CVIII.
With old Sobrino, on the left of Seine,
Pulian and Dardinel d’Almontes meet,
With Oran’s giant king, to swell the train:
Six cubits is the prince, from head to feet.
But why move I my pen with greater pain
Than these men move their arms? for in his heat
King Rodomont exclaims, blaspheming sore,
Nor can contain his furious spirit more.
CIX.
As swarming to assail the pastoral bowl[17],
With sound of stridulous wing, through summer sky,
Or relics of a feast, their luscious dole,
Repair the ready numbers of the fly;
As starlings to the vineyard’s crimsoning pole
With the ripe clusters charged, heaven’s concave high
Filling, as they advanced, with noise and shout,
Fast hurried to the storm the Moorish rout.
CX.
Upon their walls the Christians in array,
With lance, sword, axe, and stone and wild-fire tost,
The assaulted city guard without dismay,
And little reck the proud barbarian’s boast:
Nor when death snatches this or that away,
Does any one in fear refuse his post.
Into the fosse below the paynim foes
Return, amid a storm of strokes and blows.
