Canto 8
ARGUMENTRogero flies; Astolpho with the rest,To their true shape Melissa does restore;Rinaldo levies knights and squadrons, pressedIn 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.
IHow 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.
IIWho with Angelica’s, or rather whoWere fortified with Reason’s ring, would seeEach countenance, exposed to open view,Unchanged by art or by hypocrisy.This now seems fair and good, whose borrowed hueRemoved, would haply foul and evil be.Well was it for Rogero that he woreThe virtuous ring which served the truth to explore!
IIIRogero, 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.
IVHe on his fist a ravening falcon bore,Which he made fly for pastime every day;Now on the champaign, now upon the shoreOf 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.
VTowards 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?”
VIThen 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.
VIINor will the falconer’s dog appear more slow;But hunts Rogero’s courser, as in chaceOf 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, placeOf other arms, to make his dog obey.Rogero scorns his faulchion to display.
VIIIThe servant made at him, and smote him sore;The dog his left foot worried; while untiedFrom rein, the lightened horse three times and moreLashed from the croup, nor missed his better side.The hawk, oft wheeling, with her talons toreThe stripling, and his horse so terrified,The courser, by the whizzing sound dismayed,Little the guiding hand or spur obeyed.
IXConstrained at length, his sword Rogero drewTo clear the rabble, who his course delay;And in the animals’ or villain’s viewDid now its point, and now its edge display.But with more hinderance and vexatious crewSwarm here and there, and wholly block the way;And that dishonour will ensue and loss,Rogero sees, if him they longer cross.
XHe 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 bladeOn dog, and knave unfenced with arms or mail:A better and shorter way it wereThe buckler, old Atlantes’ work, to bare.
XIHe raised the crimson cloth in which he woreThe 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.
XIIIn the mean time, Alcina, who had heardHow 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.
XIIIDivided next, one squadron by the wayRogero 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.
XIVWithout 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 looseOr cancel hag-knot, rhomb, or magic noose.
XVThence, 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 reignOf Logistilla’s sage; and from that bournTo Scythia, Persia, Greece, and Ind return.
XVIThey 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 prayerOf good Rogero with Melissa weighed.Beside his prayers, the ring Rogero gave;That him she by its aid might better save.
XVIIThus by Rogero’s suit the enchantress won,To his first shape transformed the youthful peer;But good Melissa deemed that nought was doneSave she restored his armour, and that spearOf 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.
XVIIIThe 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.
XIXMeantime, 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.
XXThe sunbeams on the neighbouring mountain beatAnd glare, reflected from the glowing massSo 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.
XXIThe heat and thirst and labour which he boreBy 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.
XXIIBy 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, subsidiesOf men was seeking, for his monarch’s aid,In Charles’s name; and added, in his care,The justest reasons to support his prayer.
XXIIIThe 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 arraySuch horsemen, as he had in arms, would dight;And, save that he was now waxed old, would leadThe expedition he was prayed to speed.
XXIV‘Nor like consideration would appearWorthy to stop him, but that he possessedA 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.’
XXVSo 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.
XXVIThe wind sat in the poop; Rinaldo goodEmbarked and bade farewell to all; the sheetStill loosening to the breeze, the skipper stood,Till where Thames’ waters, waxing bitter, meetSalt 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.
XXVIIThe 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 craveWhat 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.
XXVIIIThe prince I speak of, who on Otho’s throneSate 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.
XXIXBut 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 boundMy tale, Angelica remembering;Late left, where saved from him by hasty flight,She had encountered with an anchorite.
XXXAwhile I will pursue her story: ITold 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.
XXXIHis heart with love of that rare beauty glowed,And to his frozen marrow pierced the heat;Who, after, when he saw that she bestowedSmall 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 spurCould that dull beast to quicker motion stir:
XXXIIAnd 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:
XXXIIIAnd as sagacious dog on mountain triedBefore, 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 roadWill meet, wherever she her palfrey goad.
XXXIVWhat 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.
XXXVAfter the flying maid had shaped her courseBy 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 perforceDragged, till he swam amid the watery roar.Nor what to do the timid damsel knew,Save that she closer to her saddle grew.
XXXVIShe 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 wantonlyAssaults, dishevelled on her shoulders beat.The louder winds are hushed, perchance in duty,Intent, like ocean, on such sovereign beauty.
XXXVIILandward in vain her eyes the damsel brightDirects, 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 bearsTo shore, where rock and cavern shag the brink,As night upon the land begins to sink.
XXXVIIIWhen in that desert, which but to descryBred fear in the beholder, stood the maidAlone, as Phoebus, plunged in ocean, skyAnd nether earth had left obscured in shade;She paused in guise, which in uncertaintyMight leave whoever had the form surveyed,If she were real woman, or some mockResemblance, coloured in the living rock.
XXXIXShe, 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 distressAnd whelm her, all the fates united were.Astound she stood awhile; when grief found ventThrough eyes and tongue, in tears and in lament.
XL“Fortune what more remains, that thou on meShouldst not now satiate thy revengeful thirst?What more (she said) can I bestow on theeThan, 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 illBefore I die, is yet thy cruel will.
XLI“But what worse torment yet remains in storeBeyond, I am unable to descry:By thee from my fair throne, which nevermoreI hope to repossess, compelled to fly;I, what is worse, my honour lost deplore;For if I sinned not in effect, yet IGive matter by my wanderings to be stungFor wantonness of every carping tongue.
XLII“What other good is left to woman, whoHas 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 scanAt 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 seaWas not enough thy wrath to satiate,Send, if thou wilt, some beast to swallow me,So that he keep me not in pain! Thy hateCannot devise a torment, so it beMy 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.
XLVFrom the extremest height the hermit hoarOf that high rock above her, had surveyedAngelica, 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 callAs e’er Hilarion might have had, or Paul.
XLVIWhen 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.
XLVIITo 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 smitesWith one hand on his breast, and backward throws,Then flushed with honest red, all over glows.
XLVIIIA pocket at the ancient’s side was dight,Where he a cruise of virtuous liquor wore;And at those puissant eyes, whence flashed the lightOf the most radiant torch Love ever bore,Threw from the flask a little drop, of mightTo make her sleep: upon the sandy shoreAlready 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.
LIIt 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.
LIIOld stories, speak they falsely or aright,Tell how a puissant king this country swayed;Who had a daughter fair, so passing brightAnd 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.
LIIIThis was sore torment to the sire, severeAnd impious more than all mankind; nor he,Such is the force of wrath, was moved to spareThe maid, for reason or for piety.Nor, though he saw her pregnant, would forbearTo execute his sentence suddenly;But bade together with the mother kill,Ere born, his grandchild, who had done no ill.
LIVSea-Proteus to his flocks’ wide charge preferredBy Neptune, of all ocean’s rule possessed,Inflamed with ire, his lady’s torment heard,And, against law and usage, to molestThe land (no sluggard in his anger) stirredHis monsters, orc and sea-calf, with the rest;Who waste not only herds, but human haunts,Farm-house and town, with their inhabitants:
LVAnd girding them on every side, the routWill 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, whoA form as beauteous as that other wore,To be to Proteus offered up, in lieuOf 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.’
LVIIAnd 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 placeBeside the port, what time into the mainThe remnant of the herd retired again.
LVIIIWere 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 crewThe savage, ancient statute, which decreedThat woman’s flesh the ravening monster, whoFor this came every day to land, should feed.Though to be woman is a crying illIn every place, ’tis here a greater still.
LIXO wretched maids! whom ‘mid that barbarous routIll-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 conveyLike plunder, upon every strand they prey.
LXWith 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.
LXIKeeping that region close aboard, to exploreThe 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 charmsDiscovers in the holy father’s arms.
LXIIOh! prize too dear, oh! too illustrious prey!To glut so barbarous and so base a foe!Oh! cruel Fortune! who believed thy swayWas of such passing power in things below?That thou shouldst make a hideous monster’s preyThe beauty, for which Agrican did glow,Brought with half Scythia’s people from the gatesOf Caucasus, in Ind, to find their fates.
LXIIIThe beauty, by Circassian SacripantPreferred 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.
LXIVOppressed with heavy sleep upon the shore,The lovely virgin, ere awake, they chain:With her, the enchanter friar the pirates boreOn 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.
LXVBut such her matchless beauty’s power, the maidWas 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.
LXVIWho shall relate the anguish, the lamentAnd 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 punishmentOf loathsome death awaits her on the rock.This will not I, so sorrow moves me, say,Which makes me turn my rhymes another way;
LXVIITo 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 moanThe damsel bound upon the naked stone.
LXVIIIOh! if this chance to her Orlando, whoWas 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 throughA thousand deaths, to bear the damsel aid.But had the warriors of her peril known.So far removed, for what would that have done?
LXIXThis while round Paris-walls the leaguer layOf 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 allayThe wrath of Heaven, whose waters drenched the land,That day had perished by the Moorish lanceThe holy empire and great name of France.
LXXTo the just plaint of aged CharlemagneThe great Creator turned his eyes, and stayedThe 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.
LXXIAll 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.
LXXIITo 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 CatayOr farthest Ind, had journeyed to the west;There lost: Of whom he had discerned no tokenSince Charles’s power near Bordeaux-town was broken.
LXXIIIThis in Orlando moved great grief, and heLay thinking on his folly past in vain:“My heart,” he said, “oh! how unworthilyI 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 kingHad 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 wringMy heart out of my breast? But not the mightOf 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, aloneSorts with my wish.—Who would have kept the fairLike 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, whereArt thou bestowed, so beautiful and young!As some lost lamb, what time the daylight fairShuts 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 wiseDost 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 woeRather than this, thy wretched suppliant try.If this be true, these hands the fatal blowShall deal, and doom me to eternity.”Mixing his plaint with bitter tears and sighs,So to himself the grieved Orlando cries.
LXXIXAlready every where, with due repose,Creatures restored their weary spirits; laidThese 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.
LXXXTo 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.
LXXXIHe 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.
LXXXIIMeanwhile the unhappy lover lost the dameIn that dim air, nor how he lost her, weets;And, roving far and near, her beauteous nameThrough 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 tearsDemands his aid, the lamentation hears.
LXXXIIIThither, whence comes the sound, he swiftly hies,And toils, now here, now there, with labour sore:Oh! what tormenting grief, to think his eyesCannot 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 foundHimself in tears of bitter sorrow drowned.
LXXXIVNot 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 chainAnd plate behoved, his limbs all over dressed;Took Brigliadoro from the stall he filled,Nor any squire attendant’s service willed.
LXXXVAnd to pass every where, yet not exposeBy 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.
LXXXVIAt midnight he departed silently,Not to his uncle spake, not to his trueAnd faithful comrade Brandimart, whom heSo 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.
LXXXVIITo Charles, to his displeasure, were conveyedNews 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.
LXXXVIIINor would Orlando’s faithful Brandimart,Who loved him as himself, behind him stay;Whether to bring him back he in his heartHoped, 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 thisHe nought imparted to his Flordelis:
LXXXIXTo 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 awayAnd took no leave, it was because the peerHoped to revisit her that very day.But that befel him after, as he strayed,Which him beyond his own intent delayed.
XCShe when she has expected him in vainWell 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;
XCIWho having old Almontes’ blazonrySo changed, drew nigh the gate; and there the peerApproached a captain of the guard, when he;“I am the County,” whispered in his ear,And (the bridge quickly lowered, and passage freeAt his commandment) by the way most nearWent straight towards the foe: but what befellHim next, the canto which ensues shall tell.