FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.
THE angel trusts her faith, nor longer stays,
But speeding from the convent wide displays
His rapid wings, to reach by noon of night
The house of Sleep with unremitting flight.
A pleasing vale beneath Arabia's skies,
From peopled towns and cities distant lies:
Two lofty mountains hide the depth below,
Where ancient firs and sturdy beeches grow.
The sun around reveals his cheering day,
But the thick grove admits no straggling ray
To pierce the boughs: immersed in secret shades,
A spacious cave the dusky rock pervades.
The creeping ivy on the front is seen,
And o'er the entrance winds her curling green.
Here drowsy Sleep has fix'd his noiseless throne,
Here Indolence reclines his limbs o'ergrown
Through sluggish ease; and Sloth, whose trem-
bling feet
Refuse their aid and sink beneath her weight.
Before the portal dull Oblivion goes,
He suffers none to pass, for none he knows.
Silence maintains the watch and walks the round
In shoes of felt, with sable garments bound;
And oft as any thither bend their pace,
He waves his hand, and warns them from the
FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.
His pains increase-and soon with shortening breath
He feels the certain chill approach of death.
The' enfeebled warrior now his courser stays,
And near a fountain's side his limbs he lays.
Ah! what avails the wretched virgin's grief?
What can she here to yield her lord relief?
In desert wilds for want she sees him die,
No friend to help, no peopled dwelling nigh,
Where she, for pity or reward, might find
Some skilful leech his streaming wounds to bind.
In vain she weeps-in vain with frantic cries
She calls on Fortune, and condemns the skies.
'Why was I not in surging waters lost,
When first my vessel left Gallicia's coast?'
Zerbino, as his dying eyes he turned
On her, while thus her cruel fate she mourn'd,
More felt her sorrows than the painful strife
Of nature struggling on the verge of life.
6 My heart's sole treasure! mayst thou still,' he said,
When I, alas! am number'd with the dead, Preserve my love-think not for death I grieve; But thee, thus guideless and forlorn to leave, Weighs heavy here-O! were my mortal date Prolong'd to see thee in a happier state, Bless'd were this awful hour-content in death, On that loved bosom to resign my breath. But summon'd now at Fate's unpitying call, Unknown what future lot to thee may fall
By those soft lips, by those fond eyes I swear,
By those dear locks that could my heart ensnare!
Despairing to the shades of night I go,
Where thoughts of thee, left to a world of woe,
Shall rend this faithful breast with deeper pains
Than all that hell's avenging realm contains.'
At this, sad Isabella pour'd a shower
Of trickling tears, and lowly bending o’er,
Close to his mouth her trembling lips she laid,
His mouth now pale like some fair rose decay'd;
A vernal rose that, cropp'd before the time,
Bends the green stalk, and withers ere its prime.
'Think not,' she said, 'life of my breaking
Without thy Isabella to depart:
Let no such fears thy dying bosom rend:
Where'er thou goest, my spirit shall attend:
One hour to both shall like dismission give,
Shall fix our doom, in future worlds to live,
And part no more when ruthless death shall close
Thy fading eyes—that moment ends my woes!
Or should I still survive that stroke of grief,
At least thy sword will yield a sure relief.
And, ah! I trust, relieved from mortal state,
Each breathless corse shall meet a milder fate,
When some, in pity of our hapless doom,
May close our bodies in one peaceful tomb.'
Thus she and while his throbbing pulse she
feels
Weak, and more weak, as death relentless steals
Each vital sense, with her sad lip she drains
The last faint breath of life that yet remains.
To raise his feeble voice Zerbino tried'I charge thee now-O loved in death,' he cried, 'By that affection which thy bosom bore,
When, for my sake, thou left'st thy father's shore,
And, if a truth like mine such power can give, While Heaven shall please-I now command thee, live!
But never be it from thy thought removed,
That, much as man can love, Zerbino loved.
Fear not but God in time will succour lend,
From every ill thy virtue to defend ;
As once he sent the Roman knight to save
Thy youth unfriended from the robber's cave:
As from the seas he drew thee safe to land,
And snatch'd thee from the' impure Biscayner's
And when at last all other hopes we lose, [hand:
Be death the last sad refuge that we choose,'
Thus spoke the dying knight; but scarce were heard
His latter words in accents weak preferr'd. Here ended life-the light so drooping dies, When oil or wax no more the flame supplies.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.
ROGERO, who his fair advantage knew,
Had seized his arm, and now with force he drew
The furious king, and bending to and fro,
Compell'd at length his saddle to forego.
He fell but whether by his force or skill,
So fell, he seem'd Rogero's equal still,
Alighting on his feet-but all the field,
That saw Rogero yet his weapon wield, [slight,
High hopes conceived-meanwhile, with every
The youth essay'd to keep the Pagan knight
At distant bay, nor close too near with one
Of such huge limb, strong nerve, and giant bone.
He view'd the Pagan's gaping wounds, he view'd
His side and thigh with purple streams imbrued,
And hoped, with ebbing strength, he soon must
yield
To him the glory of the well fought field.
Still in his grasp the furious Pagan held
The broken weapon; this, with force impell'd,
He threw the weapon sent with certain aim
Against Rogero's helm and shoulder came.
So dreadful was the stroke, the gentle knight
Reel'd here and there, and scarce his utmost might
Sufficed to keep his tottering bulk upright.
To close in nearer strife the Pagan tried;
His wounded thigh his hasty step denied;
And while he urged his feeble nerves in vain,
One knee, beneath him bending, touch'd the plain.
His time Rogero took, he press'd his foe,
He whirl'd his falchion round, with blow on blow,
And laid once more the haughty Pagan low.
Again more fierce he rose; and now they join'd;
They grasp'd, with arms around each other twined.
His wounded side and thigh that vigour drain'd,
Which Rodomont so oft in fight sustain'd.
Rogero well his pliant limbs could wield,
And long had practised in the wrestlers' field.
His 'vantage now he saw, and close pursued,
And where the Pagan's deepest wounds he view'd,
Where most he saw the purple current flow,
Close and more close he press'd the' enfeebled foe.
But Rodomont, with rage and shame impell'd,
By turns Rogero's neck and shoulders held,
Now forward drew, now backward thrust, and
The youthful hero to his cruel breast, [press'd
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