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CANTO XI

The knight with that old Dragon fights
two dayes incessantly;
The third him overthrowes, and gayns
most glorious victory.

I

High time now gan it wex for Una faire
To thinke of those her captive Parents deare,
And their forwasted kingdome to repaire:
Whereto whenas they now approched neare,
With hartie wordes her knight she gan to cheare, 5
And in her modest manner thus bespake;
Deare knight, as deare as ever knight was deare,
That all these sorrowes suffer for my sake,
High heaven behold the tedious toyle ye for me take.

II

Now are we come unto my native soyle, 10
And to the place where all our perils dwell;
Here haunts that feend, and does his dayly spoyle;
Therefore henceforth be at your keeping well,[*]
And ever ready for your foeman fell.
The sparke of noble courage now awake, 15
And strive your excellent selfe to excell:
That shall ye evermore renowmed make,
Above all knights on earth that batteill undertake.

III

And pointing forth, Lo yonder is (said she)[*]
The brasen towre in which my parents deare 20
For dread of that huge feend emprisond be,
Whom I from far, see on the walles appeare,
Whose sight my feeble soule doth greatly cheare:
And on the top of all I do espye
The watchman wayting tydings glad to heare, 25
That O my parents might I happily
Unto you bring, to ease you of your misery.

IV

With that they heard a roaring hideous sound,
That all the ayre with terrour filled wide,
And seemd uneath[*] to shake the stedfast ground. 30
Eftsoones that dreadful Dragon[*] they espide,
Where stretcht he lay upon the sunny side,[*]
Of a great hill, himselfe like a great hill.
But all so soone as he from far descride
Those glistring armes, that heaven with light did fill, 35
He rousd himselfe full blith, and hastned them untill.

V

Then bad the knight his Lady yede aloofe,
And to an hill her selfe withdraw aside:
From whence she might behold that battailles proof,
And eke be safe from daunger far descryde: 40
She him obayd, and turnd a little wyde.
Now O thou sacred muse,[*] most learned Dame,
Faire ympe of Phoebus and his aged bride,
The Nourse of time and everlasting fame,
That warlike hands ennoblest with immortall name; 45

VI

O gently come into my feeble brest
Come gently, but not with that mighty rage,
Wherewith the martiall troupes thou doest infest,
And harts of great Heroes doest enrage,
That nought their kindled courage may aswage, 50
Soone as thy dreadfull trompe begins to sownd,
The God of warre with his fiers equipage
Thou doest awake, sleepe never he so sownd,
All scared nations doest with horrour sterne astownd.