THE THE MADNESS OF ORLANDO From Orlando Furioso,' Canto 23 HE course in pathless woods, which without rein On either bank of which a meadow lay; The mid-day fervor made the shelter sweet Some deal might wince, opprest with plate and chain He entered for repose the cool retreat, And found it the abode of grief and pain; Turning him round, he there on many a tree He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore. Whither oft-times, attended by Medore, In a hundred knots, amid these green abodes, In a hundred parts, their ciphered names are dight; Whose many letters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core pight. He would discredit in a thousand modes, That which he credits in his own despite; And would perforce persuade himself, that rind "And yet I know these characters," he cried, 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, 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 lime; which, in the thought To free its tangled pinions and to soar, By struggling is but more securely caught. Orlando passes thither, where a mountain O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain, 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, This sentence he in verses had arrayed; Which to his tongue, I deem, might make pretense To polished phrase; and such in ours the sense:— "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 harborage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As recompense, forever sing your praise. 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 grass, 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.'» 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, Three times, and four, and six, the lines impressed 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. Stifled 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, Toward the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide, And in the strait encounters such a stop, It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop. He somewhat to himself returned, and thought To whelm his reason, as should him undo; 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. Not 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. Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant; one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed. Little availed the count his self-deceit; For there was one who spake of it unsought: The shepherd-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, "How at Angelica's persuasive prayer, He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where In little space 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; "Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, His story done, to them in proof was borne In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed And to the deepest greenwood wends his way. Never from tears, never from sorrowing, He paused; nor found he peace by night or day; He fled from town, in forest harboring, And in the open air on hard earth lay. "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 hell, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above, A warning to all such as trust in love." 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. Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught Woe worth each sapling and that caverned rock 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 tempestous wrath was ill secure. 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 wondrous 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. |