Him when the enchanter saw, as on the brow
Of a projecting precipice he stood,

Fixing his eyes on empty space below
But inly rapt in his own gloomy mood,
Through a disguise so strange he could not know
And who had known, in that wild solitude,
With eyes so fixt and looks so wan and drear,
The flower of knighthood, gallant Olivier ?

Like one unknown upon his path he came,
And thus in few and hasty words addrest :
"Go, wake yon eagle! for the aspiring flame
Already mounts, and fires his royal nest:
Treason hath writ in blood Orlando's name,
And Hell is busy with the coming feast.-
Go, wake yon eagle! for the toils are spread,
And the proud fowler marks him for the dead."

Thus said, he sprang into his car, and high
Soar'd in an instant out of mortal sight,
Steering his voyage through the dusky sky
To reach the imperial camp ere morning light.
Roused from his trance, long time with eager eye
The Paladin in vain pursues his flight,

Straining the almost bursting orbs, till day

Stole unperceived the shadowy hours away.

"Arm, arm! Orlando, arm! Above, around,
On every side, his toils hath Treason traced.'
Scared from his slumbers at the startling sound,
Soon has the valiant knight his armour braced,
And climb'd with toilsome speed the highest ground;"
And thither Anselm, Sansonetto, haste

;

Gualtier and youthful Baldwin too are there,

Astolpho, and the gentle Berlinghier.

Above, below, around, on every side,
They cast their eager and inquiring eyes;

But void and waste extend the mountains wide,
And void and waste the silent valley lies,

As at the hour when the Creator cried

"Be spread, ye valleys! and, ye mountains, rise !”, "Oh Oliver! what vision, wild and vain,

My friend, my brother! hath disturb'd thy brain?"

Another day, another night are o'er,

And Oliver his watch tower mounts again :
The hills are void and silent as before,
And void and silent as before, the plain.
He warns Orlando of his fate once more,
And once again he finds his warning vain ;
Then solitary and dejected strays

Till the third day star o'er the mountains plays.

Above, below, around, on every side,

He turns his eyes; and sees reflected shine
The beaming light from war's advancing tide;
Sees o'er the hills the interminable line
Of steel clad squadrons wind in martial pride,
Seeming in one bright girdle to confine
All that devoted vale, the closing stage,
To many a knight, of earth's loved pilgrimage.

Too late Orlando owns the truth,-too late
For wise retreat, or provident defence:
Yet not a signal of his coming fate

But swells his bosom with a nobler sense;
And not a partner of his perilous state
But feels a martyr's holy confidence,

While, warm and strengthening like celestial food, Flows from his lips the stream of Christian fortitude.

"Could I have thought that in the human heart (') Such hellish treason might a lodging find,

I would have play'd a soldier's better part,
Not thus untimely to my fate resign'd,
But force opposed to force and art to art.
Hither I came, to peace and love inclined,
And thought the love that in my bosom burn'd
For all mankind, with equal love return'd.

"Yet the deceiver shall himself deceive,
On his own head the dreadful thunders call
;
While ye, who in eternal truth believe,
Sure of approving heaven, will nobly fall:
Soon shall ye all rejoice, though now ye grieve,
And change for food divine your bitter gall :
Though now your bread be mixt with tears and sighs,
Your souls this night shall feast in Paradise.

"So to his Greeks the generous Spartan said (16),
Whose promises were far less sure than mine:
Them only hope exalted when they bled;
Your hope is faith, your promises divine.
See on the grate the martyr'd Laurence spread;
Even in the flames his eyes with transport shine,
And show how easy and how sweet to die,
When the freed soul is rapt and fixt on high.

"And now, while little life is yet your own,
All fearless mingle in the bloody fray!
Now, Paladins, be all your prowess shown;
So shall your bodies only die this day.
Now let the fathers by their sons be known,
And cast delusive fruitless hope away!
Fight not for life! Caught in this fatal snare,
Our hope is death; our confidence, despair.

"And yet it grieves me, noble Charles, for thee,-
That, after such high fame, thy royal head
Is doom'd so sad, so dark a change to see,
Thine honours blasted and thy glory fled !
But ah! no human state from change is free,-
Whole empires hang upon the slenderest thread;
And often Fate, at Heaven's appointed hour,
Exalts the meek, and blasts the proud man's power,

"Thee too!-this faithful bosom bleeds for thee,
My cousin, my Rinaldo!—Once again
Might I that much loved form in battle see,
Proud in the field, and dreadful o'er the slain !-
Even while I speak, strange visions welcome me,
Hope's cheering phantoms crowd upon my brain.
I feel,—I know,—that with this mortal eye
I yet shall view Rinaldo ere I die.

"I fear not death; but hope my worth to show, And nobly on the bloody field to lie;

To deal the wrath of Heaven and tenfold woe

On baneful fraud and curst impiety:

Death is not to be fear'd, but when we know

The soul shall also with the body die;
The loss of life is gain, if spirits flee
From this cold clay to immortality. ·