XLVIII
"This is that goodly knight, whose praise you heard
When rugged Ischia's island I displayed,
Of whom sage Merlin, with prophetic word,
To Pharamond such mighty matters said;
Whose birth should to that season be deferred,
When more than ever such a champion's aid,
Against the barbarous enemy's attack,
Vext Italy, and Church, and Empire lack.
XLIX
"He in his cousin of Pescara's rear,
— Prosper Colonna, chief of that emprize —
Makes the rude Switzer pay Bicocca dear,
Paid by the Frenchman in yet dearer wise.
Behold where France prepares for fresh career,
And to repair her many losses tries
Behold one host on Lombardy descend!
Behold that other against Naples wend!
L
"Bust she, that moves us like the dust which flies
Before the restless wind, which whirls it round,
Lifts if aloft awhile, and from the skies
Blows back anew the rising cloud to ground,
To a hundred thousand swells, in Francis' eyes,
The soldiers who Pavia's walls surround.
The monarch sees but that which he commands,
Nor marks how wax or waste his leaguering bands.
LI
" `Tis thus that, through the greedy servant's sin,
And easy sovereign's goodness, on his side,
The files beneath his banners muster thin,
When in his midnight camp, `to arms,' is cried,
For by the wary Spaniards charged within
His ramparts is he; foes that with the guide
Of Avalo's fair lineage, would assay
To make to heaven or hell their desperate way.
LII
"You see the best of the nobility
Of all fair France extinguished on the field;
How many swords, how many lances, see
The Spaniards round the valiant monarch wield.
Behold! his horse falls under him; yet he
Will neither own himself subdued, or yield;
Though to assault him from all sides is run
By wrathful bands, and succour there is none.
LIII
"The monarch well defends him from the foe,
All over bathed with blood of hostile vein.
But valour stoops at last to numbers; lo!
The king is taken, is conveyed to Spain;
And all upon Pescara's lord bestow
And him of that inseparable twain —
Of Guasto hight — the praise and prime renown
For that great king captived and host o'erthrown.
LIV
"This host o'erthrown upon Pavia's plains,
That, bound for Naples, halts upon its way:
As an ill-nourished lamp or taper wanes,
For want of wax or oil, with flickering ray.
Lo! the king leaves his sons in Spanish chains,
And home returns, his own domain to sway.
Lo! while in Italy he leads his band,
Another wars upon his native land.
LV
"In every part you see how Rome is woe,
Mid ruthless rapine, murder, fire, and rape.
See all to wasting rack and ruin go,
And nothing human or divine escape.
The league's men hear the shrieks, behold the glow
Of hostile fires, and lo! they backward shape
Their course, where they should hurry on their way,
And leave the pontiff to his foes a prey.
LVI
"Lautrec the monarch sends with other bands;
Yet not anew to war on Lombardy;
But to deliver from rapacious hands
The Church's head and limbs, already free,
So slowly he performs the king's commands.
Next, overrun by him the kingdom see,
And his strong arms against the city turned,
Wherein the Syren's body lies inurned.
LVII
"Lo! the imperial squadrons thither steer,
Aid to the leaguered city to convey;
And lo! burnt, sunk, destroyed, they disappear,
Encountered by the Doria in mid-way.
Behold! how Fortune light does shift and veer,
So friendly to the Frenchman till this day!
Who slays their host with fever, not with lance;
Nor of a thousand one returns to France.