Father of heaven! 'mid spirits chosen by thee, To him thy martyr true, a place accord;
Who, having traversed his tempestuous sea, Now furls his sails in port. Ah! ruthless sword, So cruel, Durindana, can'st thou be, To good Orlando, to thine ancient lord, That thou can'st slaughter, in the warrior's view, Of all his friends the dearest and most true?