Orlando Furioso Part 69

CIII In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes, In a hundred parts, their cyphered names are dight; Whose many letters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleeding hear-core pight.

He would discredit in a thousand modes, That which he credits in his own despite; And would parforce persuade himself, that rhind Other Angelica than his had signed.

CIV "And yet I know these characters," he cried, "Of which I have so many read and seen; By her may this Medoro be belied, And me, she, figured in the name, may mean."

Feeding on such like phantasies, beside The real truth, did sad Orlando lean Upon the empty hope, though ill contented, Which he by self-illusions had fomented.

CV But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought, Like the incautious bird, by fowler's lore, Hampered in net or line; which, in the thought To free its tangled pinions and to soar, By struggling, is but more securely caught.

Orlando pa.s.ses thither, where a mountain O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain.

CVI Splay-footed ivy, with its mantling spray, And gadding vine, the cavern's entry case; Where often in the hottest noon of day The pair had rested, locked in fond embrace.

Within the grotto, and without it, they Had oftener than in any other place With charcoal or with chalk their names pourtrayed, Or flourished with the knife's indenting blade.

CVII Here from his horse the sorrowing County lit, And at the entrance of the grot surveyed A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ, And which the young Medoro's hand had made.

On the great pleasure he had known in it, The sentence he in verses had arrayed; Which in his tongue, I deem, might make pretence To polished phrase; and such in ours the sense.

CVIII "Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy cave, Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave King Galaphron, within my arms has lain; For the convenient harbourage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As recompence, for ever sing your praise.

CIX "And any loving lord devoutly pray, Damsel and cavalier, and every one, Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey, Stranger or native, -- to this crystal run, Shade, caverned rock, and gra.s.s, and plants, to say, Benignant be to you the fostering sun And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide, That never swain his flock may hither guide!"

CX In Arabic was writ the blessing said, Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, Who, versed in many languages, best read Was in this speech; which oftentimes from wrong, And injury, and shame, had saved his head, What time he roved the Saracens among.

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

CXI 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.

CXII 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CXIII 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 pa.s.sage, drop by drop.

CXIV 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 pa.s.sing well her hand.

CXV With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, And manned some deal his spirits and awoke; Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro's seat, As on the sun's retreat his sister broke.

Nor far the warrior had pursued his beat, Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, And thitherward in quest of lodging hied.

CXVI Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant: one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest.

This was the homestead where the young Medore Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest.

Orlando here, with other food unfed, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed.

CXVII The more the wretched sufferer seeks for ease, He finds but so much more distress and pain; Who every where the loathed hand-writing sees, On wall, and door, and window: he would fain Question his host of this, but holds his peace, Because, in sooth, he dreads too clear, too plain To make the thing, and this would rather shrowd, That it may less offend him, with a cloud.

CXVIII Little availed the count his self-deceit; For there was one who spake of it unsought; The sheperd-swain, who to allay the heat, With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought: The tale which he was wonted to repeat -- Of the two lovers -- to each listener taught, A history which many loved to hear, He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer.

CXIX How at Angelica's persuasive prayer, He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where, In little s.p.a.ce she healed the angry sore.

But while she exercised this pious care, Love in her heart the lady wounded more, And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, She burnt all over, restless with desire:

CXX Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, Who ruled in the east, nor of her heritage, Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn To be the consort of a poor foot-page.

-- His story done, to them in proof was borne The gem, which, in reward for harbourage, To her extended in that kind abode, Angelica, at parting, had bestowed.

CXXI A deadly axe was this unhappy close, Which, at a single stroke, lopt off the head; When, satiate with innumerable blows, That cruel hangman Love his hate had fed.

Orlando studied to conceal his woes; And yet the mischief gathered force and spread, And would break out parforce in tears and sighs, Would he, or would be not, from mouth and eyes.

CXXII When he can give the rein to raging woe, Alone, by other's presence unreprest, From his full eyes the tears descending flow, In a wide stream, and flood his troubled breast.

'Mid sob and groan, he tosses to and fro About his weary bed, in search of rest; And vainly s.h.i.+fting, harder than a rock And sharper than a nettle found its flock.

CXXIII Amid the pressure of such cruel pain, It past into the wretched sufferer's head, That oft the ungrateful lady must have lain, Together with her leman, on that bed: Nor less he loathed the couch in his disdain, Nor from the down upstarted with less dread, Than churl, who, when about to close his eyes, Springs from the turf, if he a serpent spies.

CXXIV In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, Whose twilight goes before approaching day.

In haste, Orlando takes his arms and steed, And to the deepest greenwood wends his way.

And, when a.s.sured that he is there alone, Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan.

CXXV Never from tears, never from sorrowing, He paused; nor found he peace by night and day: He fled from town, in forest harbouring, And in the open air on hard earth lay.

He marvelled at himself, how such a spring Of water from his eyes could stream away, And breath was for so many sobs supplied; And thus ofttimes, amid his mourning, cried.

CXXVI "These are no longer real tears which rise, And which I scatter from so full a vein.

Of tears my ceaseless sorrow lacked supplies; They stopt when to mid-height scarce rose my pain.

The vital moisture rus.h.i.+ng to my eyes, Driven by the fire within me, now would gain A vent; and it is this which I expend, And which my sorrows and my life will end.

CXXVII "No; these, which are the index of my woes, These are not sighs, nor sighs are such; they fail At times, and have their season of repose: I feel, my breast can never less exhale Its sorrow: Love, who with his pinions blows The fire about my heart, creates this gale.

Love, by what miracle does thou contrive, It wastes not in the fire thou keep'st alive?

CXXVIII "I am not -- am not what I seem to sight: What Roland was is dead and under ground, Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite, Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound.

Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, Which in this h.e.l.l, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above, A warning to all such as thrust in love."

CXXIX All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Medoro wrought.

To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount, Inflamed his fury so, in him was nought But turned to hatred, phrensy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his faulchion bright;

Cx.x.x Cleft through the writing; and the solid block, Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped.

Wo worth each sapling and the caverned rock, Where Medore and Angelica were read!

So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed.

And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure.

Cx.x.xI For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, Cast without cease into the beauteous source; Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, Never again was clear the troubled course.

At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force, Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs.

Cx.x.xII Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor spake he aught.

Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought.

At length, impelled by phrensy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away.

Cx.x.xIII Here was his helmet, there his s.h.i.+eld bestowed; His arms far off; and, farther than the rest, His cuira.s.s; through the greenwood wide was strowed All his good gear, in fine; and next his vest He rent; and, in his fury, naked showed His s.h.a.ggy paunch, and all his back and breast.

And 'gan that phrensy act, so pa.s.sing dread, Of stranger folly never shall be said.

Cx.x.xIV So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite; Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew, Or wonderous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight: But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was needed by Orlando's peerless might.

He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull.

Cx.x.xV He many others, with as little let As fennel, wall-wort-stem, or dill, up-tore; And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, And beech, and mountain-ash, and elm-tree h.o.a.r.

He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, Does, to prepare the champaigne for his lore, By stubble, rush, and nettle-stalk; and broke, Like these, old st.u.r.dy trees and stems of oak.

Cx.x.xVI The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood tree, Some here some there across the forest hie, And hurry thither, all, the cause to see.