Classic Poem

BY F. ROSSET .

See ! Fortune various as the rainbow's dye,
Now bright as Venus in an evening sky;
And now with mists and low'ring clouds o'ercast,
Like the blank moon dim-gleaming from the east;
Still with her joys the stream of sorrow flows,
The treach'rous thorn still guards the blushing rose;
The tempest follows the deceitful calm,
The cypress mingles with the victor's palm;
The hero falls, who Durindana bore,
The star of knighood sets, to rise no more!

Dark night had shaded o'er th' ethereal plains,
On the steep rock the Paladin remains;
Tho' thronging hosts the god-like man surround,
Tho' barb'rous shouts, tho' clashing arms resound;
Kind Morpheus stretch'd his sceptre o'er the chief,
And steep'd in Lethe's wave each care and grief;
Ev'n on the verge of death, the brave can rest,
While the bee's hum affrights the coward breast.

The sun now rose, the pale stars trembling yield,
Dire was the carnage of the mournful field.
Here mighty Paynim knights had nobly bled,
And there the peers of Charlemagne lay dead:
Orlando starts, dark was the hero's soul,
Revenge and death within his bosom roll;
In wild despair he cast a look around,
Whole armies wither'd as the warrior frown'd.
Tow'rds the blue concave then his eyes he turn'd,
Thus in the anguish of his heart he mourn'd:
" Now must the splendor of the cross decline,
" The hated crescent must unrivall'd shine;
" Adieu! illustrious Marquis, oh farewel!
" Ye gen'rous brothers, who so greatly fell,
" Adieu! each noble chief, each gallant peer,
" To sacred virtue, to your country, dear!
" But oh! great Charlemagne, thy glories end,
" Oh! who shall now thy hoary age defend?
" Thy own Orlando here must close his days,
" And knightly valour pour its-parting blaze. "

Proud Almont's horn the Paladin then blew,
From hill to hill the sound in thunder flew;
Like storms imprison'd was the dreadful blast,
The firm earth shook, the Paynims stood aghast;
The sound reach'd ev'n imperial Charlemagne,
O'er seven long leagues of mountain, dale, and plain;
" I hear Orlando's horn (the monarch cry'd)
" Distress and danger must the chief betide. "
Base Ganelon perfidiously reply'd;
" The Sarzan bands dare not assail the knight,
" Nor meet the flow'r of Christendom in sight;
" In green-wood shade, he hunts the stately deer,
" His shrilling horn proclaims Orlando near. "
In evil hour this council was approv'd,
No more shall Charles behold the man he lov'd;
Subdu'd by fate and numbers he must yield,
And bathe, with blood, sad Roncesvalles' field.

Now from the rock, on foot the Count descends,
Like the wing'd whirlwind towards the foe he bends:
His Brigliador is but an empty name
(That pride of coursers in the fields of fame),
The gen'rous steed had on the plain expir'd,
Pierc'd thro' with wounds, and ev'n by conquest tir'd.
What pencil can Orlando's might pourtray,
Or paint the horrors of that signal day?
Caelestial seraphim his arm new strung,
Portentous splendors round the knight they flung;
Ten thousand Paynims bit the bloody sand!
(Death in his eye, and lightning in his hand;)
Where'er the Paladin in fury turn'd,
The stoutest fell, and all the battle burn'd;
But vain the prowess of the bold and brave,
" The paths of glory lead but to the grave! "
Tho' swords and spears inflict no mortal wound,
Dire thirst and hunger sore beset him round;
Now on his breast his languid head he hung,
Dim were his eyes, and parch'd his burning tongue;
A bloody dew from all his members flow'd,
And more than Ætna in his vitals glow'd.
Where some tall cork-trees stretch'd their bought around,
A slow stream crept along with sullen sound;
Thither, with eager haste, the warrior hied,
From Almont's helm to drink the limpid tide;
The angry brook ran crimson from the slain,
The Count retir'd, surcharg'd with grief and pain;
Then kneeling down beneath the spreading shade,
He to the Lord of all devoutly pray'd:
" O Father, hear me from thy heav'nly throne,
" O may thy suffering son my crimes atone!
" He bore the scourge of malice and of pride;
" He on the cross for our offences died.
" O Father, for his sake a wretch defend,
" May all my sorrows in thy glory end! "
The scorching heat still on his entrails prey'd,
And all the vigor of the man decay'd;
The lov'd remembrance of his friends deceas'd
Rush'd on his soul, and wrung his bleeding breast;
Great Almont's horn once more the hero sounds;
The mighty blast the Paynim host confounds;
Remotest rivers to their sources fled,
Old ocean trembled in his azure bed;
The horn, tho' hard as adamantine rock,
Like glass was shiver'd with the dreadful shock;
That horn which echo'd terror and dismay,
From the red orient to the setting day;
This mighty effort ends the warrior's life,
No steel could wound him in the glorious strife;
A vein he bursts, the blood in torrent flows,
Death's near approach the dauntless champion knows;
His Durindana in his hand he prest,
And to the trusty sword these words address'd:
" O faithful friend, who ne'er Orlando fail'd,
" When giant chiefs, and monsters dire assail'd;
" Should Paynim force again thy lightning wield,
" Unnumber'd Christian knights must press the field;
" In Almont's hand you mow'd the iron plain,
" By thee, Zerbino, Scotland's flow'r, was slain;
" By thee my much lov'd Brandimarte died,
" When stern Gradasso rag'd with barb'rous pride;
" Perhaps by thee great Charlemagne may fall,
" And trembling Paris shrink behind her wall;
" Oh dang'rous Durindana. " 'Gainst the rock!
With the keen sword the dying hero struck;
The magic blade to break, in vain he tries,
Unhurt its edge; the rock in splinters flies;
Then in the stream he sunk the faulchion bright,
The truest weapon, that e'er girt a knight.
Beneath the shade the god-like man retir'd,
And nobly calm, without a groan expir'd.
Descending angels round the martyr shine,
With streaming glories veil the saint divine;
Towards heav'n's blue vault his spirit wings its way,
To dwell with seraphs in eternal day;
On earth, in deathless song, his praise shall bloom,
And all his virtues shed a sweet persume.