Lo, poor silent Francis rides, He who scarcely dared to walk, He who only stirred himself At tea-tables and at prayers. Surely all the oldish maids Who indulged him in his ease, Will be startled when they hear Of his riding rough and free. When the gallop faster grows, Then great William glances down On his commentator meek Jogging onward on his ass. To the saddle clinging tight, Fainting in his terror sheer, Yet unto his author loyal In his death as in his life. Many ladies there I saw, In that crazy train of ghosts, Many lovely nymphs with forms Slender with the grace of youth. On their steeds they sat astride Mythologically nude! Though their tresses thick and long Fell like cloaks of stranded gold. Garlands rustled on their heads And they swung their laurelled staves, Bending back in reckless ways, Full of joyous insolence. Mediæval maids I saw Buttoned high unto the chin, On their saddles seated slant, Poising falcons on their wrists. Like a burlesque, from behind On their hacks and skinny nags Came a rout of merry wenches, Most extravagantly garbed. And each face, though lovely quite, Bore a trace of impudence; Madly would they shriek and yell, Puffing up their painted cheeks. How this tumult echoed there! Laughter, blare of huntsmen's horns; Neigh of horses, bark of dogs, Crack of whips! hallo! hurrah! [Illustration] [Illustration] CANTO XIX But like Beauty's clover-leaf, In the very midst arose Three fair women. I shall never Their majestic forms forget! Well I knew the first! Her head Glittered with the crescent moon. Haughty, like some ivory statue Sat the goddess on her steed. And her fluttering tunic fell Loose about her hips and breasts, And the torchlight and the moon Laved with love her snowy limbs. Marble seemed her very face And like marble cold. How dread Was the pallor and the chill Of that stern and noble front! But within her dusky eye Smouldered a mysterious, Cruel and enticing fire Which devoured my poor soul. What a change has come o'er Dian Since in outraged chastity She smote Actæon to a stag As a quarry for his hounds! Doth she now requite this crime In this gallant company, Riding like some ghostly mortal Through the bleak, nocturnal air? Late did passion wake in her But for that the stronger burns, And within her eyes its flames Gleam like fiercest brands of hell. For those vanished times she grieves When the men were beautiful; Now in quantity perchance, She forgets their quality.