And dropt the burden, weening his Medore
       Had done the same by it, upon his side;
     But that poor boy, who loved his master more,
       His shoulders to the weight alone applied: 
     Cloridane hurrying with all haste before,
       Deeming him close behind him or beside;
     Who, did he know his danger, him to save
     A thousand deaths, instead of one, would brave.

* * * * *

     The closest path, amid the forest gray,
       To save himself, pursued the youth forlorn;
     But all his schemes were marred by the delay
       Of that sore weight upon his shoulders borne. 
     The place he knew not, and mistook the way,
       And hid himself again in sheltering thorn. 
     Secure and distant was his mate, that through
     The greenwood shade with lighter shoulders flew.

     So far was Cloridane advanced before,
       He heard the boy no longer in the wind;
     But when he marked the absence of Medore,
       It seemed as if his heart was left behind. 
     “Ah! how was I so negligent,” (the Moor
       Exclaimed) “so far beside myself, and blind,
     That, I, Medoro, should without thee fare,
     Nor know when I deserted thee or where?”

     So saying, in the wood he disappears,
       Plunging into the maze with hurried pace;
     And thither, whence he lately issued, steers,
       And, desperate, of death returns in trace. 
     Cries and the tread of steeds this while he hears,
       And word and threat of foeman, as in chase;
     Lastly Medoro by his voice is known,
     Disarmed, on foot, ’mid many horse, alone.

     A hundred horsemen who the youth surround,
       Zerbino leads, and bids his followers seize
     The stripling; like a top the boy turns round
       And keeps him as he can:  among the trees,
     Behind oak, elm, beech, ash, he takes his ground,
       Nor from the cherished load his shoulders frees. 
     Wearied, at length, the burden he bestowed
     Upon the grass, and stalked about his load.

     As in her rocky cavern the she-bear,
       With whom close warfare Alpine hunters wage,
     Uncertain hangs about her shaggy care,
       And growls in mingled sound of love and rage,
     To unsheath her claws, and blood her tushes bare,
       Would natural hate and wrath the beast engage;
     Love softens her, and bids from strife retire,
     And for her offspring watch, amid her ire.

     Cloridane, who to aid him knows not how,
       And with Medoro willingly would die,
     But who would not for death this being forego,
       Until more foes than one should lifeless lie,
     Ambushed, his sharpest arrow to his bow
       Fits, and directs it with so true an eye,
     The feathered weapon bores a Scotchman’s brain,
     And lays the warrior dead upon the plain.