Orlando Furioso

Of loves and ladies, knights and arms, I sing, Of courtesies, and many a daring feat; And from those ancient days my story bring, When Moors from Afric passed in hostile fleet, And ravaged France, with Agramant their king, Flushed with his youthful rage and furious heat; Who on king Charles’, the Roman emperor’s, head Had vowed due vengeance for Troyano dead.

In the same strain of Roland will I tell Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme, On whom strange madness and rank fury fell, A man esteemed so wise in former time; If she, who to like cruel pass has well Nigh brought my feeble wit which fain would climb And hourly wastes my sense, concede me skill And strength my daring promise to fulfil.

Good seed of Hercules, give ear and deign, Thou that this age’s grace and splendour art, Hippolitus, to smile upon his pain Who tenders what he has with humble heart. For though all hope to quit the score were vain, My pen and pages may pay the debt in part; Then, with no jealous eye my offering scan, Nor scorn my gifts who give thee all I can.

A bough he severs from a neighbouring tree, And shreds and shapes the branch into a pole: With this he sounds the stream, and anxiously Fathoms, and rakes, and ransacks shelf and hole. While angered sore at heart, and restless, he So lingered, where the troubled waters roll, Breast-high, from the mid river rose upright, The apparition of an angry knight.

Armed at all points he was, except his head, And in his better hand a helmet bore; The very casque, which in the river’s bed Ferraù sought vainly, toiling long and sore. Upon the Spanish knight he frowned, and said: “Thou traitor to thy word, thou perjured Moor, Why grieve the goodly helmet to resign, Which, due to me long since, is justly mine?

“Remember, pagan, when thine arm laid low The brother of Angelica. That knight Am I;⁠—thy word was plighted then to throw After my other arms his helmet bright. If Fortune now compel thee to forego The prize, and do my will in thy despite, Grieve not at this, but rather grieve that thou Art found a perjured traitor to thy vow.

The beauteous Bradamant, who was more bold Than wary, gave a ready ear; and, bent To help the maid, imprisoned in that hold, Sought but the means to try the deep descent. Then, looking round, descried an elm-tree old, Which furnished present means for her intent; And from the tree, with boughs and foliage stored, Lopt a long branch, and shaped it with her sword.

The severed end she to the count commended, Then, grasping it, hung down that entrance steep, With her feet foremost, by her arms suspended: When asking if she had the skill to leap, The traitor, with a laugh, his hands extended, And plunged his helpless prey into the deep. “And thus,” exclaimed the ruffian, “might I speed With thee each sucker of thy cursed seed!”

But not, as was the will of Pinabel, Such cruel lot fair Bradamant assayed; For striking on the bottom of the cell, The stout elm-bough so long her weight upstayed, That, though it split and splintered where it fell, It broked her fall, and saved the gentle maid. Some while astounded there the lady lay, As the ensuing canto will display.

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

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

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

But let him boast not of its former boot, O’erbalanced by the present bitter fruit.

Three times, and four, and six, the lines imprest Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain Seeking another sense than was exprest, And ever saw the thing more clear and plain; And all the while, within his troubled breast, He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, At length he stood, not differing from the rock.

Then well-nigh lost all feeling; so a prey Wholly was he to that o’ermastering woe. This is a pang, believe the experienced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs outgo. His pride had from his forehead passed away, His chin had fallen upon his breast below; Nor found he, so grief barred each natural vent, Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament.

Stiffed within, the impetuous sorrow stays, Which would too quickly issue; so to abide Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase, Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide; What time, when one turns up the inverted base, Towards the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide, And in the streight encounters such a stop, It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop.

He somewhat to himself returned, and thought How possibly the thing might be untrue: The some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought To think) his lady would with shame pursue; Or with such weight of jealously had wrought To whelm his reason, as should him undo; And that he, whosoe’er the thing had planned, Had counterfeited passing well her hand.