to the author’s hand.  Neither does the poem exhibit any prevailing force of imagery, or of expression, apart from popular idiomatic phraseology; still less, though it has plenty of infernal magic, does it present us with any magical enchantments of the alluring order, as in Ariosto; or with love-stories as good as Boiardo’s, or even with any of the luxuries of landscape and description that are to be found in both of those poets; albeit, in the fourteenth canto, there is a long catalogue raisonne of the whole animal creation, which a lady has worked for Rinaldo on a pavilion of silk and gold.

To these negative faults must be added the positive ones of too many trifling, unconnected, and uninteresting incidents (at least to readers who cannot taste the flavour of the racy Tuscan idiom); great occasional prolixity, even in the best as well as worst passages, not excepting Orlando’s dying speeches; harshness in spite of his fluency (according to Foscolo), and even bad grammar; too many low or over-familiar forms of speech (so the graver critics allege, though, perhaps, from want of animal spirits or a more comprehensive discernment); and lastly (to say nothing of the question as to the gravity or levity of the theology), the strange exhibition of whole successive stanzas, containing as many questions or affirmations as lines, and commencing each line with the same words.  They meet the eye like palisadoes, or a file of soldiers, and turn truth and pathos itself into a jest.  They were most likely imitated from the popular ballads.  The following is the order of words in which a young lady thinks fit to complain of a desert, into which she has been carried away by a giant.  After seven initiatory O’s addressed to her friends and to life in general, she changes the key into E: 

“E’ questa, la mia patria dov’ io nacqui?  E’ questo il mio palagio e ’l mio castello?  E’ questo il nido ov’ alcun tempo giacqui?  E’ questo il padre e ‘l mio dolce fratello?  E’ questo il popol dov’ io tanto piacqui?  E’ questo il regno giusto antico e bello?  E’ questo il porto de la mia salute?  E’ questo il premio d’ ogni mia virtute?

Ove son or le mie purpuree veste?  Ove son or le gemme e le ricchezze?  Ove son or gia le notturne feste?  Ove son or le mie delicatezze?  Ove son or le mie compagne oneste?  Ove son or le fuggite dolcezze?  Ove son or le damigelle mie?  Ove son, dice? ome, non son gia quie."[8]

Is this the country, then, where I was born?  Is this my palace, and my castle this?  Is this the nest I woke in, every morn?  Is this my father’s and my brother’s kiss?  Is this the land they bred me to adorn?  Is this the good old bower of all my bliss?  Is this the haven of my youth and beauty?  Is this the sure reward of all my duty?

Where now are all my wardrobes and their treasures?  Where now are all my riches and my rights?  Where now are all the midnight feasts and measures?  Where now are all the delicate delights?  Where now are all the partners of my pleasures?  Where now are all the sweets of sounds and sights?  Where now are all my maidens ever near?  Where, do I say?  Alas, alas, not here!