Vain conqueror, said Hugo then, return! Instead of laurel, which the victor wears, Go gather cypress for thy brother’s urn, And learn of me to water it with tears. Thy brother lost his life attempting mine; Which cannot for Lord Arnold’s loss suffice: I must revenge, unlucky Paradine! The blood his death will draw from Laura’s eyes. We rivals were in Laura; but, tho’ she My griefs derided, his with sighs approv’d, Yet I, in love’s exact integrity, Must take thy life for killing him she lov’d. His generosity, however, was fatal both to his foe and himself. Hubert, disabled by a wound in his arm, is dishonoured by receiving his life from his conqueror; upon which occasion the poet thus beautifully apostrophises: O Honour, frail as life, thy fellow flower! Cherish’d, and watch’d, and hum’rously esteem’d, Then worn for short adornments of an hour; And is, when lost, no more than life redeem’d. The two chiefs are still left closely engaging; and when Hurgonil approaches to assist his lord, he is warmly commanded to retire. At length, after many mutual wounds, Oswald falls. The death of the Prince at the same time takes off all restraint from his party, and incites them to revenge. Led by the wounded Hubert, old Vasco, and Borgio, they attack the hunters, who, besides the fatigue of the chace, are represented as somewhat inferior in number. A furious battle, the subject of the fifth canto, now ensues. Gondibert shines forth in all the splendor of a hero. By his prowess his friends are rescued, and the opposite leaders overthrown in various separate encounters; and by his military skill the brave veterans of Oswald are defeated. The whole description of the battle is warm and animated. In Gondibert’s generous lamentation over the fallen, every heart must sympathize with the following pathetic tribute to the rival lovers: Brave Arnold and his rival strait remove, Where Laura shall bestrew their hallow’d ground; Protectors both, and ornaments of love; This said, his eyes out wept his widest wound. Tell her now these, love’s faithful saints, are gone, The beauty they ador’d she ought to hide; for vainly will love’s miracles be shewn, Since lover’s faith with these brave rivals dy’d. Say little Hugo never more shall mourn, In noble numbers, her unkind disdain; Who now, not seeing beauty, feels no scorn; And wanting pleasure, is exempt from pain. When she with flowers Lord Arnold’s grave shall strew, And hears why Hugo’s life was thrown away, She on that rival’s hearse will drop a few, Which merits all that April gives to May.