His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he
Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear
Four hundred loaded mules.--In his [far-land]
They say--the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow,
The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil;
No stone there but is black, and it is said
By some that in that land the demons dwell.
Thus said Chernubles:--"My sword hangs at my belt;
At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should
I find Rolland the brave upon my path,
Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more;
This my good sword shall conquer Durendal,
The French shall die, and France must be destroyed."
At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers,
And lead one hundred thousand Saracens
Who for the battle hasten and prepare,
Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines.
Aoi.
LXXX.
The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on;
The greater part are triply lined; they lace
Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs
Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields;
Their lances from Valence; their banners white
And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts
Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds,
And forward press in closely serried lines.
Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun;
No armor but reflected back the light.
A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts
So loud, the French can hear--. Says Olivier:
"Rolland, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks,
We shall have battle with the Saracens!"
To which Rolland: "God grant it may be so.
Here must we do our duty to our King;
A man should for his Lord and for his cause
Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold,
Lose all, even to his very hair and skin!
'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows,
That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung.
The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right.
No ill example e'er shall come from me."
Aoi.
PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE.
LXXXI.
Olivier from the summit of a hill
On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,
And views the Pagans' onward marching hordes;
Then straight he called his faithful friend Rolland:
"From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,
So many hauberks white and flashing helms
I see!--This will inflame our French men's hearts.
The treason is the work of Ganelon
Who named us for this post before the King."
"Hush! Olivier!"--the Count Rolland replies,
"'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."
Aoi.
LXXXII.
Count Olivier is posted on a hill
From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all
The swarming host of Saracens; their helms
So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,
Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,
He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds
They come, his sight reached not unto their end.
Then all bewildered he descends the hill,
Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.
Aoi.
LXXXIII.
Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more
Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least
One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,
In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,
Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.
Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.
French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!
Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."
The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!
Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."
Aoi.
ROLAND'S PRIDE.
LXXXIV.
Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;
Our French, methinks, in number are too few;
Companion Rolland, sound your horn, that Carle
May hear and send his army back to help."
Rolland replies:--"Great folly would be mine,
And all my glory in sweet France be lost.
No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;
To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.
In evil hour the felon Pagans came
Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"
Aoi.
LXXXV.
"Rolland, companion, sound your olifant,
That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.
With all his Baronage the king will give
Us held!"--Replied Rolland:--"May God fore-fend
That for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,
Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.
Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,
This my good sword now girt unto my side
Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.
Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate
Together met--yea, death awaits them all."
Aoi.
LXXXVI.
"Companion Rolland, sound your olifant!
If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,
To you I pledge my word, the French return."
Answered Rolland:--"May God forbid!--Ne'er be
It said by living man that Pagans could
Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace
Upon my kin!--When on the battle field,
I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,
And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.
[The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]
Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."
Aoi.
LXXXVII.
Olivier said:--"To me there seems no shame;
I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarm
O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;
Great is this stranger host; our number small."
Rolland replies:--"The more my ardor grows.
God and his [blessed] angels grant that France
Lose naught of her renown through my default.
Better to die than in dishonor [live.]
The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"
Aoi.
LXXXVIII.
Rolland is brave and Olivier is wise;
Both knights of wond'rous courage--and in arms
And mounted on their steeds, they both will die
Ere they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts
And proud their words.--The Pagan felons ride
In fury on!--"Rolland," said Olivier,
"One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle
Afar from us--you have not deigned to blow
Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.
Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;
There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those
Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]
Rolland retorts:--"Speak not such shameful words.
Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart
Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;
The combat and the blows from us shall come."
Aoi.
LXXXIX.
Now when Rolland the battle sees at hand,
More than a leopard's or a lion's pride
He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:
"Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.
The Emperor who left his French in trust
To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.
Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.
A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,
Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give
Even to his flesh and blood--Strike with your lance,
And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,
Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins
It, say:--'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."
Aoi.
XC.
Turpin the Archbishop from another side,
Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls
The French around. This sermon to them speaks:
"_Seigneurs Barons_, Carle left us here: for him,
Our King, our duty is to die, to aid
In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ
Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there
Before your eyes behold the Saracens.
Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!
For your soul's cure I absolution give....
If you should die, as holy martyrs ye
Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"
The French alight and fall upon their knees;
The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,
Giving for penance his command to strike.
Aoi.
XCI.
The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit
Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.
On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie
As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Rolland
Calls Olivier:--"Companion, sire, full well
You know, it is Count Ganelon who has
Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received
In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should
Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made
Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."
Aoi.
XCII.
Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rolland
Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift
And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.
On goes the brave Rolland, his lance borne up
Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,
Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.
Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.
Behind him follows Olivier his friend;
The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.
He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,
But casts a sweet and humble look upon
His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:
"_Seigneurs Barons_, march steadily and close.
These Pagans hither came to find a grave;
We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day
As never yet was gained by Kings of France."
Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.
Aoi.
XCIII.
Said Olivier:--"No care have I to speak,
Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,
All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.
He knows no word of this; the fault lies not
In him, nor are yon Knights to blame--ride on
And gallop to the charge as best you can.
_Seigneurs Barons_, recoil not from the foe,
In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,
Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure
Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"
At this word all the French together shout.
Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had known
What courage is. Then all together rush
Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!
Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;
They burn to fight. What else can they desire?
The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....
Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....
Aoi.
THE MELEE.
XCIV.
The nephew of Marsile--his name Aelroth,
Forward the first of all spurs on his horse
Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:
"To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;
Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad
Must be the King who left you in the pass.
So now the honor of sweet France is lost,
And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."
Rolland heard.--God! what pain to him! He drives
His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,
And rushes at full speed against Aelroth;
His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;
Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,
And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance
Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;
The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down
Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.
Rolland still taunts him:--"Go thou, wretch, and know
Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,
And he did well to leave us in the pass.
To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!
Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;
We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"
Aoi.
XCV.
Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;
He is the brother of the King Marsile.
The lands of Dathan and of Abirun
He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.
Vast is his forehead, and the space between
His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.
Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds
Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud
The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.
"To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose
Her fame!"--When Olivier heard this, in wrath
He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,
And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,
Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears
Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast
As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,
A mangled corpse;--here lies he on the ground.
Unto the prostrate body Olivier
Says proudly:--"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!
Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!
Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.
Aoi.
XCVI.
A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,
A distant land, is there.--The Pagan host
He calls;--"The field is ours with ease: the French
So few in numbers we may well disdain,
Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.
To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin
The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth
He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks
His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,
And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.
The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke
Of the long lance into his body driven,
Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;
Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:
"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl
My lord, was ever and will ever be
Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.
As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;
I tell you, each this day shall die.--Strike, Franks,
Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,
Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.
Aoi.
XCVII.
Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal
Whose good shield now was not a denier worth:
The crystal boss all broken, and one half
Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin
His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart
The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls
The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;
And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.
Aoi.
XCVIII.
Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,
Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,
Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such
Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;
And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.--
Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"
Aoi.
XCIX.
Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;
He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold
Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,
As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.
For him may mourn who will--death-struck he falls:
"That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.
Aoi.
C.
Anseis gives his steed the rein, and charges
Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath
The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,
Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true
The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.
With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.
Rolland exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"
Aoi.
CI.
Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,
Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,
Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;
Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat
And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast
The lance strikes deep and passes in between
The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck
He falls.--And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"
Aoi.
CII.
Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,
His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,
Effacing its bright colors red and white,
Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep
Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,
From off the flying steed striking him dead.
This done, he says:--"No hope for you remains!"
Aoi.
CIII.
And Berengier smites now Estramaris,
Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail
In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.
Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.
Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:
Chernuble--Margariz, the Count, survive.
Aoi.
CIV.
Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all
Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs
His horse and charges Olivier; beneath
The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,
Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;
But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached
The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.
Then Margariz unhindered rides away
And sounds his horn to rally his own men.
Aoi.
CV.
The battle rages fierce. All men engage.
Rolland, the dauntless, combats with his lance
As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows
It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,
Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed
'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned
With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,
Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,
And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;
Down to the body's fork, the saddle all
Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,
Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.
Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight
And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired
To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....
Wretches like you this battle shall not win."
Aoi.
CVI.
The Count Rolland rides through the battle-field
And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,
A mighty carnage of the Saracens.
Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight
Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;
His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,
And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!
Still Olivier halts not in his career.
Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,
And all the French strike well and massacre
The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.
Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!
Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"
Aoi.
CVII.
Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,
Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,
And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,
Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,
Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out
Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;
With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.
The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;
But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.
Then said Rolland: "What mean you, _Compagnon_?
In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff
We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.
Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt
Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time
To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,
"So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"
Aoi.
CVIII.
Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,
For which Rolland entreated him so much,
And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;
Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferree,
Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through
Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through
The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,
And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man
And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.
Rolland exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed
My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"
And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"
Aoi.
CIX.
The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,
And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,
They loose the reins, and both spur on against
A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,
The other strikes the hauberk;--in his heart
The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.
I never heard it said nor can I know
By which of them the swifter blow was struck.--
Esperveris, son to Borel, was next
By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin
With his own hand gave death to Siglorel
Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there
By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:--"Forfeit paid
For crime!"--"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rolland,
"My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"
Aoi.
CX.
The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie
In dealing blows; attacking now, and now
Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood
So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:
Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!
So many valiant French mowed in their prime,
Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see
Again, nor those of France who in the Pass
Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.
But what avails? Naught can he help them now.
Ill service rendered Ganelon to them
The day when he to Sarraguce repaired
To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost
Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,
There to be hanged with thirty of his race
Who were not spared the punishment of death.
Aoi.
CXI.
The battle rages. Wonders all perform;
Rolland and Olivier strike hard; Turpin
Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;
The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,
While all the French together fight as if
One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall
The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly
Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.
And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,
Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see
Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.
* * * * *
Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:
Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts
Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,
The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril
As far as to the Saints, from Besancon
Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house
Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon
Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above
Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed
Beholders cry:--"The world's last day has come,
The destined end of all things is at hand!"
Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....
'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rolland!
Aoi.
CXII.
The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.
In multitudes--by thousands die their foes;
Not two out of one hundred thousand now
Survive. [Turpin] says:--"Brave are all our men;--
None braver under Heaven--In the Geste
Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."
Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.
Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears
For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....
Now King Marsile with his great host appears....
Aoi.
CXIII.
Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,
Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,
In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.
Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,
And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge
With seven hundred clarions sending forth
Loud blasts throughout the land--Thus said Rolland:
"Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,
The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....
His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle
For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.
A long and cruel battle we shall have,
Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight
With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike
With Halteclere--Those noble swords we bore
Throughout so many lands; such combats won
By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."
Aoi.
CXIV.
When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm
The country o'er, they call on Olivier,
Rolland and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.
Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:
"Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!
Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men
Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die
In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,
And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.
But for one thing ye can believe my word:
For you God's Paradise stands open wide,
And seats await you 'mid the blessed Saints."
These words of comfort reassure the French;
All in one voice cry out:--"Montjoie! Montjoie!"
Aoi.
CXV.
There was a Saracen from Sarraguce
Lord of one half the city--Climorin,
Unlike a Baron; he received the faith
Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond
By pressing on his lip a kiss--Besides
Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.
"I will," said he, "put your great France to shame
And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"
Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies
Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs
His courser hard, and dropping on its neck
The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;
Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:
Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear
So mightily, its point comes out behind,
And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field
A corse;--he cries. "Fit for destruction these!
Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"
The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....
Aoi.
CXVI.
The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "You know,
Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....
No better Knight had we"--The Count replies:
"God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives
His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;
And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,
The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....
O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell
Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke
Alphaien, beheads Escababi,
Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill
They rise no more to fight. Then said Rolland:
"Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves
Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.
Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"--he cries aloud.
Aoi.
CXVII.