No More Learning

CXXV
Yet leaps from earth as nimbly, moved by spleen
Far less than shame; for on his gentle bride
He turned his eyes, and that fair face serene
Now troubled the disdainful warrior spied.
She in sore doubt her champion's fall had seen;
And well nigh at that sight the lady died.
Rogero, quickly to revenge the affront,
Clutches his sword and faces Rodomont.

CXXVI
He at Rogero rode, who that rude shock
Shunned warily, retiring from his ground,
And, as he past, the paynim's bridle took
With his left had, and turned his courser round;
While with his right he at his rider struck,
Whom he in belly, flank and breast would wound;
And twice sore anguish felt the monarch, gored
In flank and thigh, by good Rogero's sword.

CXXVII
Rodomont, grasping still in that close fight
The hilt and pommel of his broken blade,
Layed at Rogero's helmet with such might,
That him another stroke might have dismaid:
But good Rogero, who should win of right,
Seizing his arm, the king so rudely swayed,
Bringing his left his better hand to speed,
That he pulled down the paynim from his steed.

CXXVIII
Through force or skill, so fell the Moorish lord,
He stood his match, I rather ought to say
Fell on his feet; because Rogero's sword
Gave him, 'twas deemed, advantage in the fray.
Rogero stands aloof, with wary ward
As fain to keep the paynim king at bay.
For the wise champion will not let a wight
So talk and bulky close with him in fight;

CXXIX
Rogero flank and thigh dyed red beheld,
And other wounds; and hoped he would have failed
By little and by little, as it welled;
So that he finally should have prevailed.
His hilt and pommel in his fist yet held
The paynim, which with all his might he scaled
At young Rogero; whom he smote so sore,
The stripling never was so stunned before.

CXXX
In the helmet-cheek and shoulder-bone below
The Child was smit, and left so sore astound,
He, tripping still and staggering to and fro,
Scarce kept himself from falling to the ground.
Rodomont fain would close upon his foe;
But his foot fails him, weakened by the wound,
Which pierced his thigh: he overtasked his might;
And on his kneepan fell the paynim knight.

CXXXI
Rogero lost no time, and with fierce blows
Smote him in face and bosom with his brand;
Hammered, and held the Saracen so close,
To ground he bore that champion with his hand.
But he so stirred himself, again he rose:
He gripes Rogero so, fast locked they stand.
Seconding their huge vigour by address,
They circle one another, shake, and press.

CXXXII
His wounded thigh and gaping flank had sore
Weakened the vigour of the Moorish king:
Rogero had address; had mickle lore;
Was greatly practised in the wrestlers' ring:
He marked his vantage, nor from strife forbore;
And, where he saw the blood most freely spring,
And where most wounded was the warrior, prest
The paynim with his feet, his arms, and breast.
CXXXIII
Rodomont filled with spite and rage, his foe
Takes by the neck and shoulders, and now bends
Towards him, and now pushes from him; now
Raises from earth, and on his chest suspends;
Whirls here and there and grapples; and to throw
The stripling sorely in that strife contends.
Collected in himself, Rogero wrought,
To keep his vantage taxing strength and thought.

CXXXIV
So shifting oft his hold, about the Moor
His arms the good and bold Rogero wound;
Against his left flank shoved his breast, and sore
Strained him with all his strength engirdled round.
At once he past his better leg before
Rodomont's knees and pushed, and from the ground
Uplifted high in air the Moorish lord;
Then hurled him down head foremost on the sward.

CXXXV
Such was the shock wherewith King Rodomont
With battered head and spine the champion smote,
That, issuing from his wounds as from a font,
Streams of red blood the crimsoned herbage float.
Rogero, holding Fortune by the front,
Lest he should rise, with one hand griped his throat,
With one a dagger at his eyes addrest;
And with his knees the paynim's belly prest.

CXXVI
As sometimes where they work the golden vein
Within Pannonian or Iberian cave,
In unexpected ruin whelm the train
By impious avarice there condemned to slave,
So with the load they lie opprest, with pain
A passage can their prisoned spirit have:
No less opprest the doughty paynim lay,
Pinned to the ground in that disastrous fray.

CXXXVII
Rogero at his vizor doth present
His naked poniard's point, with threatening cry,
That he will slay him, save he yields, content
To let him live, if he for grace apply.
But Rodomont, who rather than be shent
For the least deed of shame, preferred to die,
Writhed, struggled, and with all his vigour tried
To pull Rogero down, and nought replied.

CXXXVIII
As mastiff that below the deer-hound lies,
Fixed by the gullet fast, with holding bite,
Sorely bestirs himself and vainly tries,
With lips besmeared with foam and eyes alight,
And cannot from beneath the conqueror rise,
Who foils his foe by force, and not despite;
So vainly strives the monarch of Argier
To rise from underneath the cavalier.

CXXXIX
Yet Rodomont so twists and strives, he gains
The freedom of his better arm anew;
And with the right hand, which his poniard strains,
For he had drawn his deadly dagger too,
Would wound Rogero underneath the reins:
But now the wary youth the error knew
Through which he might have died, by his delay
That impious Saracen forthwith to slay;

CXL
And smiting twice or thrice his horrid front,
Raising as high as he could raise in air
His dagger, buried it in Rodomont;
And freed himself withal from further care.
Loosed from the more than icy corse, to font
Of fetid Acheron, and hell's foul repair,
The indignant spirit fled, blaspheming loud;
Erewhile on earth so haughty and so proud.











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