Angelica and Medoro

There came by chance a damsel passing there,
Cloak'd like a peasant, to eschew surprise,
But of a royal presence, and so fair,
As well behov'd her keep grave maiden eyes.
'Tis so long since I told you news of her,
Perhaps you know her not in this disguise.
This, you must know then, was Angelica,
Proud daughter of the Khan of great Cathay.

You know the magic ring, and her distress ?
Well, when she had recover'd this same ring,
It so increased her pride and haughtiness,
She seem'd too high for any living thing.G
She goes alone, desiring nothing less
Than a companion, even though a king :
She even scorns to recollect the flame
Of one Orlando, or his very name.

But, above all, she hates to recollect
That she had taken to Rinaldo so ;
She thinks it the last want of self-respect,
Pure degradation, to have look'd so low.
" Such arrogance," said Cupid, " must be checked."
The little God betook him with his bow,
To where Medoro lay, and standing by,
Held the shaft ready with a lurking eye.

Now when the princess saw the youth all pale,
And found him grieving with his bitter wound,
Not for what one so young might well bewail,
But that his king should not be laid in ground.
She felt a something, strange and gentle, steal
Into her heart by some new way it found,
Which touch'd its hardness, and tum'd all to grace ;
And more so, when he told her all his case.

And calling to her mind the little arts
Of healing, which she learnt in India,
(For 'twas a study valued in those parts.
Even for those who were in sovereign sway,
And yet so easy, too, that like the heart's,
'Twas more inherited than learnt, they ap-y,)
She cast about, with herbs and balmy juices,
To save so fair a life for all its uses.

And thinking of an herb that caught her eye
As she was coming, in a pleasant plain,
(Whether 'twas panacea, dittany.
Or some such herb accounted sovereign
For staunching blood quickly and tenderly.
And "winning out all spasm and bad pain,)
She found it not far off, and gathering some,
Return 'd with it to save Medoro's bloom.

In coming back she met upon the way
A shepherd, who was riding through the wood
To find a heifer that had gone astray,
And been two days about the solitude.
She took him with her where Medoro lay,
Now feebler than he was, with loss of blood :
So much he lost, and drew so hard a breath,
That he was now fast fading to his death.

Angelica got off her horse in haste.
And made the shepherd get as fast from his ;
She ground the herbs with stones, and then express'd
With her white hands the balmy milkiness.
Then dropp'd it in the wound, and bath'd his breast,
His sides, and spine, and all that was amiss :
And of such virtue was it, that at length
The blood was stopp'd and he look'd round with strength.

At last he got upon the shepherd's horse,
But would not quit the place till he had seen
Laid in the ground his lord and master's corse ;
And Cloridan lay with it, who had been
Smitten so fatally with sweet remorse.
He then obeys the will of the fair queen ;
And she, for very pity of his lot,
Goes and stays with him at the shepherd's' cot.

Nor would she leave him, she esteem'd him so,
Till she had seen him well with her own eye ;
So full of pity did her bosom grow.
Since first she saw him faint and like to die.
Seeing his manners now, and beauty too,
She felt her heart yearn somehow inwardly ;
She felt her heart yearn somehow, till at last
'Twas all on fire, and burning warm and fast.

The shepherd's house was good enough, and neat,
A little shady cottage in a dell :
The man had just rebuilt it all complete.
With room to spare, in case more births befell.
There with such knowledge did the lady treat
Her handsome patient, that he soon grew well ;
But not before she felt, on her own part,
A secret wound much greater in her heart.

Much greater was the wound, and deeper far,
The invisible arrow made in her heart-strings ;
'Twas from Medoro's lovely eyes and hair ;
'Twas from the naked archer with the wings.
She feels it now ; she feels, and yet can bear
Another's less than her own sufferings.
She thinks not of herself : she thinks alone
How to cure him, by whom she is undone.

The more his wound recovers and gets ease,
Her own grows worse, and widens day by day.
The youth gets well ; the lady languishes,
Now warm, now cold, as fitful fevers play.
His beauty heightens like the flowering trees ;
She, miserable creature, melts away
Like the weak snow, which some warm sun has found
Fall'n, out of season, on a rising ground.

And must she speak at last, rather than die ?
And must she plead without another's aid ?
She must, she must ; the vital moments fly —
She lives — she dies, a passion-wasted maid.
At length she burst all ties of modesty ;
Her tongue explains her eyes ; the words are said ;
And she asks pity underneath that blow.
Which he perhaps that gave it did not know.

O Count Orlando ! O King Sacripant !
That fame of yours, say, what avails it ye ?
That lofty honour, those great deeds ye vaunt,
Say, what's their value with the lovely she ?
Show — me recal to memory, (for I can't,)
Show me, I beg, one single courtesy
That ever she vouchsafed ye, far or near,
For all ye've done and have endured for her.

And you, if you could come to life again,
O Agrican, how hard 'twould seem to you.
Whose love was met by nothing but disdain.
And vile repulses, shocking to go through !
O Ferragus ! O thousands, who in vain
Did all that loving and great hearts could do,
How would ye feel to see, with all her charms,
This thankless creature in a stripling's arms !

The young Medoro had the gathering
Of the first kiss on lips untouch'd before,
For never since her beauty blush'd with spring,
Had passion's self dared aught except adore.
To render the fond step an honest thing,
The priest was call'd to read the service o'er,
(For without marriage what can come but strife ?)
And the bride-mother was the shepherd's wife.

All was perform'd, in short, that could be so
In such a place, to make the nuptials good ;
Nor did the happy pair think fit to go,
But spent the month and more within the wood.
The lady to the stripling seem'd to grow ;
His step her step, his eyes her eyes pursued ;
Nor did her love lose any of its zest,
Though she was always hanging on his breast.

In doors and out of doors, by night, by day,
She had the charmer by her side forever :
Morning and evening they would stroll away.
Now by some field, or little tufted river ;
They chose a cave in middle of the day.
Perhaps not less agreeable or clever
Than Dido and neas found to screen them.
When storm and tempest would have rush'd between them.

And all this while there was not a smooth tree,
That drew from stream or fount its gentle pith,
Nor stone less hard than stones are apt to be,
But they would find a knife to carve it with.
And in a thousand places you might see,
And on the walls about you and beneath,
Angelica and Medoro, tied in one.
As many ways as lover's knots could run.

And when they thought they had outspent their time,
Angelica the royal took her way,
She and Medoro, to the Indian clime.
To crown him king of her fair realm, Cathay.