The Beginning of the Story - Page 9 of 25

129   When within reach of sight at last
The bound one stood, in dolours cast,
Dumbly he wept, as one aghast;
Compassion gripped his senses fast.

130   Long did he motionless remain,
His swift breath striving to restrain;
His blood seemed drugged with pity's bane
Till – rage bestirs the lions twain!

131   Goaded by hunger, wont to kill,
They feel new lust; pity is nil;
They bare their teeth and claws, and will
Both leap to slay the captive still.

132   Their skin is tense, the hair on end;
They whip their tails, a fear to send;
Like Furies seeming, from the blend
Of lusts which on their mien attend.

133   They raise their paws, about to slay
With fatal claws, their fettered prey;
But as they pounce, forestalled are they
By a new Mars, who springs their way.

134   He slits and slashes at each lion,
A sheer Apollo at his Python.
No move is missed, yet does he try on
With his heroic cutting iron.

135   With deadly right to deal the thrust,
With sparring left to foil their lust,
Them he confounds, whence soon they must
Drop, carcasses, unto the dust.

136   After the fight is fought and won
By valiant swordsman, brutes undone,
With tears he frees that piteous one
From whom all trace of life is gone.

137   It well reads his breast to know
The blood he sees from gashes flow;
He feels his speed is much too slow –
Knot, loop, and tangle vex him so.

138   Therefore, he holds the body and
(As one new-dead, it scarce can stand)
At once his sword snaps every strand
Of heavy rope, such ruthless band!

139   Then sighing, on his lap he lays
The form whom drowsiness allays.
He folds the breast and soothes the face,
While for recovery quick, he prays.

140   There, as he views the youth prostrate
Upon his lap – O sorry state! –
He studies with absorption great
The pleasing form, its present fate.

141   The handsome champion wondered o'er
The noble character it bore.
What true delight it were to pore,
Did not compassion move him more!

142   What agitation vexed him then,
Fased only when beneath his ken
His piteous charge bestirred, and when
The slumbering life awoke again.

143   This, helpless lain, his vision tried
To greet the light; a sigh he sighed.
Then: Where is Laura, sad he cried,
When here how many pains abide!

144   Come, my beloved, set me free,
And when I'm dead, yet think of me.
He shut his eyes; thus broke his plea;
The Moor kept still: concerned was he,