His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;
His head is torn by pain; his temple burst
By that strong blast he gave the olifant.
Still would he know if Carle returns; once more
He blows his horn--Alas, with feeble blast.
Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:
"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;
I hear his dying blast upon his horn.
If we would find him yet alive, we need
Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"
Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;
The hills reecho, and the vales respond.
The Pagans hear--and stay their gabbling mirth.
One to the other says:--"'Tis Carle who comes!"
Aoi.
CLIX.
The Pagans say:--"The Emperor returns;
These are the clarions of the French we hear.
If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives
Rolland, the war begins anew, and Spain
Our land is lost to us for evermore."
Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,
The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks
And dashed in fierce attack against Rolland.
Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!
Aoi.
CLX.
As they draw near, Rolland calls up his pride
And summons all his strength to meet the charge.
No foot of ground he yields while life remains.
Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits
And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.
Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin
The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all
Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!
The horns of those of France we now have heard,
Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"
Aoi.
CLXI.
Ne'er could the Count Rolland a coward love,
Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.
He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,
And I on horseback, sire! For love of you
I by your side will stand; together we
Will share or good or ill; I leave you not
For aught of human mold. This day we shall
Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal
Shall deal his mightiest blows!"--To this replies
The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!
King Carle returns--Great shall his vengeance be!"
Aoi.
CLXII.
The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!
What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!
Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host
King Carle returns, the mighty Baron--Hark!
His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'
Rolland has so great pride, no man of flesh
Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best
We pierced him from afar, and left him lying
Upon the field!"----'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,
Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,
That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent
And torn apart--his body yet unharmed.
Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead
Beneath the Count.--The affrighted Pagans fly.
The Count Rolland stands on the field, alone.
Aoi.
THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.
CLXIII.
Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward
The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rolland
Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.
On foot he stands whether he will or not.
To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,
His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white
And light, then ripped the sides of his _blialt_
To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly
Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward
He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:
"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;
Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed
Their last--we should not leave them on the field;
I will their bodies seek and gather here,
To lay them out before you."--"Go, and soon
Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours
And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"
Aoi.
CLXIV.
Alone the Count Rolland retraced his steps
Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found
Gerin and his companion Gerier, then
Berengier and Otun; here Anseis,
There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old
De Roussillon he found--one after one
He bore each knight within his arms, and placed
Them gently, side by side, before the knees
Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;
With lifted hands he blesses them and says:
"Most hapless Knights!--May God the Glorious
Receive your souls, and in his Paradise
'Mid holy flowers place them!--In this hour
Of death, my deepest grief is that no more
The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"
Aoi.
CLXV.
Rolland turns back, and searching through the field,
Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....
He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,
And, as he could, returning to Turpin,
Stretched on a shield he lays him down among
The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils
And signs him with the holy cross. The grief
And pity were more sore than heart can bear....
Then said Rolland:--"Fair comrade Olivier,
Son of the good Count Renier, he who held
The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;
To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave
To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,
No land e'er saw a better _chevalier_."
Aoi.
CLXVI.
When Count Rolland beheld his Peers lie dead,
And Olivier, that friend so tenderly
Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;
Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance
Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.
Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.
The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"
Aoi.
CLXVII.
The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rolland swoon,
Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;
Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.--
Ronceval there is a running stream;
Thence will he water bring to Count Rolland.
Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,
But loss of blood has made him all too weak:
Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart
Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.
Aoi.
CLXVIII.
Meantime the Count Rolland revives.--Erect
He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks
And upward. Then he sees the noble lord
The Archbishop, holy minister of God,
Beyond his comrades lying on the sward
Stretched out.--He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls
His sins, and raising both his joined hands,
He prays Our God to grant him paradise.--
Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,
With doughty blows and sermons erudite,
Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord
Grant him His holy blessing evermore!
Aoi.
CLXIX.
The Count Rolland sees lifeless on the field
The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds
His entrails in the dust, and through his skull
The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form
Of holy Cross upon his breast Rolland
Disposes both his hands so fair and white,
And mourned him in the fashion of his land:
"O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!
To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;
For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,
Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,
To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.
From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide
Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"
Aoi.
ROLAND'S DEATH.
CLXX.
Rolland now feels his death is drawing nigh:
From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.
For all his peers he prays that God may call
Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel
He recommends his spirit. In one hand
He takes the olifant, that no reproach
May rest upon him; in the other grasps
Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,
Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across
A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.
Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,
Four terraces of marble spread:--he falls
Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.
Aoi.
CLXXI.
High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.
Four terraces are there, of marble bright:
There Count Rolland lies senseless on the grass.
Him at this moment spies a Saracen
Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,
His face and body all besmeared with blood.
Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds
Upon the Baron.--Handsome, brave and strong
He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.
He seized the body of Rolland, and grasped
His arms, exclaiming thus:--"Here vanquished Carle's
Great nephew lies!"--"This sword to Araby
I'll bear."--He drew it;--this aroused the Count.
Aoi.
CLXXII.
Rolland perceived an alien hand would rob
Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word
He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!"
Then with his olifant from which he parts
Never, he smites the golden studded helm,
Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes
Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown
Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch,"
He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,
Lay hands upon Rolland? Who hears of this
Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,
Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."
Aoi.
CLXXIII.
Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand
And struggles up with all his force; his face
Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword]
He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock
On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief
And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor
Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help!
O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!
Though we two part, I care not less for thee.
What victories together thou and I,
Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds
White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp
Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,
Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"
Aoi.
CLXXIV.
Rolland smites hard the rock of Sardonix;
The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;
Then seeing that he can not break his sword,
Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:
"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against
The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!
When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,
The God of Heaven by his Angel sent
Command that he should give thee to a Count,
A valiant captain; it was then the great
And gentle King did gird thee to my side.--
With thee I won for him Anjou--Bretaigne;
For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine
And Normandie the free; I won Provence
And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all
The Romanie; I won for him Baviere,
All Flandre--Buguerie--all Puillanie,
Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,
And Saxonie submitted to his power;
For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande
And Engleterre he made his royal seat;
With thee I conquered all the lands and realms
Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.
Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die
Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!
May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"
Aoi.
CLXXV.
Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,
Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword
But grinds.--It breaks not--nor receives a notch,
And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.
When sees the Count Rolland his sword can never break,
Softly within himself its fate he mourns:
"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!
In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth
Of great saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile,
A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,
A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.
It is not right that Pagans should own thee;
By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms
I shall have conquered once that now are ruled
By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,
And by them made great emperor and Lord.
May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."
Aoi.
CLXXVI.
The Count Rolland feels through his limbs the grasp
Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart
A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine
He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.
Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,
And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,
That Carle and all his knightly host may say:
"The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."
Then asking pardon for his sins, or great
Or small, he offers up his glove to God.
Aoi.
CLXXVII.
The Count Rolland feels now his end approach.
Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,
He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:
"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,
Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,
Until this hour committed since my birth!"
Then his right glove he offers up to God,
And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.
Aoi.
CLXXVIII.
Beneath a pine Rolland doth lie, and looks
Toward Spain--He broods on many things of yore:
On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,
On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord
Who nurtured him;--he sighs--nor can restrain
His tears, but can not yet himself forget;
Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God
He prays:--"Our Father, never yet untrue,
Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved
Thy Daniel from the lions' claws--Oh, free
My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"
His right hand glove he offered up to God;
Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined
Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined
He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,
Saint-Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril_.
Together with them Gabriel came.--All bring
The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise....
Aoi.
THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS.
CLXXIX.
Rolland is dead: God has his soul in heaven.
To Ronceval the Emperor has come.
There, neither road nor any path is seen,
Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land
That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,
Pagans or French.--The Emperor exclaims:
"Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?
And Olivier, alas, where are they all?
Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where
Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier,
Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?
The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,
Anseis the rash, Gerard de Roussillon
The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,
What fate is theirs?"--What boots it? None replies.--
"God," cries the King, "what grief is mine to think
I stood not here the battle to begin."
He tears his beard with anger; all his knights
And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe
And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.
Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.
Aoi.
CLXXX.
No baron is there now, no chevalier
Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,
For brothers--nephews--friends--and for liege-lords.
Many have fallen swooning on the earth,
But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:
He foremost said to Carle:--"Behold two leagues
Away!--The roads are dark with clouds of dust.
There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,
Avenge this bitter woe."--"O God," said Carle,
"Are they already flown so far?--our rights
And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me
The flower of my Sweet France!"--The King commands
Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count
Milun:--"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;
The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast
Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge
You, let no man upon them lay his hand
Until, with God's assistance, we return."
They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:
"Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"
Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.
Aoi.
CLXXXI.
Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,
Then forward at the head of his great host
He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain
He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick
Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King
The eve decline, he on the verdant grass
Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord
The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back
And longer make the day. To him appears
A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;
"Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!
God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;
But vengeance canst have now upon that horde
Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.
The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.
Aoi.
CLXXXII.
To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;
The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,
And fast the French pursuing, overtake
Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on
Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall
The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.
No issue, no escape, by road or pass!
In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:
No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help
On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.
Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,
Sink in a moment; others are swept down,
And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.
All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:
"For your own woe wished ye to see Rolland!"
Aoi.
CLXXXIII.
When Carle sees all the Pagans dead--some slain,
The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched
With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth
Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.
When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"
He said, "to think of camping now. Too late
It is for our advance to Ronceval.
Our horses are all weary and foredone:
Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;
And let them roam at large about these meads."
The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."
Aoi.
CLXXXIV.
The Emperor makes here his harborage.
The French dismount, take off the golden curbs
And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose
In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:
No other care they need. Upon the ground
The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.
No watch was set in all the host that night.
Aoi.
CLXXXV.
The Emperor reposes on the field,
His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted,
For he, on such a night will not disarm.
His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears,
His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced,
Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer,
Who thirty times a day can change his hue.
Many a time you all heard of the lance
Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross,
The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God,
Closed in the golden pommel of his sword.
For this great glory and exceeding worth
The brand was called _Joyeuse_. This all French Knights
Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took
Their war-cry of _Montjoie_, and for this cause
No other people can resist their arms.
Aoi.
CLXXXVI.
Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest
Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rolland,
And Olivier is heavy on his heart;
The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,
Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.
He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray
That mighty God be keeper of their souls.
Tired is the King, his toils being very great;
Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.
Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,
Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;
If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.
Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.
Aoi.
CLXXXVII.
Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends
Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.
All night beside his head the Angel stands,
And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French
A battle is prepared, and its portent
Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle
Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms
And wond'rous tempests--smould'ring fire and flames
Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all
His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts
Of apple-tree or ash--those shields ablaze
Unto their golden rings--shafts from their points
Break off--Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.
He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime
Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes
And vipers--dragons, fiends--and with them more
Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French
None can escape this hideous horde.--"Carlemagne,
Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,
Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:
Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.
The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,
And, springing, seeks his very body out.
Each wrestles with the other in his arms;
But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.
Never a jot the Emperor awakes.
Aoi.
CLXXXVIII.
Another vision follows this: in France
At Aix he is:--Upon a marble step
He stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.
From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a pack
Of thirty other bears which speak as men.
They say:--"To us restore him, Sire! Not right
It were that you should keep him longer; help
Our kin we must."--Then from his palace runs
A greyhound fair which on the verdant grass
Assails the fiercer of the other beasts
Before them all. The King a wond'rous fight
Beholds: but who shall win or lose, none knows.
This is a dream God's Angel showed to Carle,
Who sleeps until the morrow's morn appeared.
Aoi.
CLXXXIX.
By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.--
Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,
He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,
And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.
His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood
Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.
Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,
Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.
Around stand more than twenty thousand men
Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;
Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,
Profane, insulting words, their God revile:
"What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,
And to confusion bring our Lord the King?
Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"
Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands
They hang him on a column--neath their feet
They roll him down.--They with great clubs deface
And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch
His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch
Throw down--there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.
Aoi.
CXC.
Recov'ring from his swoon, the King Marsile
Commands they lead him to his vaulted room
All bright with color and inscribed with verse.
There weeping bitterly, Queen Bramimunde
Tearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:
"O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereft
Of the most gentle King that was thy Lord!
Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this morn
In battle failed us;--the Emir coward were
Would he not fight these people bold who are
So proud they care not for their lives. Carl'magne,
The Emperor, whose beard is strewn with gray,
Among his men has dauntless Knights; if e'er
He fight, no step he yields. Great woe it is
That there is no man who can give him death."
Aoi.
CXCI.
By his great power the Emperor in Spain
Full seven years remained; he castles took
And many cities, bringing sore distress
To King Marsile. The year had scarce begun
Before his word went forth to seal the briefs
Which summoned Baligant from Babylone,
(The aged Emir, he whose life outlived
Homer and Virgil). Now the King Marsile
Had begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.
Should he not come, gods, idols, once adored
He will renounce, the holy Faith of Christ
Embrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.
Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;
From forty realms his people had he called
And ordered to prepare his _dromonds_ vast,
Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the port
Of Alexandria the fleet had met;
In May it was, the first of summer-days,
A mighty host he launched upon the deep.
Aoi.
CXCII.
Great are the forces of their hostile horde;
They swiftly skim the waves, and steer, and sail;
Their masts and yards so blazing with the light
Of carbuncles and lanterns, night gives up
Its darkness and still fairer shows the sea.
As they approached the shores of Spain, the land
Was all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.
Aoi.
CXCIII.
The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leave
The deep, and in fresh water steer; Marbreise
And then Marbruse is passed; along the shores
Of winding Ebro glides the armament,
Setting the night aflame with carbuncles
And lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.
Aoi.
CXCIV.
Clear is the day and bright the sun; descends
The Emir from his ship. Espaneliz
Walks forth upon his right; a train of Kings
In number seventeen, with Dukes and Counts
Innumerable, follow. 'Mid the plain
Grows a great laurel, and beneath its shade
They spread a _pallie_ of white silk upon
The verdant grass, and place a faldstool there
Of ivory. In this sits Baligant
The Pagan. All the others stand. First spake
The chief:--"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!
King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,
Shall eat not, save by my command. Throughout
All Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:
Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, while
My life lasts, cease until he dies the death,
Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spake
And struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.
Aoi.
CXCV.