And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, Morgante was like any mountain framed; And fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, He did; and stowed him in some nook away, RINALDO AND ORLANDO. BY BOIARDO. (Translated by J. A. Symonds.) [MATTEO MARIA BOIARDO, Count of Scandiano in the Modenese territory. was born there, perhaps about 1434; studied at the University of Ferrara; became versed in the classics and Oriental languages; a favorite at the court of Ferrara, was made governor of Reggio and captain of Modena. 1494. his He died in He wrote sonnets and canzones, a comedy, and other small pieces; but great work is the unfinished epic "Orlando Innamorato," well constructed and dramatic though heavy in style, which was Italy's first good romantic epic, and led to two far greater works-Ariosto's sequel the "Orlando Furioso," and Tasso's "Gerusalemme Liberata."] RINALDO AND FIORDELISA. UPON his steed forthwith hath sprung the knight, Not far they fared, when slowly waned the light, He now can sleep anigh that beauteous dame, Would not have stayed his quick desire, I swear; Walls, mountains he'd have laid in ruins there! The air, meanwhile, was growing bright around, Beauteous he was, and but a stripling then : ORLANDO'S LAMENT OVER RINALDO. [They have recently fought over Angelica, and Orlando, finding his rival's sword, supposes him dead.] Hearing these dulcet words, the Count began Backward, already he withdrew a span, When, gazing on the bridge and guarded field, Which erst Rinaldo bore - broadsword and shield: "Here wast thou killed by foulest treachery Of that false robber on this slippery bridge; Where now thou reignest, list thy lord and liege! Me who so loved thee, though my brief misprision, Through too much love, wrought 'twixt our lives division. "I crave thy pardon, pardon me, I pray, If e'er I did thee wrong, sweet cousin mine! I was thine ever, as I am alway, Though false suspicion, or vain love malign, And jealous blindness, on an evil day, Brought me to cross my furious brand with thine; Yet all the while I loved thee love thee now: Mine was the fault, and only mine, I vow. "What traitorous wolf ravening for blood was he Who thus debarred us twain from kind return To concord sweet and sweet tranquillity, Sweet kisses, and sweet tears of souls that yearn? This is the anguish keen that conquers me, That now I may not to thy bosom turn, And speak, and beg for pardon, ere I part; ORLANDO AND AGRICANE. After the sun below the hills was laid, And with bright stars the sky began to glow, "What shall we do, now that the day is low?" No sooner said, than straight they were agreed: Each ties his horse to trees that near them grew; Then down they lay upon the grassy mead You might have thought they were old friends and true, So close and careless couched they in the reed. Orlando nigh unto the fountain drew, And Agricane hard by the forest laid Herewith the twain began to hold debate Of fitting things, and meet for noble knights. The Count looked up to heaven and cried, "How great Which God, the mighty monarch, did create; But Agricane: "Full well I apprehend It is your For his much prating; no one since did yearn "And so I let my boyish days flow by In hunting, feats of arms, and horsemanship; To pore the livelong day o'er scholarship. Then spake the Count: "Thus far we both agree: Who never thinks of God's eternal light; Then Agricane: "Small courtesy it were, War with advantage so complete to wage! My nature I have laid before you bare: I know full well that you are learned and sage; Sleep if you like; in sleep your soul assuage; "Now I beseech you, answer me the truth Of what I ask, upon a brave man's faith: Are you the great Orlando, in good sooth, Whose name and fame the whole world echoeth? Whence are you come, and why? Were you by love enthralled? And since your youth For story saith That any knight who loves not, though he seem Then spake the Count: "Orlando sure am I, And made me journey to strange lands and new; RINALDO'S VISION. When to the leafy wood his feet were brought, And in the midst thereof a naked boy, Singing, took solace with surpassing cheer; Three ladies round him, as around their joy, Danced naked in the light so soft and clear. No sword, no shield, hath been his wonted toy; Brown are his eyes; yellow his curls appear; His downy beard hath scarce begun to growOne saith 'tis there, and one might say no! With violets, roses, flowers of every dye, Baskets they filled, and eke their beauteous hands: Then as they dance in joy and amity, The Lord of Montalbano near them stands: Whereat "Behold the traitor!" loud they cry, Soon as they mark the foe within their bands "Behold the thief, the scorner of delight, Caught in the trap at last in sorry plight!" Then with their baskets all with one consent Showers lilies, hyacinths, fast as she can pour: TOL. XI.-7 |