To Charlemain and France a welcome aid:
The prince, who then the regal sceptre sway'd
In Otho's stead, to brave Rinaldo's name
Such honours paid, as Otho's self might claim;
Then, answering his demands, he summon'd all
The neighbouring forces that obey'd his call;
With those that in the subject islands lay,
To meet together on a certain day.
But here, my lord, with various themes my muse Th' example of the lyrist's art pursues,
Who, shifting oft the strings, with skilful hands,
Now high, now low, the changing note commands.
While to Rinaldo was my verse confin'd,
Angelica again employ'd my mind,
Whom late we left, where, flying from his sight,
She on an aged hermit chanc'd to light.
Then to pursue her tale---she ask'd the way
That led to where some ready vessel lay:
Such anxious fears possess'd the tender maid,
She deem'd all Europe could not yield her aid.
Pleas'd with her wondrous charms the hoary sire
Through his cold veins confess'd a sudden fire;
Then strove with heavenly converse to detain
The parting fair-one, but he strove in vain.
A hundred times he struck his ass, but still
The stubborn beast was restive to his will:
His walk was heavy, and his trot was worse;
Nor could he make him mend his tardy course.
Ver. 199. But here, my lord,---] A fresh address to his patron: this frequently occurs in the course of the work. Rinaldo is mentioned again at the review of the forces, Book x. ver. 507.
The virgin gone; when scarce his sight survey'd
The late-worn track her palfrey's feet had made
A cave he sought, remote from human eyes,
There caus'd from earth unhallow'd fiends to rise:
From this infernal band a spright he chose,
On whom he best might his commands impose;
And bade him on the palfrey act his part,
That with the damsel bore away his heart.
As the staunch hound that through the mountain dews, With open mouth the hare or fox pursues,
When wheeling round he sees the flying prey,
Oft seems to bend his speed a different way,
Till, unawares, upon the wretch he flies,
And gripes with cruel jaws the bleeding prize.
The hermit thus, by hidden craft, design'd
Where'er she fled, Angelica to find.
His secret purpose well methinks I trace,
And shall discover in some future place.
The subtle demon, with his charge possest,
Now crept within th' unwary damsel's breast.
So lurking sparks at first in secret lie,
'Till bursting sheets of flame involve the sky. Near the salt flood her lonely path she held,
Where on the Gascon shore the billows swell'd:
But soon the fiend, that in her palfrey lay,
To the deep seas impell'd his headlong way.
With terror struck, she strives to turn the rein;
But further still he plunges in the main.
Ver. 244. To the deep seas--] This whole passage is copied from Ovid, in the fable of Jupiter and Europa.
What should she do, but firmly fix her seat?
Her robe she gathers round; her timorous feet
She draws aloft; while o'er her shoulders flow
Her locks, and in her face the zephyrs blow!
The rougher winds are hush'd; the surges cease
Their fury, by her charms compos'd to peace.
While flowing tears her cheeks and breast bedew,
Back to the shore she cast a mournful view;
She sees it now, alas! no longer near;
Still less and less the flying hills appear:
Till, wheeling to the right, a desert strand
The courser reach'd, and bore her safe to land,
Midst rocks and caves; what time the sinking light
Of Phoebus' beams resign'd the world to night.
Soon as the damsel found herself convey'd
To these drear wilds, whose sight alone dismay'd
The gazer's heart, immoveable she stood;
So fix'd, had any eye her figure view'd,
She seem'd a statue on the lonely sands:
Her hair was hanging loose; her clasping hands
Together join'd; in silent grief she mourn'd
With lips unmov'd: her eyes were upward turn'd,
As if t' accuse the high decrees of Heaven,
That all her days to misery had given!
At length she gave a vent to mighty woe,
Words found their way, and tears began to flow!
Relentless fate! what would'st thou more she cries
Since life itself will not thy rage suffice?
Why hast thou sav'd me from the gaping wave,
Where now my griefs had found a peaceful grave,
But that my life preserv'd might means supply
To persecute me more before I die!
By thee I'm banish'd from my regal seat,
Nor e'er must hope my native land to greet:
And O! far worse! have lost my spotless name,
For though my conscious thoughts are void of blame,
Yet, wandering thus, I give too just pretence,
For slander to defame my innocence !
What has that wretched damsel left to boast,
What good on earth, whose virtuous praise is lost!
Alas! that fame which speaks me young and fair,
(Or true or false) but adds to my despair!
Nor can I thanks to Heaven for charms bestow,
For luckless charms, whence all my sorrows flow.
Through these, my brother, poor Argalia, dy'd;
No succour his enchanted arms supply'd.
For these did Agrican, the Tartar king,
My father Galaphron to ruin bring,
Once monarch of Cathay: 'tis hence I range
Forlorn, and every day my dwelling change.
My wealth, my friends, my honour, all is flown!
Yet am I still preserv'd for woes unknown.
Glut then thy utmost rage! O! fortune! send
Some savage beast these wretched limbs to rend.
From loathsome light my weary soul relieve,
And for my death my grateful thanks receive.
Thus in deep sorrow mourn'd the hapless dame,
Till in her sight the wily father came:
Ver. 295.---my father Galaphron---monarch of Cathay :---] Albracca having been long besieged, was at last taken by storm, though not by Agrican, who was slain by Orlando, but by the enemies of Angelica, who took advantage of the absence of Orlando, Sacripant, and the other brave defenders of that princess. See Orlando Innam.
Her, from the summit of a rock, he view'd,
As on the plain below she weeping stood.
Six days before, arriv'd the hermit there,
Borne by a demon strangely through the air;
And now such looks of deep devotion wore,
Not holy Paul, or blest Hilario more!
When nearer fair Angelica he drew,
Nor she the features of the hermit knew,
The welcome sight her drooping spirits cheer'd,
Though still deep anguish on her face appear'd.
O! holy father! with thy pitying aid
Relieve, she cry'd, a helpless, lonely maid;
Then, with a broken voice, began to tell
That mournful story, which he knew so well.
In pious strains, with hypocritic air,
He now began to sooth the weeping fair;
While, as he spoke, his roving fingers press'd
Her alabaster neck and heaving breast;
Till, bolder grown, he clasp'd her in his arms:
But here, resentment kindling all her charms,
Back with her hand the feeble wretch she threw,
While every feature glow'd with rosy huc.
Then from his scrip he takes, of sovereign use,
A little vial fill'd with magic juice;
Ver. 310.---holy Paul, or blest Hilario] " Paul, the first hermit, retired into the desert in the time of the emperor Valeriau, where he lived holily for one hundred and two years, in company with the blessed abbot Antonio. Hilario, bishop of Gailia, was sent into exile with Eusebius, by the emperor, who was an enemy to the Christians: he led an exemplary life, and wrought many miracles." Porcacchi.
Ver. 327. Then from his scrip---] Boyardo has a story something Similar to this of Ariosto, where Flordelis, wife to Brandimart, meets
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