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The darksome cave they enter, where they find | Ne may a man prolong or shorten it:
That cursed man low sitting on the ground,
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind;
His greasy locks, long growing and unbound,
Disordered hung about his shoulders round,
And hid his face thro' which his hollow eyne
Look'd deadly dull, and stared as astound;
His raw-bone cheeks, through penury and pine,
Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never
dine.

The soldier may not move from watchful sted,
Nor leave his stand until his captain bed.
Who life did limit by almighty doom
(Quoth he) knows best the terms established:
And he that 'points the centinel in his room,
Doth licence him depart at sound of morning
droom.

His garment, nought but many ragged clouts,
With thorns together pinn'd and patched was,
The which his naked sides he wrapp'd abouts:
And him beside there lay upon the grass
A dreary corse, whose life away did pass,
All wallow'd in his own yet lukewarm blood,
That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas !
In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood,
And made an open passage for the gushing
flood.

Which piteous spectacle, approving true
The woful tale that Trevisan had told,
When as the gentle Red Cross knight did view,
With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold,
Him to avenge before his blood were cold;
And to the villain said: Thou damned wight!
The author of this fact, we here behold,
What justice can but judge against thee right,
With thine own blood to price his blood, here
shed in sight.

What frantic fit (quoth he) hath thus distaught
Thee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give?
What justice ever other judgement taught,
But he should die, who merits not to live?
None else to death this man despairing drive
But his own guilty mind deserving death.
Is then unjust to each his due to give?
Or let him die, that loatheth living breath?
Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath?
Who travels by the weary wand'ring way,
To come unto his wished home in haste,
And meets a flood that doth his passage stay,
Is not great grace to help him over-past,
Or free his feet, that in the mire stick fast?
Most envious man! that grieves at neighbour's
good:

And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast ;
Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath

stood

Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the

flood?

He there does now enjoy eternal rest,

Is not his deed, whatever thing is done,
In heaven and earth? Did not he all create
To die again? All ends that was begun;
Their times in his eternal book of fate
Are written sure, and have their certain date,
Who then can strive with strong necessity,
That holds the world in his still changing

state,

Or shun the death ordain'd by destiny?
When hour of death is come, let none ask
whence, nor why.

The longer life, I wote the greater sin,
The greater sin, the greater punishment;
All those great battles which thou boasts to
win,

Thro' strife, and bloodshed, and avengement,
Now prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent.
For life must life, and blood must blood repay.
Is not enough thy evil life forespent?
For he that once hath missed the right way,
The further he doth go, the further he doth

stray.

Then do no further go, no further stray,
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake,
Th' ill to prevent, that life ensuen may :
For what hath life, that may it loved make,
And gives not rather cause it to forsake?
Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife,
Pain, hunger, cold, that makes the heart to
quake;

And ever fickle fortune rageth rife,
And which, and thousands more, do make a
loathsome life.

Thou, wretched man, of death hath greatest

need,

If in true balance thou wilt weigh thy state;
For never knight that dared warlike deed

More luckless disadventures did amate:
Witness the dungeon deep, wherein of late
Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call:
And tho' good fuck prolonged hath thy date,
Yet death then would the like mishaps fore-
stall,
[fall.
Into the which hereafter thou mayst happen

And happy ease, which thou dost want and Why then dost thou, O man of sin, desire

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To draw thy days forth to their last degree?
Is not the measure of thy sinful hire
High heaped up with huge iniquity,
Against the day of wrath, to burden thee?
Is not enough, that to this lady mild
Thou falsed hast thy face with perjury,
And sold thyself to serve Duessa vile,
With whom in all abuse thou hast thyself de-
Is not he just that all this doth behold
From highest heaven, and bears an equal eye?
Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold,
And guilty be of thine impiety?

[fil'd?

Is not his law, Let every sinner die?

Die shall all flesh? What then must needs be
Is it not better to do willingly, [done,
Than linger till the glass be all out-run? [son.
Death is the end of woes. Die soon, O Fairy's
The knight was much enmoved with this
speech,
[pierce,
That as a sword's point through his heart did
And in his conscience made a secret breach,
Well knowing true all that he did rehearse,
And to his fresh remembrance did reverse
The ugly view of his deformed crimes,
That all his manly pow'rs it did disperse,
As he were charmed with inchaunted rhimes,
That oftentimes he quak'd, and fainted often
times.

In which amazement when the miscreant
Perceived him to waver weak and frail,

With trembling horror did his conscience dant,
And hellish anguish did his soul assail :
To drive him to despair and quite to quail,
He shew'd him painted in a table plain,
The damned ghosts, that do in torments wail,
And thousand fiends that do them endless pain,
With fire and brimstone, which for ever shall

remain.

The sight whereof so throughly him dismay'd,
That nought but death before his eyes he saw,
And ever-burning wrath before him laid,
By righteous sentence of th' Almighty's law:
Then 'gan the villain him to over-craw,
And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison,
fire,

And all that might him to perdition draw;
And bade him choose what death he would
desire:
[God's ire.
For death was due to him that had provok'd
But when as none of them he saw him take,
He to him raught a dagger sharp and keen,
And gave it in his hand; his hand did quake,
And tremble like a leaf of aspin green,
And troubled blood thro' his pale face was seen
To come and go; with tidings from the heart,
As it a running messenger had been:
At last resolv'd to work his final smart,
He lifted up his hand, that back again did start.
Which when as Una saw, through every vein
The crudied cold ran to her well of life,
As in a swoon: but soon reliev'd again,
Out of his hand she snatch'd the cursed knife,
And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,
And to him said; Fie, fie, faint-hearted knight!
What meanest thou by this reproachful strife?
Is this the battic which thou vaunt'st to fight
With that fire-mouthed dragon, horrible and
bright?

Come, come away, frail, silly, fleshy wight,
Ne let vain words bewitch thy manly heart,
Ne devilish thoughts dismay thy constant
spright:

In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part? Why shouldst thou then despair, that chosen

art?

Where justice grows, there grows eke greater grace,

The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,

And that accurs'd hand-writing doth deface: Arise, sir knight, arise, and leave this cursed place.

So up he rose, and thence amounted streight;
Which when the earl beheld, and saw his guest
Would safe depart, for all his subtle sleight,
He chose an halter from among the rest,
And with it hung himself, unbid, unblest.
But death he could not work himself thereby;
For thousand times he so himself had dress'd,"
Yet natheless it could not do him die,
Till he should die his last, that is eternally.

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With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried, and fought:

Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought,

But on the inyrtle smote with all his might, Which groan'd, like living souls to death nigh brought; [hell, The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell.

Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below Roared aloud that thunder'd, and this shook! Bluster'd the tempests strong: the whirl-winds

blow:

The bitter storm drove hail-stones in his look:

• Rinaldo.

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Her feather'd fellows all stood hush to hear; Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were. The gentle budding rose, quoth she, behold, That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams,

Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth unfold
In its fair leaves, and, less seen, fairer seems,
And after spreads them forth more broad and
bold,

Then languisheth, and dies in last extremes;
Nor seems the same that decked bed and bow'r
Of many a lady late and paramour.
So in the passing of a day, doth pass
The bud and blossom of the life of man,
Nor e'er doth flourish more; but, like the
grass

Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale, and wan:
Oh, gather then the rose, while time thou hast!
Short is the day, done when it scant began;
Gather the rose of Love, while yet thou

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§ 126. Pathetic Farewell of Leonidas to his Wife and Family.

Has ever known the prevalence of love,
I SEE, I feel thy anguish, nor my soul
E'er prov'd a father's fondness, as this hour;
Nor, when most ardent to assert my fame,
Was once my heart insensible to thee.
How had it stain'd the honors of my name
To hesitate a moment, and suspend
My country's fate, till shameful life preferr'd
By my inglorious colleague left no choice,
But what in me were infamy to shun,
Not virtue to accept! Then deem no more
That, of my love regardless, or thy tears,
I haste uncall'd to death. The voice of fate,
The gods, my fame, my country, bid me bleed.
O thou dear mourner! wherefore streams afresh

§ 124. Leonidas's Address to his Countrymen. That flood of woe? Why heaves with sighs

-HE alone

Remains unshaken. Rising he displays
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, join'd
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines

Sublimest virtue, and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valor, and contempt of death.
Serene he rose, and thus address'd the throng:

Why this astonishment on every face,
Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!

renew'd

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Should I, thus singled from the rest of men;
Alone intrusted by th' immortal gods
With pow'r to save a people; should my soul
Desert that sacred cause, thee too I yield
To sorrow and to shame: for thou must weep
With Lacedæmon, must with her sustain
Thy painful portion of oppression's weight.
Thy sons behold now worthy of their names,
And Spartan birth. Their growing bloom
must pine

In shame and bondage, and their youthful hearts
Beat at the sound of liberty no more.

On their own virtue and their father's fame
When he the Spartan freedom hath confirm'd,
Before the world illustrious shall they rise,
Their country's bulwark and their mother's joy.
Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe
Grief heard the voice of virtue. No complaint
The solemn silence broke. Tears ceas'd to
flow:

Ceas'd for a moment; soon again to stream.
For now in arms before the palace rang'd,
His brave companions of the war demand
Their leader's presence; then her griefs re-
new'd,

Too great for utt'rance, intercept her sighs,
And freeze each accent on her falt'ring tongue.
In speechless anguish on the hero's breast
She sinks. On ev'ry side his children press,
Hang on his knees, and kiss his honor'd hand.
His soul no longer struggles to confine
Its strong compunction. Down the hero's
cheek,

Down flows the manly sorrow. Great in woe,
Amid his children, who enclose him round,
He stands indulging tenderness and love
In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes,
Address'd to Heaven: Thou ever-living Pow'r,
Look down propitious, sire of gods and men !
And to this faithful woman, whose desert
May claim thy favor, grant the hours of peace.
And thou, my great forefather, son of Jove,
O Hercules, neglect not these thy race!
But since that spirit I from thee derive,
Now bears me from them to resistless fate,
Do thou support their virtue! Be they taught,
Like thee, with glorious labor life to grace,
And from their father let them learn to die!

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With learn'd Chaldeans trac'd the mystic sphere,

There number'd o'er the vivid fires that gleam
Upon the dusky bosom of the night.
Nor on the sands of Ganges were unheard
The Indian sages from sequester'd bow'rs,
While, as attention wonder'd, they disclos'd
The pow'rs of nature; whether in the woods,
The fruitful glebe or flow'r, or healing plant,
The limpid waters, or the ambient air,
Or in the purer element of fire.
The fertile plains where great Sesostris reign'd,
Mysterious Egypt, next the youth survey'd,
From Elephantis, where impetuous Nile
Precipitates his waters to the sea,
Which far below receives the sevenfold stream.
Thence o'er th' Ionic coast he stray'd: nor
pass'd

Miletus by, which once enraptur'd heard
The tongue of Thales; nor Priene's walls,
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias; nor the seat
Of Pittacus, along the Lesbian shore.
Here too melodious numbers charm'd his ears,
Which flow'd from Orpheus, and Musæus old,
And thee, O father of immortal verse,
Mæonides, whose strains through every age
Time with his own eternal lips shall sing.
Back to his native Susa then he turn'd
His wand'ring steps. His merit soon was dear
To Hyperanthes, generous and good;
And Ariana, from Darius sprung
With Hyperanthes, of th' imperial race
Which rul'd th' extent of Asia, in disdain
Of all her greatness, oft an humble ear
To him would bend, and listen to his voice.
Her charms, her mind, her virtue he explor'd
Admiring. Soon was admiration chang'd
To love, nor lov'd he sooner than despair'd.
But unreveal'd and silent was his pain;
Nor yet in solitary shades he roam'd,
Nor shunn'd resort; but o'er his sorrows cast
A sickly dawn of gladness, and in smiles
Conceal'd his anguish; while the secret flame
Rag'd in his bosom, and his peace consum'd.

§ 128. Ariana and Polydorus come by Night into the Grecian Camp.

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wand'ring steps aWe are friends to

Not with the feet of enemies we come,
But crave admittance with a friendly tongue.
The Spartan answers: Thro' the midnight
shade
[broad?
What purpose
draws your
To whom the stranger.
Greece,
And to the presence of the Spartan king
Admission we implore. The cautious chief
Of Lacedæmon hesitates again:
When thus, with accents musically sweet,
A tender voice his wond'ring ear allur'd:

O gen'rous Grecian, listen to the pray'r
Of one distress'd! whom grief alone hath led
In this dark hour to these victorious tents,
A wretched woman, innocent of fraud.
The Greek descending thro' th' unfolded gates
Upheld a flaming brand. One first appear'd
In servile garb attir'd; but near his side
A woman graceful and majestic stood;
Not with an aspect rivalling the pow'r
Of fatal Helen, or the wanton charais
Of love's soft queen; but such as far excell'd
Whate'er the lily blending with the rose
Paints on the cheek of beauty, soon to fade;
Such as express'd a mind which wisdom rul'd,
And sweetness temper'd, virtue's purest light
Illumining the countenance divine;

Yet could not soothe remorseless fate, nor teach

Malignant fortune to revere the good;
Which oft with anguish rends the spotless
heart,

And oft associates wisdom with despair.
In courteous phrase began the chief humane:
Exalted fair, who thus adorn'st the night,
Forbear to blame the vigilance of war,
And to the laws of rigid Mars impute
That I thus long unwilling have delay'd
Before the great Leonidas to place
This your apparent dignity and worth.

He spake; and gently to the lofty tent
Of Sparta's king the lovely stranger guides.
At Agis summons, with a mantle broad
His mighty limbs Leonidas infolds,

And quits his couch. In wonder he surveys Th' illustrious virgin, whom his presence aw'd:

Her eye submissive to the ground inclin'd
With veneration of the god-like man.
But soon his voice her anxious dread dis-
pell'd,

Benevolent and hospitable thus:

Thy form alone, thus amiable and great, Thy mind delineates, and from all commands Supreme regard. Relate, thou noble dame, By what relentless destiny compell'd, Thy tender feet the paths of darkness tread: Rehearse th' afflictions whence thy virtue

mourns.

On her wan cheek a sudden blush arose, Like day's first dawn upon the twilight pale, And, wrapt in grief, these words a passage broke:

If to be most unhappy, and to know That hope is irrecoverably fled;

If to be great and wretched, may deserve

Commiseration from the good, behold,
Thou glorious leader of unconquer'd bands,
Behold, descended from Darius' loins,
Th' afflicted Ariana; and my pray'r
Accept with pity, nor my tears disdain !
| First, that I lovd the best of human race,
By nature's hand with ev'ry virtue form'd,
Heroic, wise, adorn'd with ev'ry art,

Of shame unconscious does my heart reveal.
This day in Grecian arms conspicuous clad
He fought, he fell! A passion long conceal'd
For me, alas! within my brother's arms
His dying breath resigning, he disclos'd.

-Oh I will stay my sorrows!-will forbid
My eyes to stream before thee, and my heart,
Thus full of anguish, will from sighs restrain!
For why should thy humanity be griev'd
With my distress, and learn from me to mourn
The lot of nature, doom'd to care and pain!
Hear then, O king, and grant my sole request,
To seek his body in the heaps of slain.

Thus to the Spartan sued the regal maid,
Resembling Ceres in majestic woe,
When supplicant at Jove's resplendent throne,
From dreary Pluto, and th' infernal gloom,
Her lov'd and lost Proserpina she sought.
Fix'd on the weeping queen with steadfast
eyes,

Laconia's chief these tender thoughts recall'd:
Such are thy sorrows, O for ever dear!
Who now at Lacedæmon dost deplore
My everlasting absence!-then inclin'd
His head, and sigh'd; nor yet forgot to charge
His friend, the gentle Agis, through the straits
The Persian princess to attend and aid.
With careful steps they seek her lover's corse.
The Greeks remember'd, where by fate re-
press'd

His arm first ceas'd to mow their legions down:
And from beneath a mass of Persian slain
Soon drew the hero, by his armor known.
To Agis' high pavilion they resort.
Now, Ariana, what transcending pangs
Thy soul involv'd! what horror clasp'd thy
heart!

But love grew mightiest; and her beauteous limbs

On the cold breast of Teribazus, threw

The grief-distracted maid. The clotted gore Deform'd her snowy bosom. O'er his wounds Loose flow'd her hair, and bubbling from her

eyes

Impetuous sorrow lav'd the purple clay,
When forth in groans her lamentations broke:

O torn for ever from my weeping eyes!
Thou, who despairing to obtain her heart,
Who then most lov'd thee, didst untimely
yield

Thy life to fate's inevitable dart
For her who now in agony
unfolds
Her tender bosom, and repeats her vows
To thy deaf ear, who fondly to her own
Now clasps thy breast insensible and cold.
Alas! do those unmoving ghastly orbs
Perceive my gushing anguish? Does that
heart,

Which death's inanimating hand hath chill'd,

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