XXXVI She cannot, will not, think that he is dead; Because the wreck of such a noble knight Would, from Hydaspes' distant waves have spread, To where the sun descends with westering light. She knows not what to think, nor whither sped, He roams in earth or air; yet, hapless wight, Him ever seeks, and for attendant train Has sobs and sighs, and every bitter pain. XXXVII At length to find the wondrous cave she thought, Where the prophetic homes of Merlin lie, And there lament herself until she wrought Upon the pitying marble to reply; For thence, if yet he lived would she be taught, Of this glad life to hard necessity Had yielded up; and, when she was possessed Of the seer's councils, would pursue the best. XXXVIII With this intention, Bradamant her way Directed thither, where in Poictier's wood The vocal tomb, containing Merlin's clay, Concealed in Alpine place and savage, stood. But that enchantress sage, who night and day Thought of the damsel, watchful for her good, She, I repeat, who taught her what should be In that fair grotto her posterity; XXXIX She who preserved her with protecting care, That same enchantress, still benign and wise, Who, knowing she a matchless race should bear Of men, or rather semi-deities, Spies daily what her thoughts and actions are, And lots for her each day, divining, tries; -- She all Rogero's fortune knew, how freed; Then borne to India by the griffin steed: XL Him on that courser plainly she had eyed, Who would not the controlling rein obey; When, severed by such interval, he hied, Borne through the perilous, unwonted way: And knew that he sport, dance, and banquet plied, And lapt in idleness and pleasure lay; Nor memory of his lord nor of the dame, Once loved so well, preserved, not of his fame. XLI And thus such gentle knight ingloriously Would have consumed his fairest years and best, In long inaction, afterwards to be, Body and soul, destroyed; and that, possessed Alone by us in perpetuity. That flower, whose sweets outlive the fragile rest Which quickens man when he in earth is laid, Would have been plucked or severed in the blade. XLII But that enchantress kind, who with more care Than for himself he watched, still kept the knight, Designed to drag him, by rough road and bare, Towards true virtue, in his own despite; As often cunning leech will burn and pare The flesh, and poisonous drug employ aright: Who, though at first his cruel art offend, Is thanked, since he preserves us in the end. XLIII She, not like old Atlantes, rendered blind By the great love she to the stripling bore, Set not on gifting him with life her mind, As was the scope of that enchanter hoar; Who, reckless all of fame and praise declined, Wished length of days to his Rogero more Than that, to win a world's applause, the peer Should of his joyous life forego one year.