Friends and Foes

All night, the Saracens, in their batter'd stations,
Feeling but ill secure, and sore distress'd.
Gave way to tears, and groans, and lamentations,
Only as hush'd as might be, and suppress'd ;
Some for the loss of friends and of relations
Left on the field ; others for want of rest,
Who had been wounded and were far from home ;
But most for dread of what was yet to come.

Among the rest two Moorish youths were there,
Born of a lowly stock in Ptolemais,
Whose story teems with evidence so rare
Of tried affection, it must here find place.
Their names Medoro and Cloridano were.
They had shown Dardinel the same true face,
Whatever fortune waited on his lance,
And now had cross'd the sea with him to France.

The one, a hunter, used to every sky.
Was of the rougher make, but prompt and fleet :
Medoro had a cheek of rosy dye,
Fair, and delightful for its youth complete :
Of all that came to that great chivalry.
None had a face more lively or more sweet.
Black eyes he had, and sunny curls of hair ;
He seem'd an angel, newly from the air.

These two, with others, where the ramparts lay,
Were keeping watch to guard against surprise,
What time the Night, in middle of its way,
Wonders at heaven with its drowsy eyes.
Medoro there, in all he had to say,
Could not but talk, with sadness and with sighs,
Of Dardinel his lord ; nay, feel remorse,
Though guiltless, for his yet unburied corse.

" O Cloridan," he said, " I try in vain
To bear the thought ; nor ought I, if I could.
Think of a man like that, left on the plain
For wolves and crows ! he, too, that was so good
To my poor self! How can he thus remain,
And I stand here, sparing my wretched blood,
Which, for his sake, might twenty times o'erflow,
And yet not pay him half the debt I owe ?

" I will go forth, — I will, — and seek him yet,
That he may want not a grave's covering ;
And God will grant, perhaps, that I may get
E'en to the sleeping camp of the French king.
Do thou remain ; for if my name is set
For death in heav'n, thou mayst relate the thing ;
So that if fate cut short the glorious part.
The world may know 'twas not for want of heart.'

Struck with amaze was Cloridan to see
Such heart, such love, such duty in a youth ;
And labour'd (for he lov'd him tenderly)
To turn a thought so dangerous to them both ;
But no — a sorrow of that high degree
Is no such thing to comfort or to soothe.
Medoro was dispos'd, either to die,
Or give his lord a grave wherein to lie.

Seeing that nothing bent him or could move,
Cloridan cried, " My road then shall be thine : —
I too will join in such a work of love ;
I too would clasp a death-bed so divine.
Life — pleasure — glory — what would it behoove,
Remaining without thee, Medoro mine
Such death with thee would better far become me,
Than die for grief, shouldst thou be taken from me."

Thus both resolv'd, they put into their place
The next on guard, and slip from the redoubt.
They cross the ditch, and in a little space
Enter our quarters, looking round about.
So little dream we of a Moorish face,
Our camp is hush'd, and every fire gone out.
'Twixt heaps of arms and carriages they creep,
Up to the very eyes in wine and sleep.

Cloridan stopp'd awhile, and said, " Look here !
Occasions are not things to let go by.
Some of the race who cost our lord so dear,
Surely, Medoro, by this arm must die.
Do thou meanwhile keep watch, all eye and ear.
Lest any one should come : — I'll push on, I,
And lead the way, and make through bed and board
An ample passage for thee with my sword."

He said ; and enter'd without more ado
The tent where Alpheus lay, a learned Mars,
Who had but lately come to court, and knew
Physic, and magic, and a world of stare.
This was a cast they had not help'd him to :
Indeed their flatteries had been all a farce ;
For he had found, that after a long life
He was to die, poor man, beside his wife :

And now the cautious Saracen has put
His sword, as true as lancet, in his weason.
Four mouths close by are equally well shut,
Before they can find time to ask the reason.
Their names are not in Turpin ; and I cut
Their lives as short, not to be out of season.
Next Palidon died, a man of snug resources,
Who made up his bed between two horses.

They then arriv'd, where, pillowing his head
Upon a barrel, lay unhappy Grill.
Much vow'd had he, and much believ'd indeed,
That he, that blessed night, would sleep his fill.
The reckless Moor beheads him on his bed.
And wastes his blood and wine at the same spill :
For he held quarts ; and in his dreams that very
Moment had fill'd, but found his glass miscarry.

Near Grill, a German and a Greek there lay,
Andropono and Conrad, who had pass'd
Much of the night al fresco, in drink and play ;
A single stroke a-piece made it their last.
Happy, if they had thought to play away
Till daylight on their board his eye had cast !
But fate determines all these matters still,
Let us arrange them for her as we will.

Like as a lion in a fold of sheep.
Whom desperate hunger has made gaunt and spare.
Kills, bleeds, devours, and mangles in a heap
The feeble flock collected meekly there ;
So the fierce Pagan bleeds us in our sleep,
And lays about, and butchers every where :
And now Medoro joins the dreadful sport.
But scorns to strike among the meaner sort.

Upon a duke he came. La Brett, who slept
Fast in his lady's arms,'embrac'd and fix'd ;
So close they were, so fondly had they kept,
That not the air itself could get betwixt.
O'er both their necks at once the falchion swept.
O happy death ! O cup too sweetly mix'd !
For as their bosoms and affections were,
E'en so, I trust, their souls went clasp'd in air.

Ardalic and Malindo next are slain.
Princes whose race the Flemish sceptre wield :
They had been just made knights by Charlemagne,
And had the lilies added to their shield,
Because, the hardest day of the campaign,
He saw them both turn blood-red in the field.
Lands, too, he said, he'd give; and would have done it,
Had not Medoro put his veto on it.

The wily sword was reaching now the ring
Of the pavilions of the Peers, — the fence
Of the more high pavilion of the King.
They were his guard by turns. The Saracens
Here make a halt, and think it fit to bring
Their slaughter to a close, and get them hence ;
Since it appears impossible to make
So wide a circuit, and find none awake.

They might have got much booty if they chose,
But now to get clean off is their great good.
Cloridan leads as heretofore, and goes
Picking the safest way out that he could.
At last they come, where, amidst shields and bows,
And swords, and spears, in one great plash of blood,
Lie poor and rich, the monarch and the slave,
And men and horses, heap'd without a grave.

The horrible mixture of the bodies there,
(For all the field was reeking round about)
Would have made vain their melancholy care
Till day-time, which 'twas best to do without.
Had not the Moon, at poor Medoro's prayer.
Put from a darksome cloud her bright horn out.
Medoro to the beam devoutly rais'd
His head, and thus petition'd as he gazed : —

" O holy queen, who by our ancestors
Justly wert worshipp'd by a triple name ;
Who show'st in heav'n, and earth, and hell, thy powers
And beauteous face, another and the same ;
And who in forests, thy old favourite bowers,
Art the great huntress, following the game ;
Show me, I pray thee, where my sovereign hes,
Who while he lived found favour in thine eyes."

At this, whether 'twas chance or faith, the moon
Parted the cloud, and issued with a stoop.
Fair, as when first she kiss'd Endymion,
And to his arms gave herself naked up.
The city, at that light, burst forth and shone,
And both the camps, and all the plain and slope,
And the two hills that rose on either quarter,
Far from the walls, Montlery and Montmartre.

Most brilliantly of all the lustre shower'd
Where lay the son of great Almontes, dead.
Medoro, weeping, went to his dear lord.
Whom by his shield he knew, of white and red.
The bitter tears bathed all his face, and pour'd
From either eye, like founts along their bed.
So sweet his ways, so sweet his sorrows were.
They might have stopt the very winds to hear.

But low he wept, and scarcely audible ;
Not that he cared what a surprise might cost,
From any dread of dying ; for he still
Felt a contempt for life, and wish'd it lost ;
But from the fear, lest ere he could fulfil
His pious business there, it might be crost.
Rais'd on their shoulders is the crowned load ;
And shared between them thus, they take their road.

With the dear weight they make what speed they may.
Like an escaping mother to a birth ;
And now comes he, the lord of life and day,
To take the stars from heav'n, the shade from earth ;
When the young Scottish prince, who never lay
Sleeping, when things were to be done of worth,
After continuing the pursuit all night
Came to the field with the first morning light.

And with him came, about him and behind,
A troop of knights, whom they could see from far,
All met upon the road, in the same mind
To search the field for precious spoils of war.
" Brother," said Cloridan, " we must needs, I find,
Lay down our load, and try how fleet we are.
It would be hardly wise to have it said,
We lost two living bodies for a dead."

And off he shook his burden, with that word.
Fancying Medoro would do just the same ;
But the poor boy, who better lov'd his lord,
Took on his shoulders all the weight that came.
The other ran, as if with one accord,
Not guessing what had made his fellow lame.
Had he, he would have dared, not merely one,
But heaps of deaths, rather than fled alone.

The knights, who were determin'd that those two
Should either yield them prisoners or die,
Dispers'd themselves, and without more ado
Seiz'd every pass which they might issue by.
The chief himself rode on before, and drew
Nearer and nearer with a steadfast eye ; .
For seeing them betray such marks of fear,
'Twas plain that in those two no friends were near.

There was an old forest there in those days.
Thick with o'ershadowing trees and underwood.
Which, like a labyrinth, ran into a maze
Of narrow paths, and made a solitude.
The fliers reckoned on its friendly ways.
For Driving them close covert while pursued : —
But he that loves these chants of mine in rhyme,
May choose to hear the rest another time.

None knows the heart in which he may confide,
As long; as he sits high on Fortune's wheel ;
For friends of all sorts then are by his side,
Who show him all the self-same face of zeal :
But let the goddess roll him from his pride,
The flattering set are off upon their heel ;
And he who lov'd him in his heart alone
Stands firm, and will, even when life is gone.

If eyes could see the heart as well as face,
Many a great man at court who tramples others,
And many an humble one in little grace,
Would change their destiny for one another's ;
This would mount up into the highest place —
That go and help the scullions and their mothers.
But turn we to Medoro, good and true,
Who lov'd his lord, whatever fate could do.

The unhappy youth, now in the thickest way
Of all the wood, would fain have hidden close ;
But the dead weight that on his shoulders lay,
Hampers his path, whichever side he goes.
Strange to the country too, he goes astray,
And turns and tramples ' midst the brakes and boughs.
Meanwhile his friend, less burden'd for the race,
Has got in safety to a distant place.

Cloridan came to where he heard no more
The hue and cry that sent him like a dart ;
But when he turn'd about and miss'd Medor,
He seem'd to have deserted his own heart.
" Great God ! " he cried ; " not to see this before !
How could I be so mad ? How could I part
With thee, Medoro, and come driving here,
And never dream I left thee, how or where ? "

So saying, he returns with bitter sighs
Into the tangled wood, by the same path,
And keeps it narrowly with yearning eyes.
And treads with zeal the track of his own death.
And all the while, horses he hears, and cries,
And threatening voices that take short his breath,
And last of all he hears, and now can see,
Medoro, press'd about with cavalry.

They are a hundred, and all round him. He,
While the chief cries to take him prisoner.
Turns like a wheel, and faces valiantly
All that would seize him, leaping here and there,
Now to an elm, an oak, or other tree,
Nor ever parts he with his burden dear,
See ! — he has laid it on the ground at last,
The better to control and keep it fast.

Like as a bear, whom men in mountains start
In her old stony den, and dare, and goad.
Stands o'er her children with uncertain heart,
And roars for rage and sorrow in one mood :
Anger incites her, and her natural part.
To use her nails, and bathe her lips in blood ;
Love melts her, and for all her angry roar.
Holds back her eyes to look on those she bore :

Cloridan knows not how to give his aid.
And yet he must, and die too : — that he knows :
But ere he changes from alive to dead.
He casts about to settle a few foes :
He takes an arrow, — one of his best made, —
And works so well in secret, that it goes
Into a Scotchman's head, right to the brains,
And jerks his lifeless fingers from the reins.

The horsemen in confusion turn about,
To see by what strange hand their fellow died,
When a new shaft's in middle of the rout.
And the man tumbles by his fellow's side.
He was just wondering, and calling out,
And asking questions, fuming as he cried ;
The arrow comes, and dashes to his throat.
And cuts him short in middle of his note.

Zerbin, the leader of the troop, could hold
His rage no longer at this new surprise.
But darting on the boy, with eyes that roll'd,
" You shall repent this insolence," he cries ;
Then twisting with his hand those locks of gold,
He drags him back, to see him as he dies ;
But when he sets his eyes on that sweet face,
He could not do it, 'twas so hard a case.

The youth betook him to his prayers, and said,
" For God's sake, sir, be not so merciless
As to prevent my burying the dead :
'Tis a king's body that's in this distress :
Think not I ask from any other dread ;
Life could give me but little happiness.
All the life now which I desire to have,
Is just enough to give my lord a grave.

" If you've a Theban heart, and birds of prey
Must have their food before your rage can cool,
Feast them on me ; only do let me lay
His limbs in earth, that has been used to rule."
So spake the young Medoro, in a way
To turn a rock, it was so beautiful.
As for the prince, so deeply was he mov'd,
That all at once he pardon'd and he lov'd.

A ruffian, at this juncture, of the band,
Little restrain'd by what restrain'd the rest.
Thrust with his lance across the suppliant's hand,
And pierc'd his delicate and faithful breast.
The act, — in one too under his command,—
Displeas'd the princely chief, and much distress'd ;
The more so, as the poor boy dropp'd his head,
And fell so pale that all believ'd him dead.

Such was his grief, and such was his disdain,
That crying out, " The blood be on his head !"
He turn'd in wrath, to give the thrust again ;
But the false villain, ere the words were said.
Put spurs into his horse and fled amain,
Stooping his rascal shoulders, as he fled.
Cloridan, when he sees Medoro fall,
Leaps from the wood, and comes defying all;

And casts away his bow, and almost mad,
Goes slashing round among his enemies.
Rather for death, than any hope he had
Of cutting his revenge to its fit size.
His blood soon colour'd many a dripping blade.
And he perceives with pleasure that he dies ;
And so his strength being fairly at an end.
He lets himself fall down beside his friend.

The troop then follow'd where their chief had gone.
Pursuing his stern chase among the trees.
And leave the two companions there alone.
One surely dead, the other scarcely less.
Long time Medoro lay without a groan,
Losing his blood in such large quantities,
That life would surely have gone out at last.
Had not a helping hand been coming past.