In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, Whose twilight goes before approaching day. In haste, Orlando takes his arms and steed, And to the deepest greenwood wends his way. And when assured that he is there alone, Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan. Never from tears, never from sorrowing, He paused; nor found he peace by night or day; He fled from town, in forest harboring, And in the open air on hard earth lay. He marveled at himself, how such a spring Of water from his eyes could stream away, And breath was for so many sobs supplied; And thus oft-times, amid his mourning, cried:-- * * * * * "I am not--am not what I seem to sight: What Roland was, is dead and under ground, Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite, Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above, A warning to all such as trust in love." All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright, Cleft through the writing; and the solid block, Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped. Woe worth each sapling and that caverned rock Where Medore and Angelica were read! So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestous wrath was ill secure. * * * * * So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite; Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew, Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight; But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was needed by Orlando's peerless might. He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull. He many others, with as little let As fennel, wall-wort-stem, or dill uptore; And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, And beech and mountain ash, and elm-tree hoar. He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, Does, to prepare the champaign for his lore, By stubble, rush, and nettle stalk; and broke, Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak.