Who, half-a-mile removed from those of Spain,
Posted upon that side, observed the plain.
With such a faithful escort fortified
And sure, the Christians who had thither wound,
With Silence and the Angel for their guide,
No longer could stand mute or keep their ground:
But hearing now the foe, with shouts defied
Their host, and made the shrilling trumpets sound;
And with loud clamours, which Heaven’s concave fill,
Sent through the paynim’s bones a deadly chill.
Rinaldo spurs before the troops combined
His foaming courser, and his weapon rests;
And a full bowshot leaves the Scots behind:
So all delay the impatient peer molests.
As oftentimes an eddying gust of winds
Issues, ere yet the horrid storm infests,
So sallying swiftly from the following herd,
Rinaldo forth upon Bayardo spurred.
As the aspect of the paladin of France,
The wavering Moorish files betray their fear;
And, trembling in their hands, is seen the lance,
Their thighs and stirrups quivering, like the spear.
King Pulian only marks the knight’s advance,
Knowing Rinaldo not, unchanged in cheer;
Nor thinking such a cruel shock to meet,
Gallops against him on his courser fleet.
He stoops upon the weapon which he strains
Whole and collected for the martial game:
Then to his horse abandoning the reins,
And goading with both spurs the courser, came.
Upon the other side no valour feigns,
But shows, by doings, what he is in name;
—With what rare grace and matchless art he wars,
The son of Aymon, rather son of Mars.
Well-matched in skill, they aimed their cruel blows,
With lances at each other’s heads addrest;
Ill matched, in arms and valour, were the foes,
For this past on, and that the champaigne prest.
More certain proof of worth, when warriors close,
There needs than knightly lance, well placed in rest;
But Fortune even more than Valour needs,
Which ill, without her saving succour, speeds.
With the good spear new levelled in his fist,
At Oran’s king behold Rinaldo dart.
Of bulk, and bone, and sinew, to resist
The monarch was, but ill supplied with heart.
And his might pass for a fair stroke in list,
Though planted in the buckler’s nether part.
Let those excuse it who refuse to admire,
Since the good paladin could reach no higher.
Nor did the buckler so the weapon stay,
Though made of palm within, and steel without,
But that it pierced the paunch, and made a way
To let that mean and ill matched spirit out.
The courser, who had deemed that all the day
He must so huge a burden bear about,
Thanked in his heart the warrior, who well met,
Had thus preserved him from so sore a sweat.
Rinaldo, having broke his rested spear,
So wheels his horse, he seems equipt with wings;
Who, turning swiftly with the cavalier,
Amid the closest crowd, impetuous springs.
Composed of brittle glass the arms appear
Where Sir Rinaldo red Fusberta swings.
Nor tempered steel is there, nor corslet thick,
Which keeps the sword from biting to the quick.
Yet few the tempered plates or iron pins
With which encounters that descending brand;
But targets, some of oak and some of skins,
And quilted vest and turban’s twisted band.
Lightly such drapery good Rinaldo thins,
And cleaves, and bores, and shears, on either hand;
Nor better from his sword escapes the swarm,
Than grass from sweeping scythe, or grain from storm.
The foremost squadron had been put to flight,
When thither the vanguard Zerbino led.
Forth pricking from the following crowd, in sight
Appeared, with levelled lance, their youthful head:
With no less fury those who trooped to fight
Beneath his banner, to the combat sped;
Like lions, like so many wolves, who leap
In fury to the assault of goat or sheep.
Both spurred their coursers on, with rested lance,
When either warrior to his foe was near;
And that short interval, that small expanse,
Of plain, between, was seen to disappear.
Was never witnessed yet a stranger dance!
For the Scots only ply the murderous spear;
Only the scattered paynims slaughtered lie,
As if conducted thither but to die.
It seemed as if each coward Paynim grew
More cold than ice; each Scot more fierce than flame.
The Moors believed that with Rinaldo’s thew
And muscle fortified, each Christian came.
Sobrino quickly moved his ordered crew,
Nor stayed till herald should his call proclaim:
Better were they than those which went before,
For captain, armour, and for martial lore.
Less worthless men of Africa were they,
Though ill had they been deemed of much avail.
Ill harnessed, and worse trained to martial fray,
Forthwith King Dardinel, the foe to assail,
Moved up his host, himself in helmet gay,
And sheathing all his limbs in plate and mail.
The fourth division I believe was best,
Which, under Isolier, to battle prest.
Thraso, this while, the valiant Duke of Mar,
Glad in the tumult, for the cavaliers
Who muster in his train, uplifts the bar,
And to the lists of fame his following cheers,
When Isolier, with horsemen of Navarre,
Entered in that fierce fray he sees and hears.
Next Ariodantes moved his chivalry,
Who was of late made Duke of Albany.
The deep sonorous trumpet’s bellowing,
And sound of drum, and barbarous instrument,
Combined with twang of bow, and whiz of sling,
Wheel and machine, and stone from engine sent,
And (what more loud than these appeared to ring)
Tumult, and shriek, and groan, and loud lament,
Composed a direr whole than what offends
The neighbouring tribes where deafening Nile descends.
The arrows’ double shower the ample sky
With wide-extended shade is seen to shrowd;
Breath, smoke of sweat and dust ascend on high,
And seem to stamp in air a murky cloud.
By turns each host gives way, and you might spy,
Now chasing, now in flight, the selfsame crowd;
And here some wight, beside his foeman slain,
Or little distant, prostrate on the plain.
When, harassed with fatigue, a wearied crew
Withdraw, fresh files their fellows reinforce:
Men, here
