Were his arms hewn from adamantine rock,
The spear would pierce the paynim’s panoply;
And end that battle: but it breaks withal,
And on their croups both staggering coursers fall.
With bridle and with spur the martial pair
Raise their proud horses nimbly from the ground;
And having broke their spears, with faulchions bare
Return, to bandy fierce and cruel wound.
Wheeling with wondrous mastery, here and there,
The bold and ready coursers in a round,
The warriors with their biting swords begin
To try where either’s armour is most thin.
Rodomont had not that hard dragon-hide
Which heretofore had cased the warrior’s breast;
Nor Nimrod’s trenchant sword was at his side;
Nor the accustomed helm his temples prest.
For on that bridge which spanned the narrow tide,
A loser to Dordona’s lady,588 vest
And arms suspended from the votive stone
He left: as I, meseems, erewhile have shown.
Clad was the king in other goodly mail;
Yet not like that first panoply secure:
But neither this, nor that, nor harder scale
Could Balisarda’s deadly dint endure;
Against which neither workmanship avail,
Enchantment, temper, nor prime steel and pure.
So here so there Rogero plied his sword,
He more than once the paynim’s armour bored.
When Rodomont beholds in that fierce close
His widely crimsoned arms, nor can restrain
The greater portion of those griding blows
From biting to the quick, through plate and chain,
He with more fury, with more rage o’erflows,
Than in mid winter the tempestuous main
Flings down his shield, and with both hands outright
Lays at Rogero’s helm with all his might.
With that excessive force, wherewith the gin,
Erected in two barges upon Po,
And raised by men and wheels, with deafening din
Descends upon the sharpened piles below,
With all his might he smote the paladin
With either hand; was never direr blow:
Him the charmed helmet helped, or—such its force—
The stroke would have divided man and horse.
As if about to fall, the youthful lord
Twice nodded, opening legs and arms; anew
Rodomont smote, in that he would afford
His foe no time his spirits to renew:
Then threatened other stroke; but that fine sword
Bore not such hammering, and in shivers flew;
And the bold Saracen, bereft of brand,
Was in the combat left with unarmed hand.
But not for this doth Rodomont refrain:
He swoops upon the Child, unheeding aught:
So sore astounded is Rogero’s brain;
So wholly overclouded is his thought.
But him the paynim well awakes again,
Whom by the neck he with strong arm has caught,
And gripes and grapples with such mighty force,
He falls on earth, pulled headlong from his horse.
Yet leaps from earth as nimbly, moved by spleen
Far less than shame; for on his gentle bride
He turned his eyes, and that fair face serene
Now troubled the disdainful warrior spied.
She in sore doubt her champion’s fall had seen;
And well nigh at that sight the lady died.
Rogero, quickly to revenge the affront,
Clutches his sword and faces Rodomont.
He at Rogero rode, who that rude shock
Shunned warily, retiring from his ground,
And, as he past, the paynim’s bridle took
With his left had, and turned his courser round;
While with his right he at his rider struck,
Whom he in belly, flank and breast would wound;
And twice sore anguish felt the monarch, gored
In flank and thigh, by good Rogero’s sword.
Rodomont, grasping still in that close fight
The hilt and pommel of his broken blade,
Layed at Rogero’s helmet with such might,
That him another stroke might have dismayed:
But good Rogero, who should win of right,
Seizing his arm, the king so rudely swayed,
Bringing his left his better hand to speed,
That he pulled down the paynim from his steed.
Through force or skill, so fell the Moorish lord,
He stood his match, I rather ought to say
Fell on his feet; because Rogero’s sword
Gave him, ’twas deemed, advantage in the fray.
Rogero stands aloof, with wary ward,
As fain to keep the paynim king at bay.
For the wise champion will not let a wight
So talk and bulky close with him in fight;
Rogero flank and thigh dyed red beheld,
And other wounds; and hoped he would have failed
By little and by little, as it welled;
So that he finally should have prevailed.
His hilt and pommel in his fist yet held
The paynim, which with all his might he scaled
At young Rogero; whom he smote so sore,
The stripling never was so stunned before.
In the helmet-cheek and shoulder-bone below
The Child was smit, and left so sore astound,
He, tripping still and staggering to and fro,
Scarce kept himself from falling to the ground.
Rodomont fain would close upon his foe;
But his foot fails him, weakened by the wound
Which pierced his thigh: he overtasked his might
And on his kneepan fell the paynim knight.
Rogero lost no time, and with fierce blows
Smote him in face and bosom with his brand;
Hammered, and held the Saracen so close,
To ground he bore that champion with his hand.
But he so stirred himself, again he rose:
He gripes Rogero so, fast locked they stand.
Seconding their huge vigour by address,
They circle one another, shake, and press.
His wounded thigh and gaping flank had sore
Weakened the vigour of the Moorish king:
Rogero had address; had mickle lore;
Was greatly practised in the wrestlers’ ring:
He marked his vantage, nor from strife forbore;
And, where he saw the blood most freely spring,
And where most wounded was the warrior, prest
The paynim with his feet, his arms, and breast.
Rodomont filled with spite and rage, his foe
Takes by the neck and shoulders, and now bends
Towards him, and now pushes from him; now
Raises from earth, and on his chest suspends;
Whirls here and there and grapples; and to throw
The stripling sorely in that strife contends.
Collected in himself, Rogero wrought,
To
