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 bones 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,
Or 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;
