Canto 16
ARGUMENTGryphon finds traitorous Origilla nighDamascus city, with Martano vile.Slaughtered the Saracens and Christians lieBy thousands and by thousands heaped this while;And if the Moor outside of Paris die,Within the Sarzan so destroys each pile,Such slaughter deals, that greater ill than thisNever before has been exprest, I wiss.
ILove’s penalties are manifold and dread:Of which I have endured the greater part,And, to my cost, in these so well am read,That I can speak of them as ‘twere my art.Hence if I say, or if I ever said,(Did speech or living page my thoughts impart)“One ill is grievous and another light.”Yield me belief, and deem my judgment right.
III say, I said, and, while I live, will say,“He, who is fettered by a worthy chain,Though his desire his lady should gainsay,And, every way averse, his suit disdain;Though Love deprive him of all praised pay,After long time and trouble spent in vain,He, if his heart be placed well worthily,Needs not lament though he should waste and die.”
IIILet him lament, who plays a slavish part,Whom two bright eyes and lovely tresses please:Beneath which beauties lurks a wanton heartWith little that is pure, and much of lees.The wretch would fly; but bears in him a dart,Like wounded stag, whichever way he flees;Dares not confess, yet cannot quench, his flame,And of himself and worthless love has shame.
IVThe youthful Gryphon finds him in this case,Who sees the error which he cannot right;He sees how vilely he his heart does placeOn faithless Origille, his vain delight:Yet evil use doth sovereign reason chase,And free will is subdued by appetite.Though a foul mind the lady’s actions speak,Her, wheresoe’er she is, must Gryphon seek.
VResuming the fair history, I say,Out of the city he in secret rode;Nor to his brother would his plan bewray,Who oft on him had vain reproof bestowed:But to the left t’wards Ramah shaped his way,By the most level and most easy road.Him six days’ journey to Damascus brought,Whence, setting out anew, he Antioch sought.
VIHe nigh Damascus met the lover, whoPerfidious Origilla’s heart possest,And matched in evil customs were the two,Like stalk and flower: for that in either’s breastWas lodged a fickle heart; the dame untrue,And he a traitor whom she loved the best.While both the lovers hid their nature base,To others’ cost, beneath a courteous face.
VIIAs I relate to you, the cavalierCame on huge courser, trapped with mickle pride;With faithless Origille, in gorgeous gear,With gold embroidered, and with azure dyed.Two ready knaves, who serve the warrior, rearThe knightly helm and buckler at his side;As one who with fair pomp and semblance wentTowards Damascus, to a tournament.
VIIIDamascus’ king a splendid festivalHad in these days bid solemnly proclaim;And with what pomp they could, upon his call,Thither, in shining arms, the champions came.At Gryphon’s sight the harlot’s spirits fall,Who fears that he will work her scathe and shame;And knows her lover has not force and breathTo save her from Sir Gryphon, threatening death;
IXBut like most cunning and audacious quean,Although she quakes from head to foot with fear,Her voice so strengthens, and so shapes her mien,That in her face no signs of dread appear,Having already made her leman weenThe trick devised, she feigns a joyous cheer,Towards Sir Gryphon goes, and for long spaceHangs on his neck, fast-locked in her embrace.
XShe, after suiting with much suavityThe action to the word, sore weeping, cried:“Dear lord, is this the guerdon due to me,For love and worship? that I should abideAlone one live long year, deprived of thee,—A second near—and, yet upon thy sideNo grief?—and had I borne for thee to stay,I know not if I should have seen that day.
XI“When I from Nicosia thee expected(When thou wast journeying to the plenar court)To cheer me,—left with fever sore infected,And in the dread of death,—I heard reportThat thou wast gone to Syria; and dejectedBy that ill tiding, suffered in such sort,I, all unable to pursue thy quest,Had nigh with this right hand transfixt my breast.
XII“But fortune, by her double bounty, showsShe guards me more than thou: me to conveyShe sent my brother here, who with me goes,My honour safe in his protecting stay;And this encounter with thee now bestows,Which I above all other blessings weigh,And in good time; for hadst thou longer stayed,My lord, I should have died of hope delayed.”
XIIIThe wicked woman, full of subtlety(Worse than a fox in crafty hardihood)Pursues, and so well shapes her history,She wholly throws the blame on Gryphon good;Makes him believe that other not to beHer kin alone, but of her flesh and blood,Got by one father;—and so puts uponThe knight, that he less credits Luke and John.
XIVNor he the fraud of her, more false than fair,Only forbore with just reproach to pay;Nor only did the threatened stranger spare,Who was the lover of that lady gay;But deemed to excuse himself sufficient were,Turning some portion of the blame away;And as the real brother she profest,Unceasingly the lady’s knight carest;
XVAnd to Damascus, with the cavalierReturned, who to Sir Gryphon made report,That Syria’s wealthy king, with sumptuous cheer,Within that place would hold a splendid court;And who, baptized or infidel, appearThere at his tourney (of whatever sort),Within the city and without, assuresFrom wrong, for all the time the feast endures.
XVIYet I of Origilla’s treacheryShall not so steadfastly pursue the lore,Who, famed not for one single perfidy,Thousands and thousands had betrayed before,But that I will return again to seeTwo hundred thousand wretched men or moreBurnt by the raging wild-fire, where they spread,About the walls of Paris, scathe and dread.
XVIII left you where king Agramant preparedTo storm a gate, and to the assault was gone:This he had hoped to find without a guard;And work elsewhere to bar the way was none.For there, in person, Charles kept watch and wardWith many, practised warriors every one;Two Angelines, two Guidos, Angelier,Avino, Avolio, Otho, and Berlinghier.
XVIIIOne and the other host its worth, beforeCharles and king Agramant, desire to show,Where praise, where riches are, they think, in storeFor those that do their duty on the foe.But such were not the atchievements of the MoorAs to repair the loss; for, to his woe,Full many a Saracen the champaign prest;Whose folly was a beacon to the rest.
XIXThe frequent darts a storm of hail appear,Which from the city-wall the Christians fling;The deafening clamours put the heavens in fear,Which, from our part, and from that other, ring.But Charles and Agramant must wait; for hereI of the Mars of Africa will sing,King Rodomont, that fierce and fearful man,That through the middle of the city ran.
XXI know not, sir, if you the adventure dreadOf that so daring Moor to mind recall,The leader, who had left his people dead,Between the second work and outer wall;Upon those limbs the ravening fire so fed,Was never sight more sad!—I told withal,How vaulting o’er that hindrance at a bound,He cleared the moat which girt the city round.
XXIWhen he was known the thickening crowd among,By the strange arms he wore and scaly hide,There, where the aged sires and feebler throng.Listened to each new tale on every side;Heaven-high groan, moan, and lamentation rung,And loud they beat their lifted palms and cried:While those who had the strength to fly aloof,Sought safety not from house or temple’s roof.
XXIIBut this the cruel sword concedes to few,So brandished by that Saracen robust;And here, with half a leg dissevered, flewA foot, there head divided from the bust:This cleft across, and that behold him hew,From head to hips, so strong the blow and just.While, of the thousands wounded by the Moor,Is none that shows an honest scar before.
XXIIIWhat by weak herd, in fields of Hircany,The tiger does, or Indian Ganges near,Or wolf, by lamb or kid, on heights which lieOn Typheus’ back, the cruel cavalierNow executes on those, I will not, ICall phalanxes or squadrons, but a mereRabble, that I should term a race forlorn,Who but deserved to die ere they were born.
XXIVOf all he cuts, and thrusts, and maims, and bleeds,There is not one who looks him in the face.Throughout that street, which in a straight line leadsUp to St. Michael’s bridge, so thronged a space,Rodomont, terrible and fearful, speeds,Whirling his bloody brand, nor grants he grace,In his career, to servant or to lord;And saint and sinner feel alike the sword.
XXVReligion cannot for the priest bespeakMercy, nor innocence avail the child:Nor gently beaming eyes, nor vermeil cheek,Protect the blooming dame or damsel mild.Age smites its breast and flies: while bent to wreakVengeance, the Saracen, with gore defiled,Shows not his valour more than cruel rage,Heedless alike of order, sex, and age.
XXVINor the impious king alone with human blood,—Lord of the impious he—his hand distains,But even on walls so sorely vents his mood,He fires fair houses, and polluted fanes.The houses almost all were made of wood,Then (as ’tis told) and this, by what remains,May be believed; for yet in Paris weSix out of ten no better builded see.
XXVIIThough flames demolish all things far and wide,This ill appears his furious hate to slake:Where’er the paynim has his hands applied,He tumbles down a roof at every shake.My lord, believe, you never yet espiedBombard in Padua, of so large a make,That it could rend from wall of battered townWhat, at a single pull, the king plucked down.
XXVIIIWhile the accursed man, amid the rout,So warred with fire and sword, if at his post,King Agramant had prest it from without,The ample city had that day been lost.But he was hindered by the warrior stout,Who came from England with the advancing host,Composed of English and of Scotch allied,With Silence and the Angel for their guide.
XXIXIt was God’s will, that while through town and towerThe furious Rodomont such ruin spread,Thither arrived Rinaldo, Clermont’s flower.Three leagues above, he o’er the river’s bedHad cast a bridge; from whence his English powerTo the left-hand by crooked ways he led;That, meaning to assail the barbarous foes,The stream no obstacle might interpose.
XXXRinaldo had, with Edward, sent a force,Six thousand strong, of archer infantry,And sped, with Ariman, two thousand horseOf lightest sort; and foot and cavalrySought Paris by those roads, which have their courseDirectly to, and from, the Picard sea;That by St. Martin’s and St. Denys’ gate,They might convey the aid the burghers wait.
XXXIRinaldo sent with these the baggage trainAnd carriages, with which his troops were stored;And fetching, with the forces that remain,A compass, he the upper way explored.He bridge, and boat, and means to pass the Seine,Had with him; for it here was ill to ford.He past his army, broke the bridges down,And rank’d in line the bands of either crown.
XXXIIBut having first the peers and captains wheeledAbout him in a ring, the cavalierMounted the bank which overtopt the field,So much, that all might plainly see and hear;And cried, “My lords, you should thanksgiving yield,With lifted hands, to God, who brought you here;Through whom, o’er every nation, you may gainEternal glory, bought with little pain.
XXXIII“Two princes, by your means, will rescued be,If you relieve those city gates from siege;Him, your own king, whom you from slaveryAnd death to save, a subject’s vows oblige;And a famed emperor, of more majestyThan ever yet in court was served by liege,And with them other kings, and dukes, and peers,And lords of other lands, and cavaliers.
XXXIV“So that one city saving, not aloneWill the Parisians bless your helping hand,Who, sadder than for sorrows of their own,Timid, afflicted, and disheartened stand;And their unhappy wives and children moan,Which share in the same peril, and the bandOr virgins, dedicate to heavenly spouse,Lest this day frustrate see their holy vows;
XXXV—“I say, this city saved from deadly wound,Not only will Parisians hold you dear;But habitants of all the countries round:Nor speak I only of the nations near;For city there is none on Christian ground.But what has citizens beleaguered here;So that to you, for vanquishing the foe,More lands than France will obligation owe.
XXXVI“If him the ancients with a crown endued,Who saved one citizen by worthy deed,For rescuing such a countless multitude,What recompense shall be your worthy meed?But if, from jealousy or sloth, so goodAnd holy, enterprise should ill succeed,Believe me, only while these walls endure,Is Italy or Almayn’s realm secure;
XXXVII“Or any other part, where men adoreHim, who for us upon the cross was hung;Nor think that distance saves you from the Moor,Nor deem your island strong, the waves among.For if, from far Gibraltar’s straits of yore,And old Alcides’ pillars, sailed the throng,To bear off plunder from your sea-girt strands,What will they do when they possess our lands?
XXXVIII“And, if in this fair enterprise arrayed,No gain, no glory served you as a guide,A common debt enjoins you mutual aid,Militant here upon one Church’s side.Moreover, let not any be afraid,Our broken foemen will the assault abide;Who seem to me ill-taught in warlike art,A feeble rabble without arms or heart.”
XXXIXSuch reasons, and yet better for, that needMight good Rinaldo in his speech infer;And with quick phrase and voice, to valiant deedThe high-minded barons and bold army stir;And this was but to goad a willing steed(As the old proverb says) who lacks no spur.He moved the squadrons, having closed his speech,Softly, beneath their separate banners, each.
XLHe, without clamour, without any noise.So moves his triple host, their flags below.Zerbino, marching by the stream, enjoysThe honour first to assail the barbarous foe;The paladin the Irishmen employsMore inland, with a wider wheel to go.Thus England’s horse and foot, the two between,Led by the Duke of Lancaster, are seen.
XLIThe paladin rode on, along the shore,When he had put the warriors in their way,And, passing by their squadrons, pricked beforeValiant Zerbino and his whole array,Until he reached the quarters of the Moor,Where Oran’s king, and king Sobrino lay;Who, half-a-mile removed from those of Spain,Posted upon that side, observed the plain.
XLIIWith such a faithful escort fortifiedAnd sure, the Christians who had thither wound,With Silence and the Angel for their guide,No longer could stand mute or keep their ground:But hearing now the foe, with shouts defiedTheir host, and made the shrilling trumpets sound;And with loud clamours, which Heaven’s concave fill,Sent through the paynim’s bones a deadly chill.
XLIIIRinaldo spurs before the troops combinedHis foaming courser, and his weapon rests;And a full bow-shot leaves the Scots behind:So all delay the impatient peer molests.As oftentimes an eddying gust of windsIssues, ere yet the horrid storm infests,So sallying swiftly from the following herd,Rinaldo forth upon Baiardo spurred.
XLIVAs the aspect of the paladin of France,The wavering Moorish files betray their fear;And, trembling in their hands, is seen the lance,Their thighs and stirrups quivering, like the spear.King Pulian only marks the knight’s advance,Knowing Rinaldo not, unchanged in cheer;Nor thinking such a cruel shock to meet,Gallops against him on his courser fleet.
XLVHe stoops upon the weapon which he strains,Whole and collected for the martial game:Then to his horse abandoning the reins,And goading with both spurs the courser, came.Upon the other side no valour feigns,But shows, by doings, what he is in name;—With what rare grace and matchless art he wars,The son of Aymon, rather son of Mars.
XLVIWell-matched in skill, they aimed their cruel blows,With lances at each other’s heads addrest;Ill matched, in arms and valour, were the foes,For this past on, and that the champaigne prest.More certain proof of worth, when warriors close,There needs than knightly lance, well placed in rest;But Fortune even more than Valour needs,Which ill, without her saving succour, speeds.
XLVIIWith the good spear new levelled in his fist,At Oran’s king behold Rinaldo dart.Of bulk, and bone, and sinew, to resistThe monarch was, but ill supplied with heart.And his might pass for a fair stroke in list,Though planted in the buckler’s nether part.Let those excuse it who refuse to admire,Since the good paladin could reach no higher.
XLVIIINor did the buckler so the weapon stay,Though made of palm within, and steel without,But that it pierced the paunch, and made a wayTo let that mean and ill matched spirit out.The courser, who had deemed that all the dayHe must so huge a burden bear about,Thanked in his heart the warrior, who well met,Had thus preserved him from so sore a sweat.
XLIXRinaldo, having broke his rested spear,So wheels his horse, he seems equipt with wings;Who, turning swiftly with the cavalier,Amid the closest crowd, impetuous springs.Composed of brittle glass the arms appearWhere Sir Rinaldo red Fusberta swings.Nor tempered steel is there, nor corslet thick,Which keeps the sword from biting to the quick.
LYet few the tempered plates or iron pinsWith which encounters that descending brand;But targets, some of oak and some of skins,And quilted vest and turban’s twisted band.Lightly such drapery good Rinaldo thins,And cleaves, and bores, and shears, on either hand;Nor better from his sword escapes the swarm,Than grass from sweeping scythe, or grain from storm.
LIThe foremost squadron had been put to flight,When thither the vanguard Zerbino led.Forth pricking from the following crowd, in sightAppeared, with levelled lance, their youthful head:With no less fury those who trooped to fightBeneath his banner, to the combat sped;Like lions, like so many wolves, who leapIn fury to the assault of goat or sheep.
LIIBoth spurred their coursers on, with rested lance,When either warrior to his foe was near;And that short interval, that small expanse,Of plain, between, was seen to disappear.Was never witnessed yet a stranger dance!For the Scots only ply the murderous spear;Only the scattered paynims slaughtered lie,As if conducted thither but to die.
LIIIIt seemed as if each coward paynim grewMore cold than ice, each Scot more fierce than flame.The Moors believed that with Rinaldo’s thewAnd muscle fortified, each Christian came.Sobrino quickly moved his ordered crew,Nor stayed till herald should his call proclaim:Better were they than those which went before,For captain, armour, and for martial lore.
LIVLess worthless men of Africa were they,Though ill had they been deemed of much avail.Ill harnessed, and worse trained to martial fray,Forthwith King Dardinel, the foe to assail,Moved up his host, himself in helmet gay,And sheathing all his limbs in plate and mail.The fourth division I believe was best,Which, under Isolier, to battle prest.
LVThraso, this while, the valiant Duke of Mar,Glad in the tumult, for the cavaliersWho muster in his train, uplifts the bar,And to the lists of fame his following chears,When Isolier, with horsemen of Navarre,Entered in that fierce fray he sees and hears.Next Ariodantes moved his chivalry,Who was of late made Duke of Albany.
LVIThe deep sonorous trumpet’s bellowing,And sound of drum, and barbarous instrument,Combined with twang of bow, and whiz of sling,Wheel and machine, and stone from engine sent,And (what more loud than these appeared to ring)Tumult, and shriek, and groan, and loud lament,Composed a direr whole than what offendsThe neighbouring tribes where deafening Nile descends.
LVIIThe arrows’ double shower the ample skyWith wide-extended shade is seen to shrowd;Breath, smoke of sweat and dust ascend on high,And seem to stamp in air a murky cloud.By turns each host gives way, and you might spy,Now chasing, now in flight, the self-same crowd;And here some wight, beside his foeman slain,Or little distant, prostrate on the plain.
LVIIIWhen, harassed with fatigue, a wearied crewWithdraw, fresh files their fellows reinforce:Men, here and there, the wasted ranks renew;Here march supplies of foot, and there of horse:Her mantle green for robe of crimson hueEarth shifts, ensanguined where the warriors course:And there were azure flowers and yellow sprung,Now slaughtered men lie stretched their steeds among.
LIXZerbino was more wonders seen to doThan ever stripling of his age, he strowedThe ground with heaps of dead, and overthrewThe paynim numbers which about him flowed.The valiant Ariodantes to his new-Entrusted squadron mighty prowess showed;Filling with dread and wonder, near and far,The squadrons of Castile and of Navarre.
LXChelindo and Mosco (bastards were the twainOf Calabrun, late king of Arragon),And one esteemed among the valiant train,Calamidor, of Barcellona’s town,Leaving their standards, in the hope to gain,By young Zerbino’s death, a glorious force,And wounded in his flanks the prince’s horse.
LXIPierced by three lances lay the courser strong,But bold Zerbino quickly rose anew;And, eager to avenge his charger’s wrong,The assailants, where he sees them, will pursue.Zerbino at Mosco first, that overhungHim, in the hope to make him prisoner, flew,And pierced him in the flank; who from his sell,Pallid and cold, upon the champaign fell.
LXIIWhen him so killed, as ‘twere by stealthy blow,Chelindo viewed, to avenge his brother slain,He charged, intent the prince to overthrow;But he seized fast his courser by the rein,And, thence to rise not, laid the charger low,Destined no more to feed on hay or grain;For at one stroke, so matchless was his force,Zerbino cleft the rider and his horse.
LXIIIWhen that fell blow Calamidor espied,He turned the bridle short to speed away,But him with downright cut Zerbino pliedBehind, and cried withal, “Stay, traitor, stay.”Nor from its aim the sword-stroke wandered wide,Though from the mark it went somedeal astray;The falchion missed the rider as he fled,But reached the horse’s croup, and stretched him dead,
LXIVHe quits the horse, and thence for safety crawls;But he with little boot escapes his foe;For him Duke Thraso’s horse o’erturns and mawls,Opprest the ponderous courser’s weight below.Where the huge crowd upon Zerbino falls,Ariodantes and Lurcanio go;And with them many a cavalier and count,Who do their best Zerbino to remount.
LXVThen Artalico and Margano knewThe force of Ariodantes’ circling brand:While Casimir and Enearco rueMore deeply yet the puissance of his hand.Smote by the knight, escaped the former two;The others were left dead upon the strand.Lurcanio shows what are his force and breath;Who charges, smites, o’erturns, and puts to death.
LXVISir, think not that more inland on the plainThe warfare is less mortal than alongThe stream, nor that the troops behind remainWhich to the duke of Lancaster belong.He valiantly assailed the flags of Spain,And long in even scale the battle hung.For Horse and Foot, and Captains of those bands,On either side, could deftly ply their hands.
LXVIIForward Sir Oldrad pricks and Fieramont;This Glocester’s duke, and York’s the other knight;With them conjoined is Richard, Warwick’s count,And the bold duke of Clarence, Henry hight.These Follicon and Matalista front,And Baricond, with all they lead to fight.Almeria this, and that Granada guides,And o’er Marjorca Baricond presides.
LXVIIIWell matched awhile the Christian and the MoorAppeared, without advantage in the fray.Not this, now that gave ground, like corn beforeThe light and fickle breeze which blows in May:Or as the sea which ripples on the shore,Still comes and goes, nor keeps one certain way,When hollow Fortune thus had sported long,She proved disastrous to the paynim throng.
LXIXThe duke of Glocester Matalista boldAssailed this while, and hurtled from his sell;Fieramont Follicon o’erturned and rolled,In the right shoulder smit, on earth as well.The advancing English either paynim hold,And bear their prisoners off to dungeon cell.This while, Sir Baricond is, in the strife,By Clarence’s bold duke deprived of life.
LXXHence ’tis among the Moors amazement all,While hence the Christians take such heart and pride,The bands do nought but quit their ground and fall,And break their order on the Paynim side,What time the Christian troops come on, and gallTheir flying rants, which nowhere will abide:And had not one arrived to aid their host.The Paynim camp had on that side been lost.
LXXIBut Ferrau, who till this time ever nighMarsilius, scarce had quitted him that day,When half destroyed he marked his chivalry,And saw that baffled banner born away,Pricked his good courser forth, in time to spy,(Where mid those squadrons hottest waxed the fray)With his head severed in a griesly wound,Olympio de la Serra fall to ground:
LXXIIA stripling he, who such sweet musick vented,Accorded to the horned lyre’s soft tone;That at the dulcet melody relentedThe hearer’s heart, though harder than a stone.Happy! if, with such excellence contented,He had pursued so fair a fame alone,And loathed shield, quiver, helmet, sword and lance;Destined by these to die a youth in France.
LXXIIIWhen bold French beheld his cruel plight,For whom he love and much esteem profest,He felt more pity at the doleful sightThan, ‘mid those thousands slain, for all the rest.And smote the foe who slew him with such might,That he his helm divided from the crest;Cut front, eyes, visage, and mid bosom through,And cast him down amid the slaughtered crew.
LXXIVNor stops he here, nor leaves a corslet whole,Nor helm unbroken, where his sword is plied,Of this the front or cheek, of that the poll,The arm of other foe his strokes divide;And he, of these divorcing body and soul,Restores the wavering battle on that side;Whence the disheartened and ignoble throngAre scattered wide, and broke, and driven along.
LXXVInto the medley pricks King Agramant,Desirous there his bloody course to run;With him King Baliverzo, Farurant,Soridan, Bambirago, Prusion;And next so many more of little vaunt,Whose blood will form a lake ere day be done,That I could count each leaf with greater easeWhen autumn of their mantle strips the trees.
LXXVIAgramant from the wall a numerous bandOf horse and foot withdraws, and sends the arrayBeneath the king of Fez, with a commandBehind the Moorish tents to make his way,And those of Ireland in their march withstand,Whom he sees hurrying with what haste they may,And with wide wheel and spacious compass wind,To fall upon the paynim camp behind.
LXXVIIThe king of Fez upon this service prest;For all delay might sore his work impede.This while King Agramant unites the rest,And parts the troops who to the battle speed.He sought himself the river, where he guessedThe Moorish host might most his presence need;And, from that quarter, had a courier prayed,By King Sobrino sent, the monarch’s aid.
LXXVIIIHe more than half his camp behind him led,In one deep phalanx. At the mighty soundAlone, the Scotsmen trembled, and in dreadAbandoned honour, order, and their ground:Lurcanio, Ariodantes, and their head,Zerbino, there alone the torrent bound;And haply he, who was afoot, had died,But that in time his need Rinaldo spied.
LXXIXElsewhere the paladin was making flyA hundred banners: while the cavalierSo chased the quailing Saracens, the cryOf young Zerbino’s peril smote the ear;For, single and afoot, his chivalryAmid the Africans had left the peer.Rinaldo turned about and took his wayWhere he beheld the Scots in disarray.
LXXXHe plants his courser, where their squadrons yieldTo the fierce paynims, and exclaims: “Where goYour bands, and why so basely quit the field,Yielding so vilely to so vile a foe?Behold the promised trophies, spear and shield,Spoils which your loaded churches ought to show!What praise! what glory! that alone, and reftOf his good horse, your monarch’s son is left!
LXXXIHe from a squire receives a lance, and spiesKing Prusion little distant, sovereignOf the Alvaracchiae, and against him hies;Whom he unhorses, dead upon the plain.So Agricalt, so Bambirago dies;And next sore wounded is Sir Soridane;Who had been slain as well amid the throng,If good Rinaldo’s lance had proved more strong.
LXXXIIThat weapon broken, he Fusberta rears,And smites Sir Serpentine, him of the star.Though charmed from mischief are the cavalier’sGood arms, he falls astounded by the jar,And thus Rinaldo round Zerbino clearsThe field so widely, where those champions war,That without more dispute he takes a horseOf those, who masterless, at random, course.
LXXXIIIThat he in time remounted it was well,Who haply would not, if he more delayed:For Agramant at once, and Dardinel,Sobrino, and Balastro thither made;But he, who had in time regained the sell,Wheeled, here and there his horse, with brandished blade,Dispatching into hell the mixt array,That how men live above their ghosts might say.
LXXXIVThe good Rinaldo, who to overthrowThe strongest of the foeman covets still,At Agramant directs a deadly blow,—Who seems too passing-proud, and greater illWorks there, than thousand others of the foe—And spurs his horse, the Moorish chief to spill.He smote the monarch, broadside charged the steed,And man and horse reversed upon the mead.
LXXXVWhat time, without, in such destructive fraysHate, Rage, and Fury, all offend by turns,In Paris Rodomont the people slays,And costly house, and holy temple burns:While Charles elsewhere anther duty stays,Who nothing hears of this, nor aught discerns.He, in the town, receives the British band,Which Edward and Sir Ariman command.
LXXXVITo him a squire approached, who pale with dread,Scarce drew his breath, and cried: “Oh, well away!Alas! alas!” (and thus he often said,Ere he could utter aught beside). “To-day,To-day, sire, is the Roman empire sped,And Christ to the heathen makes his flock a prey.A fiend from air to-day has dropt, that noneHenceforth may in this city make their won.
LXXXVII“Satan (in sooth, it can no other be)Destroys and ruins the unhappy town.Turn, and the curling wreaths of vapour see,From the red flames which wander up and down;List to those groans, and be they warrantryOf the sad news thy servant now makes known!One the fair city wastes with sword and fire,Before whose vengeful fury all retire.”
LXXXVIIIEven such as he, who hears the tumult wide,And clatter of church-bells, ere he espyThe raging fire, concealed from none besideHimself, to him most dangerous, and most nigh;Such was King Charles; who heard, and then descriedThe new disaster with his very eye.Hence he the choicest of his meiny steersThither, where he the cry and tumult hears.
LXXXIXWith many peers and chiefs, who worthiest are,Summoned about him, Charlemagne is gone:He bids direct his standards to the squareWhither the paynim had repaired; hears groanAnd tumult, spies the horrid tokens thereOf cruelty, sees human members strown.—No more—Let him return another time,Who willingly will listen to this rhyme.