Rollánd perceived an alien hand would robHim of his sword; his eyes he oped; one wordHe spoke:—"I trow, not one of us art thou!"Then with his olifant from which he partsNever, he smites the golden studded helm,Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyesAre from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrownDead at the Baron's feet he falls:—"O wretch,"He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of thisWill call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."Aoi.
Rollánd perceived an alien hand would robHim of his sword; his eyes he oped; one wordHe spoke:—"I trow, not one of us art thou!"Then with his olifant from which he partsNever, he smites the golden studded helm,Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyesAre from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrownDead at the Baron's feet he falls:—"O wretch,"He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of thisWill call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."Aoi.
Now feels Rollánd that death is near at handAnd struggles up with all his force; his faceGrows livid;—[Durendal, his naked sword]He holds;—beside him rises a gray rockOn which he strikes ten mighty blows through griefAnd rage—The steel but grinds; it breaks not, norIs 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 holdsWhite-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall graspThy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"Aoi.
Now feels Rollánd that death is near at handAnd struggles up with all his force; his faceGrows livid;—[Durendal, his naked sword]He holds;—beside him rises a gray rockOn which he strikes ten mighty blows through griefAnd rage—The steel but grinds; it breaks not, norIs 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 holdsWhite-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall graspThy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"Aoi.
Rollánd 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! AgainstThe sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,The God of Heaven by his Angel sentCommand that he should give thee to a Count,A valiant captain; it was then the greatAnd gentle King did gird thee to my side.—With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;For him with thee I won Poitou, le MaineAnd Normandie the free; I won ProvenceAnd Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and allThe Romanie; I won for him Bavière,All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie,Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,And Saxonie submitted to his power;For him I won Escoce and Galle, IrlandeAnd Engleterre he made his royal seat;With thee I conquered all the lands and realmsWhich Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better dieThan in the hands of Pagans let it fall!May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"Aoi.
Rollánd 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! AgainstThe sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,The God of Heaven by his Angel sentCommand that he should give thee to a Count,A valiant captain; it was then the greatAnd gentle King did gird thee to my side.—With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;For him with thee I won Poitou, le MaineAnd Normandie the free; I won ProvenceAnd Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and allThe Romanie; I won for him Bavière,All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie,Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,And Saxonie submitted to his power;For him I won Escoce and Galle, IrlandeAnd Engleterre he made his royal seat;With thee I conquered all the lands and realmsWhich Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better dieThan in the hands of Pagans let it fall!May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"Aoi.
Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,Shattering it more than I can tell; the swordBut grinds.—It breaks not—nor receives a notch,And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.When sees the Count Rollánd 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 toothOf 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 realmsI shall have conquered once that now are ruledBy 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.
Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,Shattering it more than I can tell; the swordBut grinds.—It breaks not—nor receives a notch,And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.When sees the Count Rollánd 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 toothOf 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 realmsI shall have conquered once that now are ruledBy 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.
The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the graspOf death, and from his head ev'n to his heartA mortal chill descends. Unto a pineHe 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 greatOr small, he offers up his glove to God.Aoi.
The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the graspOf death, and from his head ev'n to his heartA mortal chill descends. Unto a pineHe 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 greatOr small, he offers up his glove to God.Aoi.
The Count Rollánd 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.
The Count Rollánd 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.
Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looksToward 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 lordWho nurtured him;—he sighs—nor can restrainHis tears, but can not yet himself forget;Recalls his sins, and for the grace of GodHe prays:—"Our Father, never yet untrue,Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and savedThy Daniel from the lions' claws—Oh, freeMy 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 reclinedUpon his arm, with hands devoutly joinedHe breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,Saint-Raphaël,Saint Michiel del Peril.Together with them Gabriel came.—All bringThe soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....Aoi.
Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looksToward 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 lordWho nurtured him;—he sighs—nor can restrainHis tears, but can not yet himself forget;Recalls his sins, and for the grace of GodHe prays:—"Our Father, never yet untrue,Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and savedThy Daniel from the lions' claws—Oh, freeMy 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 reclinedUpon his arm, with hands devoutly joinedHe breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,Saint-Raphaël,Saint Michiel del Peril.Together with them Gabriel came.—All bringThe soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....Aoi.
Rollánd 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 landThat 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, whereAre they? And where is Otes and Berengier,Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,Anseïs the rash, Gerard de RoussillonThe 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 knightsAnd barons weep great tears; dizzy with woeAnd swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.Aoi.
Rollánd 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 landThat 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, whereAre they? And where is Otes and Berengier,Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,Anseïs the rash, Gerard de RoussillonThe 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 knightsAnd barons weep great tears; dizzy with woeAnd swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.Aoi.
No baron is there now, no chevalierWho, 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 leaguesAway!—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 rightsAnd honor shield! Those Pagans took from meThe flower of my Sweet France!"—The King commandsGebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and CountMilun:—"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beastNor lion, squire nor page approach. I chargeYou, let no man upon them lay his handUntil, 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.
No baron is there now, no chevalierWho, 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 leaguesAway!—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 rightsAnd honor shield! Those Pagans took from meThe flower of my Sweet France!"—The King commandsGebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and CountMilun:—"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beastNor lion, squire nor page approach. I chargeYou, let no man upon them lay his handUntil, 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.
Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,Then forward at the head of his great hostHe rides, that Baron true. Of those of SpainHe finds the tracks, points out the road; in quickPursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the KingThe eve decline, he on the verdant grassDismounts, and prostrate prays to God our LordThe sun to stay, the shades of night hold backAnd longer make the day. To him appearsA 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 hordeOf unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.Aoi.
Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,Then forward at the head of his great hostHe rides, that Baron true. Of those of SpainHe finds the tracks, points out the road; in quickPursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the KingThe eve decline, he on the verdant grassDismounts, and prostrate prays to God our LordThe sun to stay, the shades of night hold backAnd longer make the day. To him appearsA 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 hordeOf unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.Aoi.
To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,And fast the French pursuing, overtakeThem in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them onToward Sarraguce, while close behind them fallThe 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 helpOn 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 Rollánd!"Aoi.
To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,And fast the French pursuing, overtakeThem in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them onToward Sarraguce, while close behind them fallThe 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 helpOn 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 Rollánd!"Aoi.
When Carle sees all the Pagans dead—some slain,The others drowned, his chevaliers enrichedWith spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earthProstrates himself and offers thanks to God.When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"He said, "to think of camping now. Too lateIt 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.
When Carle sees all the Pagans dead—some slain,The others drowned, his chevaliers enrichedWith spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earthProstrates himself and offers thanks to God.When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"He said, "to think of camping now. Too lateIt 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.
The Emperor makes here his harborage.The French dismount, take off the golden curbsAnd saddles from their steeds, and turn them looseIn the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:No other care they need. Upon the groundThe over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.No watch was set in all the host that night.Aoi.
The Emperor makes here his harborage.The French dismount, take off the golden curbsAnd saddles from their steeds, and turn them looseIn the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:No other care they need. Upon the groundThe over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.No watch was set in all the host that night.Aoi.
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 lanceWherewith 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 worthThe brand was calledJoyeuse. This all French KnightsShould bear in mind, for it was hence they tookTheir war-cry ofMontjoie, and for this causeNo other people can resist their arms.Aoi.
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 lanceWherewith 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 worthThe brand was calledJoyeuse. This all French KnightsShould bear in mind, for it was hence they tookTheir war-cry ofMontjoie, and for this causeNo other people can resist their arms.Aoi.
Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at restLies Carle; but grief is with him for Rollánd,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 prayThat 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.
Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at restLies Carle; but grief is with him for Rollánd,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 prayThat 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.
Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sendsSaint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.All night beside his head the Angel stands,And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the FrenchA battle is prepared, and its portentExplains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King CarleSees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging stormsAnd wond'rous tempests—smould'ring fire and flamesReady to burst forth. Suddenly on allHis people falls the blast. Their spears with shaftsOf apple-tree or ash—those shields ablazeUnto their golden rings—shafts from their pointsBreak off—Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.He sees his Knights in dire distress. MeantimeDevouring pards and bears rush on them; snakesAnd vipers—dragons, fiends—and with them moreThan thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the FrenchNone 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.
Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sendsSaint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.All night beside his head the Angel stands,And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the FrenchA battle is prepared, and its portentExplains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King CarleSees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging stormsAnd wond'rous tempests—smould'ring fire and flamesReady to burst forth. Suddenly on allHis people falls the blast. Their spears with shaftsOf apple-tree or ash—those shields ablazeUnto their golden rings—shafts from their pointsBreak off—Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.He sees his Knights in dire distress. MeantimeDevouring pards and bears rush on them; snakesAnd vipers—dragons, fiends—and with them moreThan thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the FrenchNone 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.
Another vision follows this: in FranceAt Aix he is:—Upon a marble stepHe stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a packOf thirty other bears which speak as men.They say:—"To us restore him, Sire! Not rightIt were that you should keep him longer; helpOur kin we must."—Then from his palace runsA greyhound fair which on the verdant grassAssails the fiercer of the other beastsBefore them all. The King a wond'rous fightBeholds: 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.
Another vision follows this: in FranceAt Aix he is:—Upon a marble stepHe stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a packOf thirty other bears which speak as men.They say:—"To us restore him, Sire! Not rightIt were that you should keep him longer; helpOur kin we must."—Then from his palace runsA greyhound fair which on the verdant grassAssails the fiercer of the other beastsBefore them all. The King a wond'rous fightBeholds: 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.
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 bloodIs 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 menWho 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 handsThey hang him on a column—neath their feetThey roll him down.—They with great clubs defaceAnd beat him; then from Tervagant they snatchHis carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditchThrow down—there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.Aoi.
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 bloodIs 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 menWho 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 handsThey hang him on a column—neath their feetThey roll him down.—They with great clubs defaceAnd beat him; then from Tervagant they snatchHis carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditchThrow down—there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.Aoi.
Recov'ring from his swoon, the King MarsileCommands they lead him to his vaulted roomAll bright with color and inscribed with verse.There weeping bitterly, Queen BramimundeTearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:"O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereftOf the most gentle King that was thy Lord!Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this mornIn battle failed us;—the Emir coward wereWould he not fight these people bold who areSo 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'erHe fight, no step he yields. Great woe it isThat there is no man who can give him death."Aoi.
Recov'ring from his swoon, the King MarsileCommands they lead him to his vaulted roomAll bright with color and inscribed with verse.There weeping bitterly, Queen BramimundeTearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:"O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereftOf the most gentle King that was thy Lord!Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this mornIn battle failed us;—the Emir coward wereWould he not fight these people bold who areSo 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'erHe fight, no step he yields. Great woe it isThat there is no man who can give him death."Aoi.
By his great power the Emperor in SpainFull seven years remained; he castles tookAnd many cities, bringing sore distressTo King Marsile. The year had scarce begunBefore his word went forth to seal the briefsWhich summoned Baligant from Babylone,(The aged Emir, he whose life outlivedHomer and Virgil). Now the King MarsileHad begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.Should he not come, gods, idols, once adoredHe will renounce, the holy Faith of ChristEmbrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;From forty realms his people had he calledAnd ordered to prepare hisdromondsvast,Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the portOf Alexandria the fleet had met;In May it was, the first of summer-days,A mighty host he launched upon the deep.Aoi.
By his great power the Emperor in SpainFull seven years remained; he castles tookAnd many cities, bringing sore distressTo King Marsile. The year had scarce begunBefore his word went forth to seal the briefsWhich summoned Baligant from Babylone,(The aged Emir, he whose life outlivedHomer and Virgil). Now the King MarsileHad begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.Should he not come, gods, idols, once adoredHe will renounce, the holy Faith of ChristEmbrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;From forty realms his people had he calledAnd ordered to prepare hisdromondsvast,Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the portOf Alexandria the fleet had met;In May it was, the first of summer-days,A mighty host he launched upon the deep.Aoi.
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 lightOf carbuncles and lanterns, night gives upIts darkness and still fairer shows the sea.As they approached the shores of Spain, the landWas all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.Aoi.
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 lightOf carbuncles and lanterns, night gives upIts darkness and still fairer shows the sea.As they approached the shores of Spain, the landWas all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.Aoi.
The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leaveThe deep, and in fresh water steer; MarbreiseAnd then Marbruse is passed; along the shoresOf winding Ebro glides the armament,Setting the night aflame with carbunclesAnd lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.Aoi.
The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leaveThe deep, and in fresh water steer; MarbreiseAnd then Marbruse is passed; along the shoresOf winding Ebro glides the armament,Setting the night aflame with carbunclesAnd lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.Aoi.
Clear is the day and bright the sun; descendsThe Emir from his ship. EspanelizWalks forth upon his right; a train of KingsIn number seventeen, with Dukes and CountsInnumerable, follow. 'Mid the plainGrows a great laurel, and beneath its shadeThey spread apallieof white silk uponThe verdant grass, and place a faldstool thereOf ivory. In this sits BaligantThe Pagan. All the others stand. First spakeThe chief:—"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,Shall eat not, save by my command. ThroughoutAll Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, whileMy life lasts, cease until he dies the death,Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spakeAnd struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.Aoi.
Clear is the day and bright the sun; descendsThe Emir from his ship. EspanelizWalks forth upon his right; a train of KingsIn number seventeen, with Dukes and CountsInnumerable, follow. 'Mid the plainGrows a great laurel, and beneath its shadeThey spread apallieof white silk uponThe verdant grass, and place a faldstool thereOf ivory. In this sits BaligantThe Pagan. All the others stand. First spakeThe chief:—"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,Shall eat not, save by my command. ThroughoutAll Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, whileMy life lasts, cease until he dies the death,Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spakeAnd struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.Aoi.
His word once spoken was to him a law:Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wontTo hold his court. Some praise him, even giveHim counsel. Two from out his host of KnightsHe summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:"Ye are the sons of King Maltraïen,A willing message bearer: 'tis my willYe go to Sarraguce; there in my nameGive ye this message to the King Marsile:I have come to succor him against the French,And if I find them, great the fight will be.Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place itOn his right hand; give him this staff of gold;And when he comes to pay me homage, asA vassal to his lord, I then will leadMy force to France to fight with Carlemagne.If he fall not before my feet to prayFor mercy, and abjure the Christian law,I from his head will tear away the crown."The Pagans answer all:—"Well spoken, Sire."Aoi.
His word once spoken was to him a law:Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wontTo hold his court. Some praise him, even giveHim counsel. Two from out his host of KnightsHe summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:"Ye are the sons of King Maltraïen,A willing message bearer: 'tis my willYe go to Sarraguce; there in my nameGive ye this message to the King Marsile:I have come to succor him against the French,And if I find them, great the fight will be.Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place itOn his right hand; give him this staff of gold;And when he comes to pay me homage, asA vassal to his lord, I then will leadMy force to France to fight with Carlemagne.If he fall not before my feet to prayFor mercy, and abjure the Christian law,I from his head will tear away the crown."The Pagans answer all:—"Well spoken, Sire."Aoi.
"Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thouThe glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:"Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rodeThey soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gatesThey pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streetsWhere stand the burghers. But on drawing nearThe lofty citadel, they heard great noiseAbout the palace, where were thronging crowdsOf Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall nowBefall us, miserable? for we have lostThe King Marsile whose hand Rollánd struck off;For aye we are bereft of TurfaleuThe Fair, his son. This day the land of SpainInto the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"The message-bearers reach the royal gates.Aoi.
"Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thouThe glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:"Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rodeThey soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gatesThey pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streetsWhere stand the burghers. But on drawing nearThe lofty citadel, they heard great noiseAbout the palace, where were thronging crowdsOf Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall nowBefall us, miserable? for we have lostThe King Marsile whose hand Rollánd struck off;For aye we are bereft of TurfaleuThe Fair, his son. This day the land of SpainInto the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"The message-bearers reach the royal gates.Aoi.
Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soonTwo Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.The messengers, each holding by the cloakThe other, hasten to the highest tower.Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,An evil greeting offer with good will:"May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holdsUs in his service, and our Sire Mahum,Preserve our king and guard the queen!"Whereat cried Bramimunde:—"What folly this!Our gods are false; too well in RoncevalThey showed their evil power, and let our knightsBe slain—amid the battle-field forsookMy lord the king with his right hand struck offBy mighty Count Rollánd. The realm of SpainWill fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.What shall become of me, most miserable?Alas! is there no man to give me death!"Aoi.
Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soonTwo Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.The messengers, each holding by the cloakThe other, hasten to the highest tower.Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,An evil greeting offer with good will:"May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holdsUs in his service, and our Sire Mahum,Preserve our king and guard the queen!"Whereat cried Bramimunde:—"What folly this!Our gods are false; too well in RoncevalThey showed their evil power, and let our knightsBe slain—amid the battle-field forsookMy lord the king with his right hand struck offBy mighty Count Rollánd. The realm of SpainWill fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.What shall become of me, most miserable?Alas! is there no man to give me death!"Aoi.
Said Clarien:—"Lady, speak not thus—Behold,Messengers we, from Baligant, who swearsTo free Marsile, and to him sends his gloveAnd staff as tokens—on the Ebro floatFour thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;More sails than can be numbered! Rich and greatThe Emir.—Carle, pursued to France, shall bePer force, or still, or dead, or penitent."Said Bramimunde:—"Yea, greater ills will come.To meet the Franks you need not go so far;Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. BraveIs he in battle, and a Baron true;Ready to die ere he will quit the field;No king on earth but is to him a child.Carle's spirit yields before no living man."Aoi.
Said Clarien:—"Lady, speak not thus—Behold,Messengers we, from Baligant, who swearsTo free Marsile, and to him sends his gloveAnd staff as tokens—on the Ebro floatFour thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;More sails than can be numbered! Rich and greatThe Emir.—Carle, pursued to France, shall bePer force, or still, or dead, or penitent."Said Bramimunde:—"Yea, greater ills will come.To meet the Franks you need not go so far;Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. BraveIs he in battle, and a Baron true;Ready to die ere he will quit the field;No king on earth but is to him a child.Carle's spirit yields before no living man."Aoi.
"Let all that be!" cried to the messengersThe King Marsile—"Seigneurs, speak but to me,You see me now crushed unto death. No sonNor daughter have I left, nor other heir;One son I had, who yestereve was slain.Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to himI grant the realm in full, if he accept.Let him defend this land against the French,To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,And victor he will be before this dayA month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will beExpelled." They answer:—"Sire, you speak the truth."Aoi.
"Let all that be!" cried to the messengersThe King Marsile—"Seigneurs, speak but to me,You see me now crushed unto death. No sonNor daughter have I left, nor other heir;One son I had, who yestereve was slain.Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to himI grant the realm in full, if he accept.Let him defend this land against the French,To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,And victor he will be before this dayA month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will beExpelled." They answer:—"Sire, you speak the truth."Aoi.
"The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slainMy men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormedMy cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,But seven counted leagues away. Bid yeThe Emir march up all his force. Bear himMy order for the fight." With this he givesInto their hands the keys of Sarraguce.Upon these words the messengers bent lowIn last salute, took leave, and went their way.Aoi.
"The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slainMy men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormedMy cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,But seven counted leagues away. Bid yeThe Emir march up all his force. Bear himMy order for the fight." With this he givesInto their hands the keys of Sarraguce.Upon these words the messengers bent lowIn last salute, took leave, and went their way.Aoi.
The messengers upon their horses mountAnd gallop from the city in hot haste.With terror struck, both to the Emir come,Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.Said Baligant:—"What found ye there? Where isThe King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"Clarien makes answer:—"He is hurt to death;The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the passUpon his homeward way into sweet France.For greater honor, in the rear, Rollánd,His nephew, had a post with Olivier,All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, foughtAnd fierce encounter had with Count Rollánd,Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,The king's right hand was severed from his arm.Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,With all the Barons he had brought with him;Unable to resist, he took to flight,And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.Now give your help to King Marsile, who cravesYour aid, and as your guerdon all the realmOf Spain receive." But Baligant remainsDeep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.Aoi.
The messengers upon their horses mountAnd gallop from the city in hot haste.With terror struck, both to the Emir come,Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.Said Baligant:—"What found ye there? Where isThe King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"Clarien makes answer:—"He is hurt to death;The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the passUpon his homeward way into sweet France.For greater honor, in the rear, Rollánd,His nephew, had a post with Olivier,All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, foughtAnd fierce encounter had with Count Rollánd,Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,The king's right hand was severed from his arm.Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,With all the Barons he had brought with him;Unable to resist, he took to flight,And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.Now give your help to King Marsile, who cravesYour aid, and as your guerdon all the realmOf Spain receive." But Baligant remainsDeep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.Aoi.
"Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterdayA battle raged in Ronceval; RollándAnd Olivier are dead, and the twelve PeersTo Carle so dear, with twenty thousand FranksHave perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.In all the land no Knight remains but slainOr in the waters of the Ebro drowned.Upon its banks the French encamp—So nigh—Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loudHe cries:—"Delay not—disembark! To horse!And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the oldBy flight escape, the King Marsile shall beAvenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."Aoi.
"Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterdayA battle raged in Ronceval; RollándAnd Olivier are dead, and the twelve PeersTo Carle so dear, with twenty thousand FranksHave perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.In all the land no Knight remains but slainOr in the waters of the Ebro drowned.Upon its banks the French encamp—So nigh—Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loudHe cries:—"Delay not—disembark! To horse!And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the oldBy flight escape, the King Marsile shall beAvenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."Aoi.
Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,And mounting mules and horses, march; what elseBut this for them to do? When forward movesThe host in serried lines, the Emir callsOn Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To theeCommand of all my armies I confide."—He said—and straight on his bay destrier mounts;Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.Before a marble terrace he dismounts,Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the stepsWhich led up to the palace he ascends.To him runs Bramimunde:—"What cruel doleIs mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,"Have I now lost my lord!"—And at his feetProstrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,And, grieving, both into the chamber went.Aoi.
Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,And mounting mules and horses, march; what elseBut this for them to do? When forward movesThe host in serried lines, the Emir callsOn Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To theeCommand of all my armies I confide."—He said—and straight on his bay destrier mounts;Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.Before a marble terrace he dismounts,Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the stepsWhich led up to the palace he ascends.To him runs Bramimunde:—"What cruel doleIs mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,"Have I now lost my lord!"—And at his feetProstrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,And, grieving, both into the chamber went.Aoi.
The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and badeHis body to be raised that he might sit.With his left hand he took a glove, and thusHe spoke:—"Sir King and Emir, all my landsAnd kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefsBut wreck and ruin—Subjects, wealth—all lost."Answered the Emir:—"I, so much the more,Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speechI can not stay; for Carle, I know, will notBe still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;The palace steps descending, mounts his horseAnd spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;And cries aloud, going from man to man:"Haste, Pagans! On!—Already flee the Franks."Aoi.
The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and badeHis body to be raised that he might sit.With his left hand he took a glove, and thusHe spoke:—"Sir King and Emir, all my landsAnd kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefsBut wreck and ruin—Subjects, wealth—all lost."Answered the Emir:—"I, so much the more,Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speechI can not stay; for Carle, I know, will notBe still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;The palace steps descending, mounts his horseAnd spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;And cries aloud, going from man to man:"Haste, Pagans! On!—Already flee the Franks."Aoi.
At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.The King arises, takes his armor off,And all the host disarm.—The mounted knightsThen ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,The weary roads, to view the woeful lossOnce more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.Aoi.
At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.The King arises, takes his armor off,And all the host disarm.—The mounted knightsThen ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,The weary roads, to view the woeful lossOnce more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.Aoi.
Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and saidUnto the French:—"Seigneurs, move slowly here;For I alone, will forward go in searchOf my fair nephew lost among the dead.Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,My valiant bachelors, in warlike deedsTheir exploits vaunting, I could hear RollándSay, should he ever die on foreign soil,Before his peers and men he should be foundFacing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."A few steps further than a staff's throw, CarleFar in advance of all, ascends a hill.Aoi.
Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and saidUnto the French:—"Seigneurs, move slowly here;For I alone, will forward go in searchOf my fair nephew lost among the dead.Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,My valiant bachelors, in warlike deedsTheir exploits vaunting, I could hear RollándSay, should he ever die on foreign soil,Before his peers and men he should be foundFacing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."A few steps further than a staff's throw, CarleFar in advance of all, ascends a hill.Aoi.
When sought the Emperor his nephew there,Amid the field, and found so many plantsWith blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,By pity moved he can not choose but weep.Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knewThe blow upon the three rocks Rollánd struck,And saw his nephew lying on the sward,A mangled corse—No wonder Carle is wroth;Alights in haste and lifting in his armsThe Count, broken by grief upon him faints.Aoi.
When sought the Emperor his nephew there,Amid the field, and found so many plantsWith blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,By pity moved he can not choose but weep.Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knewThe blow upon the three rocks Rollánd struck,And saw his nephew lying on the sward,A mangled corse—No wonder Carle is wroth;Alights in haste and lifting in his armsThe Count, broken by grief upon him faints.Aoi.
From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'AnjouHis brother Tierri raise the King, and placeHim resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earthHe sees his nephew lying dead, and mournsO'er him with gentle words and tender looks,"Sweet friend, Rollánd, God's mercy unto thee!Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,For noble combats ordered and achieved!Mine honor turns to its decline!—" Once moreCarle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.Aoi.
From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'AnjouHis brother Tierri raise the King, and placeHim resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earthHe sees his nephew lying dead, and mournsO'er him with gentle words and tender looks,"Sweet friend, Rollánd, God's mercy unto thee!Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,For noble combats ordered and achieved!Mine honor turns to its decline!—" Once moreCarle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.Aoi.
Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....Four of his Barons, with their hands supportHis form. His downcast looks see stretched on earthHis nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyesTurned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments."Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soulAmong the Glorified, amidst the flowersOf Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawnFor me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'nMy strength and power! Who now will e'er supportMy royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'nThe one true friend! though other kindred mine,Was none so brave and wise."—He tore his hairIn handfuls from his brow. So great the griefOf those one hundred thousand Franks, that noneThere was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.Aoi.
Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....Four of his Barons, with their hands supportHis form. His downcast looks see stretched on earthHis nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyesTurned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments."Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soulAmong the Glorified, amidst the flowersOf Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawnFor me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'nMy strength and power! Who now will e'er supportMy royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'nThe one true friend! though other kindred mine,Was none so brave and wise."—He tore his hairIn handfuls from his brow. So great the griefOf those one hundred thousand Franks, that noneThere was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.Aoi.
"Beloved Rollánd, to France I now return.When in my chamber I shall be at Loün,And foreign men come from afar to askWhere lives Rollánd the Captain, I shall say'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforthShall hold my realm in bitter pain. No dayShall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."Aoi.
"Beloved Rollánd, to France I now return.When in my chamber I shall be at Loün,And foreign men come from afar to askWhere lives Rollánd the Captain, I shall say'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforthShall hold my realm in bitter pain. No dayShall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."Aoi.
"Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,What strange and cruel news I then shall haveTo greet them with! 'My nephew who for meSuch conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons nowWill rise against my power, and Hungres, and BugresWith other foes—the men of Rome, of Pouille,And all those of Palerne; and those who holdAffrike and Califerne. Day after dayMy pain will grow—Who then shall lead my hostWith such an arm of might, since he is dead,Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my griefI would not live!"—he plucks out his white beardAnd tears his hair with both hands from his head.Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks—Aoi.
"Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,What strange and cruel news I then shall haveTo greet them with! 'My nephew who for meSuch conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons nowWill rise against my power, and Hungres, and BugresWith other foes—the men of Rome, of Pouille,And all those of Palerne; and those who holdAffrike and Califerne. Day after dayMy pain will grow—Who then shall lead my hostWith such an arm of might, since he is dead,Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my griefI would not live!"—he plucks out his white beardAnd tears his hair with both hands from his head.Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks—Aoi.