Flooding the roads: while on the champaign laid
Were eighty thousand of the paynim crew,
Cut off that day by the destroying blade:
Last trooped from caverns, at the midnight-hour,
Villain and wolf to spoil them and devour.
King Charles returns no more within the town,
But camps without the city, opposite
The Moor’s cantonments, and bids up and down,
And round, high-piled and frequent watch-fires light.
The paynim fashions ditch and bastion,
Rampart and mine, and all things requisite;
Visits his outposts, and his guards alarms,
Nor all the livelong night puts off his arms.
That livelong night the foes, throughout their tents,
As insecure and with their scathe deprest,
Poured tears, and uttered murmurs and laments;
But, as they could, their sounds of woe supprest.
One grief for slaughtered friends or kindred vents;
Some are by sorrows of their own distrest,
As wounded or as ill at ease; but more
Tremble at mischief which they deem in store.
Two Moors amid the paynim army were,
From stock obscure in Ptolomita grown;
Of whom the story, an example rare
Of constant love, is worthy to be known:
Medoro and Cloridan were named the pair;
Who, whether Fortune pleased to smile or frown,
Served Dardinello with fidelity,
And late with him to France had crost the sea.
Of nimble frame and strong was Cloridane,
Throughout his life a follower of the chase.
A cheek of white, suffused with crimson grain,
Medoro had, in youth a pleasing grace.
Nor bound on that emprize, ’mid all the train,
Was there a fairer or more jocund face.244
Crisp hair he had of gold, and jet-black eyes:
And seemed an angel lighted from the skies.
These two were posted on a rampart’s height,
With more to guard the encampment from surprise,
When ’mid the equal intervals, at night,
Medoro gazed on heaven with sleepy eyes.
In all his talk, the stripling, woful wight,
Here cannot choose, but of his lord devise,
The royal Dardinel; and evermore
Him, left unhonoured on the field, deplore.
Then, turning to his mate, cries; “Cloridane,
I cannot tell thee what a cause of woe
It is to me, my lord upon the plain
Should lie, unworthy food for wolf or crow!
Thinking how still to me he was humane,
Meseems, if in his honour I forego
This life of mine, for favours so immense
I shall but make a feeble recompense.
“That he may lack not sepulture, will I
Go forth, and seek him out among the slain;
And haply God may will that none shall spy
Where Charles’s camp lies hushed. Do thou remain;
That, if my death be written in the sky,
Thou may’st the deed be able to explain.
So that if Fortune foil so fear a feat,
The world, through Fame, my loving heart may weet.”
Amazed was Cloridan a child should show
Such heart, such love, and such fair loyalty;
And fain would make the youth his though forego,
Whom he held passing dear; but fruitlessly
Would move his steadfast purpose; for such woe
Will neither comforted nor altered be.
Medoro is disposed to meet his doom,
Or to enclose his master in the tomb.
Seeing that nought would bend him, nought would move,
“I too will go,” was Cloridan’s reply,
“In such a glorious act myself will prove;
As well such famous death I cover, I:
What other thing is left me, here above,
Deprived of thee, Medoro mine? To die
With thee in arms is better, on the plain,
Than afterwards of grief, should’st thou be slain.”
And thus resolved, disposing in their place
Their guard’s relief, depart the youthful pair,
Leave fosse and palisade, and, in small space,
Are among ours, who watch with little care:
Who, for they little fear the paynim race,
Slumber with fires extinguished everywhere.
’Mid carriages and arms, they lie supine
Up to the eyes, immersed in sleep and wine.
A moment Cloridano stopt and cried;
“Not to be lost are opportunities.
This troop, by whom my master’s blood was shed,
Medoro, ought not I to sacrifice?
Do thou, lest any one this way be led,
Watch everywhere about, with ears and eyes.
For a wide way, amid the hostile horde,
I offer here to make thee with my sword.”
So said he, and his talk cut quickly short,
Coming where learned Alpheus slumbered nigh;
Who had the year before sought Charles’s court,
In medicine, magic, and astrology
Well versed; but now in art found small support,
Or rather found that it was all a lie.
He had foreseen, that he his long-drawn life
Should finish in the bosom of his wife.
And now the Saracen with wary view
Has pierced his weasand with the pointed sword.
Four others he neat that Diviner, slew,
Nor gave the wretches time to say a word.
Sir Turpin in his story tells not who,
And Time had of their names effaced record.
Palidon of Moncalier next he speeds;
One who securely sleeps between two steeds.
Next came the warrior where, with limbs outspread,
Pillowed on barrel, lay the wretched Gryll:
This he had drained, and undisturbed by dread,
Hoped to enjoy a peaceful sleep and still.
The daring Saracen lopt off his head,
Blood issues from the tap-hole, with a rill
Of wine; and he, well drenched with many a can,
Dreams that he drinks, dispatched by Cloridan.
Next Gryll, Andropono and Conrad hight,
A Greek and German, at two thrusts he gored,
Who in the air had past large part of night
With dice and goblet; blest it at that board
They still had watched, till, clothed in amber light,
The radiant sun had traversed Indus’ ford!
But mortals Destiny would set at nought
If every wight futurity were taught.
As, in full fold, a lion long unfed,
Whom wasting famine had made lean and spare,
Devours and rends, and swallows, and lays dead
The feeble flock, which at his mercy are;
So, in their sleep, the cruel paynim bled
Our host, and made wide slaughter everywhere:
