly cher­ished, even bade adieu; But when, with gold­en tress­es stream­ing-​free, The sun from rich Tithonus’ inn with­drew, And chased the shades, and cleared the hu­mid air, The king per­ceived Or­lan­do was not there.

LXXXVII To Charles, to his dis­plea­sure, were con­veyed News that his nephew had with­drawn at night, When most he lacked his pres­ence and his aid; Nor could he curb his choler at the flight, But that with foul re­proach he over­laid, And sore­ly threat­ened the de­part­ed knight, By him so foul a fault should be re­pent­ed, Save he, re­turn­ing home, his wrath pre­vent­ed.

LXXXVI­II Nor would Or­lan­do’s faith­ful Brandi­mart, Who loved him as him­self, be­hind him stay; Whether to bring him back he in his heart Hoped, or of him ill brooked in­ju­ri­ous say: And scarce, in his im­pa­tience to de­part, Till fall of eve his sal­ly would de­lay. Lest she should hin­der his de­sign, of this He nought im­part­ed to his Flordelis:

LXXXIX To him this was a la­dy pass­ing dear, And from whose side he un­wont to stray; En­dowed with man­ners, grace, and beau­teous cheer, Wis­dom and wit: if now he went away And took no leave, it was be­cause the peer Hoped to re­vis­it her that very day. But that be­fel him af­ter, as he strayed, Which him be­yond his own in­tent de­layed.

XC She when she has ex­pect­ed him in vain Well nigh a month, and nought of him dis­cerns, Sal­lies with­out a guide or faith­ful train, So with de­sire of him her bo­som yearns: And many a coun­try seeks for him in vain; To whom the sto­ry in due place re­turns. No more I now shall tell you of these two, More bent Anglantes’ cham­pi­on to pur­sue;

XCI Who hav­ing old Al­montes’ bla­zon­ry So changed, drew nigh the gate; and there the peer Ap­proached a cap­tain of the guard, when he; “I am the Coun­ty,” whis­pered in his ear, And (the bridge quick­ly low­ered, and pas­sage free At his com­mand­ment) by the way most near Went straight to­wards the foe: but what be­fell Him next, the can­to which en­sues shall tell.