CLXIIWho knoweth ransom is none for him,Maketh in battle resistance grim;The Franks like wrathful lions strike,But King Marsil beareth him baron-like;He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight,And he pricketh him hard, Sir Beuve to smite,The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town,Through shield and cuirass, he struck him down:Dead past succor of man he lay.Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay;Gerard of Roussillon beside.Not far was Roland, and loud he cried,"Be thou forever in God's disgrace,Who hast slain my fellows before my face,Before we part thou shalt blows essay,And learn the name of my sword to-day."Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand,And from Marsil severed his good right hand:With another stroke, the head he wonOf the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil's son."Help us, Mahound!" say the heathen train,"May our gods avenge us on Carlemaine!Such daring felons he hither sent,Who will hold the field till their lives be spent.""Let us flee and save us," cry one and all,Unto flight a hundred thousand fall,Nor can aught the fugitives recall.CLXIIIBut what availeth? though Marsil fly,His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh;Lord of Carthagena is he,Of Alferna's shore and Garmalie,And of Ethiopia, accursed land:The black battalions at his command,With nostrils huge and flattened ears,Outnumber fifty thousand spears;And on they ride in haste and ire,Shouting their heathen war-cry dire."At last," said Roland, "the hour is come,Here receive we our martyrdom;Yet strike with your burnished brands--accursedWho sells not his life right dearly first;In life or death be your thought the same,That gentle France be not brought to shame.When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent,And he sees the Saracens' chastisement,Fifteen of their dead against our one,He will breathe on our souls his benison."DEATH OF OLIVIERCLXIVWhen Roland saw the abhorrèd race,Than blackest ink more black in face,Who have nothing white but the teeth alone,"Now," he said, "it is truly shown,That the hour of our death is close at hand.Fight, my Franks, 'tis my last command."Said Olivier, "Shame is the laggard's due."And at his word they engage anew.CLXVWhen the heathen saw that the Franks were few,Heart and strength from the sight they drew;They said, "The Emperor hath the worse."The Algalif sat on a sorrel horse;He pricked with spurs of the gold refined,Smote Olivier in the back behind.On through his harness the lance he pressed,Till the steel came out at the baron's breast."Thou hast it!" the Algalif, vaunting, cried,"Ye were sent by Karl in an evil tide.Of his wrongs against us he shall not boast;In thee alone I avenge our host."CLXVIOlivier felt the deadly wound,Yet he grasped Hauteclere, with its steel embrowned;He smote on the Algalif's crest of gold,--Gem and flowers to the earth were rolled;Clave his head to the teeth below,And struck him dead with the single blow."All evil, caitiff, thy soul pursue.Full well our Emperor's loss I knew;But for thee--thou goest not hence to boastTo wife or dame on thy natal coast,Of one denier from the Emperor won,Or of scathe to me or to others done."Then Roland's aid he called upon.CLXVIIOlivier knoweth him hurt to death;The more to vengeance he hasteneth;Knightly as ever his arms he bore,Staves of lances and shields he shore;Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,--Whose eyes soever the sight would greet,How the Saracens all disfigured lie,Corpse upon corpse, each other by,Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yetDoth he the war-cry of Karl forget--"Montjoie!" he shouted, shrill and clear;Then called he Roland, his friend and peer,"Sir, my comrade, anear me ride;This day of dolor shall us divide."CLXVIIIRoland looked Olivier in the face,--Ghastly paleness was there to trace;Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow,And rain in showers to the earth below."O God!" said Roland, "is this the endOf all thy prowess, my gentle friend?Nor know I whither to bear me now:On earth shall never be such as thou.Ah, gentle France, thou art overthrown,Reft of thy bravest, despoiled and lone;The Emperor's loss is full indeed!"At the word he fainted upon his steed.CLXIXSee Roland there on his charger swooned,Olivier smitten with his death wound.His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark,Nor mortal, near or far, can mark;And when his comrade beside him pressed,Fiercely he smote on his golden crest;Down to the nasal the helm he shred,But passed no further, nor pierced his head.Roland marvelled at such a blow,And thus bespake him soft and low:"Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?Roland who loves thee so dear, am I,Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?"Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak,But I see thee not. God seeth thee.Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me.""I am not hurt, O Olivier;And in sight of God, I forgive thee here."Then each to other his head has laid,And in love like this was their parting made.CLXXOlivier feeleth his throe begin;His eyes are turning his head within,Sight and hearing alike are gone.He alights and couches the earth upon;HisMea Culpaaloud he cries,And his hands in prayer unto God arise,That he grant him Paradise to share,That he bless King Karl and France the fair,His brother Roland o'er all mankind;Then sank his heart, and his head declined,Stretched at length on the earth he lay,--So passed Sir Olivier away.Roland was left to weep alone:Man so woful hath ne'er been known.CLXXIWhen Roland saw that life had fled,And with face to earth his comrade dead,He thus bewept him, soft and still:"Ah, friend, thy prowess wrought thee ill!So many days and years gone byWe lived together, thou and I:And thou hast never done me wrong,Nor I to thee, our lifetime long.Since thou art dead, to live is pain."He swooned on Veillantif again,Yet may not unto earth be cast,His golden stirrups held him fast.CLXXIIWhen passed away had Roland's swoon,With sense restored, he saw full soonWhat ruin lay beneath his view.His Franks have perished all save two--The archbishop and Walter of Hum alone.From the mountain-side hath Walter flown,Where he met in battle the bands of Spain,And the heathen won and his men were slainIn his own despite to the vale he came;Called unto Roland, his aid to claim."Ah, count! brave gentleman, gallant peer!Where art thou? With thee I know not fear.I am Walter, who vanquished Maelgut of yore,Nephew to Drouin, the old and hoar.For knightly deeds I was once thy friend.I fought the Saracen to the end;My lance is shivered, my shield is cleft,Of my broken mail are but fragments left.I bear in my body eight thrusts of spear;I die, but I sold my life right dear."Count Roland heard as he spake the word,Pricked his steed, and anear him spurred.CLXXIII"Walter," said Roland, "thou hadst affrayWith the Saracen foe on the heights to-day.Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be:A thousand horsemen gave I thee;Render them back, for my need is sore.""Alas, thou seest them never more!Stretched they lie on the dolorous ground,Where myriad Saracen swarms we found,--Armenians, Turks, and the giant broodOf Balisa, famous for hardihood,Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet,Such host in battle 'twas ours to meet;Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,--Full sixty thousand on earth lie low.With our brands of steel we avenged us well,But every Frank by the foeman fell.My hauberk plates are riven wide,And I bear such wounds in flank and side,That from every part the bright blood flows,And feebler ever my body grows.I am dying fast, I am well aware:Thy liegeman I, and claim thy care.If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive,And yield me succor while thou dost live."Roland sweated with wrath and pain,Tore the skirts of his vest in twain,Bound Walter's every bleeding vein.CLXXIVIn Roland's sorrow his wrath arose,Hotly he struck at the heathen foes,Nor left he one of a score alive;Walter slew six, the archbishop five.The heathens cry, "What a felon three!Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee.Dastard is he who confronts them not;Craven, who lets them depart this spot."Their cries and shoutings begin once more,And from every side on the Franks they pour.CLXXVCount Roland in sooth is a noble peer;Count Walter, a valorous cavalier;The archbishop, in battle proved and tried,Each struck as if knight there were none beside.From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap,Yet forty thousand their saddles keep;I trow they dare not approach them near,But they hurl against them lance and spear,Pike and javelin, shaft and dart.Walter is slain as the missiles part;The archbishop's shield in pieces shred,Riven his helm, and pierced his head;His corselet of steel they rent and tore,Wounded his body with lances four;His steed beneath him dropped withal:What woe to see the archbishop fall!CLXXVIWhen Turpin felt him flung to ground,And four lance wounds within him found,He swiftly rose, the dauntless man,To Roland looked, and nigh him ran.Spake but, "I am not overthrown--Brave warrior yields with life alone."He drew Almace's burnished steel,A thousand ruthless blows to deal.In after time, the Emperor saidHe found four hundred round him spread,--Some wounded, others cleft in twain;Some lying headless on the plain.So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells,For whom High God wrought miracles.In Laon cell the scroll he wrote;He little weets who knows it not.CLXXVIICount Roland combateth nobly yet,His body burning and bathed in sweat;In his brow a mighty pain, since first,When his horn he sounded, his temple burst;But he yearns of Karl's approach to know,And lifts his horn once more--but oh,How faint and feeble a note to blow!The Emperor listened, and stood full still."My lords," he said, "we are faring ill.This day is Roland my nephew's last;Like dying man he winds that blast.On! Who would aid, for life must press.Sound every trump our ranks possess."Peal sixty thousand clarions high,The hills re-echo, the vales reply.It is now no jest for the heathen band."Karl!" they cry, "it is Karl at hand!"CLXXVIIIThey said, "'Tis the Emperor's advance,We hear the trumpets resound of France.If he assail us, hope in vain;If Roland live, 'tis war again,And we lose for aye the land of Spain."Four hundred in arms together drew,The bravest of the heathen crew;With serried power they on him press,And dire in sooth is the count's distress.CLXXIXWhen Roland saw his coming foes,All proud and stern his spirit rose;Alive he shall never be brought to yield:Veillantif spurred he across the field,With golden spurs he pricked him well,To break the ranks of the infidel;Archbishop Turpin by his side."Let us flee, and save us," the heathen cried;"These are the trumpets of France we hear--It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near."CLXXXCount Roland never hath loved the base,Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,--Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,--And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood;"On foot are you, on horseback I;For your love I halt, and stand you by.Together for good and ill we hold;I will not leave you for man of mould.We will pay the heathen their onset back,Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack.""Base," said Turpin, "who spares to smite:When the Emperor comes, he will all requite."CLXXXIThe heathens said, "We were born to shame.This day for our disaster came:Our lords and leaders in battle lost,And Karl at hand with his marshalled host;We hear the trumpets of France ring out,And the cry 'Montjoie!' their rallying shout.Roland's pride is of such a height,Not to be vanquished by mortal wight;Hurl we our missiles, and hold aloof."And the word they spake, they put in proof,--They flung, with all their strength and craft,Javelin, barb, and plumèd shaft.Roland's buckler was torn and frayed,His cuirass broken and disarrayed,Yet entrance none to his flesh they made.From thirty wounds Veillantif bled,Beneath his rider they cast him, dead;Then from the field have the heathen flown:Roland remaineth, on foot, alone.THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOPCLXXXIIThe heathens fly in rage and dread;To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped;Nor can Count Roland make pursuit--Slain is his steed, and he rests afoot;To succor Turpin he turned in haste,The golden helm from his head unlaced,Ungirt the corselet from his breast,In stripes divided his silken vest;The archbishop's wounds hath he staunched and bound,His arms around him softly wound;On the green sward gently his body laid,And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed:"For a little space, let me take farewell;Our dear companions, who round us fell,I go to seek; if I haply find,I will place them at thy feet reclined.""Go," said Turpin; "the field is thine--To God the glory, 'tis thine and mine."CLXXXIIIAlone seeks Roland the field of fight,He searcheth vale, he searcheth height.Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low,And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux,Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier;Otho he found, and Berengier;Samson the duke, and Anseis bold,Gerard of Roussillon, the old.Their bodies, one after one, he bore,And laid them Turpin's feet before.The archbishop saw them stretched arow,Nor can he hinder the tears that flow;In benediction his hands he spread:"Alas! for your doom, my lords," he said,"That God in mercy your souls may give,On the flowers of Paradise to live;Mine own death comes, with anguish soreThat I see mine Emperor never more."CLXXXIVOnce more to the field doth Roland wend,Till he findeth Olivier his friend;The lifeless form to his heart he strained,Bore him back with what strength remained,On a buckler laid him, beside the rest,The archbishop assoiled them all, and blessed.Their dole and pity anew find vent,And Roland maketh his fond lament:"My Olivier, my chosen one,Thou wert the noble Duke Renier's son,Lord of the March unto Rivier vale.To shiver lance and shatter mail,The brave in council to guide and cheer,To smite the miscreant foe with fear,--Was never on earth such cavalier."CLXXXVDead around him his peers to see,And the man he loved so tenderly,Fast the tears of Count Roland ran,His visage discolored became, and wan,He swooned for sorrow beyond control."Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!"CLXXXVITo look on Roland swooning there,Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare;He stretched his hand, the horn he took,--Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,--A draught to Roland he thought to bring;But his steps were feeble and tottering,Spent his strength, from waste of blood,--He struggled on for scarce a rood,When sank his heart, and drooped his frame,And his mortal anguish on him came.CLXXXVIIRoland revived from his swoon again;On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain;He looked on high, and he looked below,Till, a space his other companions fro,He beheld the baron, stretched on sward,The archbishop, vicar of God our Lord.Mea Culpawas Turpin's cry,While he raised his hands to heaven on high,Imploring Paradise to gain.So died the soldier of Carlemaine,--With word or weapon, to preach or fight,A champion ever of Christian right,And a deadly foe of the infidel.God's benediction within him dwell!CLXXXVIIIWhen Roland saw him stark on earth(His very vitals were bursting forth,And his brain was oozing from out his head),He took the fair white hands outspread,Crossed and clasped them upon his breast,And thus his plaint to the dead addressed,--So did his country's law ordain:--"Ah, gentleman of noble strain,I trust thee unto God the True,Whose service never man shall doWith more devoted heart and mind:To guard the faith, to win mankind,From the apostles' days till now,Such prophet never rose as thou.Nor pain or torment thy soul await,But of Paradise the open gate."THE DEATH OF ROLANDCLXXXIXRoland feeleth his death is near,His brain is oozing by either ear.For his peers he prayed--God keep them well;Invoked the angel Gabriel.That none reproach him, his horn he clasped;His other hand Durindana grasped;Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent,Across the march of Spain he went,Where, on a mound, two trees between,Four flights of marble steps were seen;Backward he fell, on the field to lie;And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh.CXCHigh were the mountains and high the trees,Bright shone the marble terraces;On the green grass Roland hath swooned away.A Saracen spied him where he lay:Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead,His face and body with blood bespread.To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,--He was fair and strong and of courage tried,In pride and wrath he was overbold,--And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold."The nephew of Karl is overthrown!To Araby bear I this sword, mine own."He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew,Roland returned to his sense anew.CXCIHe saw the Saracen seize his sword;His eyes he oped, and he spake one word--"Thou art not one of our band, I trow,"And he clutched the horn he would ne'er forego;On the golden crest he smote him full,Shattering steel and bone and skull,Forth from his head his eyes he beat,And cast him lifeless before his feet."Miscreant, makest thou then so free,As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me?Who hears it will deem thee a madman born;Behold the mouth of mine ivory hornBroken for thee, and the gems and goldAround its rim to earth are rolled."CXCIIRoland feeleth his eyesight reft,Yet he stands erect with what strength is left;From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled,But his Durindana all bare he held.In front a dark brown rock arose--He smote upon it ten grievous blows.Grated the steel as it struck the flint,Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint."Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid!Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade,I may no longer thy guardian be!What fields of battle I won with thee!What realms and regions 'twas ours to gain,Now the lordship of Carlemaine!Never shalt thou possessor knowWho would turn from face of mortal foe;A gallant vassal so long thee bore,Such as France the free shall know no more."CXCIIIHe smote anew on the marble stair.It grated, but breach nor notch was there.When Roland found that it would not break,Thus began he his plaint to make."Ah, Durindana, how fair and brightThou sparklest, flaming against the light!When Karl in Maurienne valley lay,God sent his angel from heaven to say--'This sword shall a valorous captain's be,'And he girt it, the gentle king, on me.With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine,Provence I conquered and Aquitaine;I conquered Normandy the free,Anjou, and the marches of Brittany;Romagna I won, and Lombardy,Bavaria, Flanders from side to side,And Burgundy, and Poland wide;Constantinople affiance vowed,And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed;Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland's plain,Of England made he his own domain.What mighty regions I won of old,For the hoary-headed Karl to hold!But there presses on me a grievous pain,Lest thou in heathen hands remain.O God our Father, keep France from stain!"CXCIVHis strokes once more on the brown rock fell,And the steel was bent past words to tell;Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain,Erect it leaped to the sky again.When he failed at the last to break his blade,His lamentation he inly made."Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword,What relics lie in thy pommel stored!Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil's blood,Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed,Fragment of holy Mary's vest.'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest;Thee should the hand of a Christian serveOne who would never in battle swerve.What regions won I with thee of yore,The empire now of Karl the hoar!Rich and mighty is he therefore."CXCVThat death was on him he knew full well;Down from his head to his heart it fell.On the grass beneath a pine-tree's shade,With face to earth, his form he laid,Beneath him placed he his horn and sword,And turned his face to the heathen horde.Thus hath he done the sooth to show,That Karl and his warriors all may know,That the gentle count a conqueror died.Mea Culpafull oft he cried;And, for all his sins, unto God above,In sign of penance, he raised his glove.CXCVIRoland feeleth his hour at hand;On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land.With one hand beats he upon his breast:"In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed.From my hour of birth, both the great and small,Down to this day, I repent of all."As his glove he raises to God on high,Angels of heaven descend him nigh.CXCVIIBeneath a pine was his resting-place,To the land of Spain hath he turned his face,On his memory rose full many a thought--Of the lands he won and the fields he fought;Of his gentle France, of his kin and line;Of his nursing father, King Karl benign;--He may not the tear and sob control,Nor yet forgets he his parting soul.To God's compassion he makes his cry:"O Father true, who canst not lie,Who didst Lazarus raise unto life agen,And Daniel shield in the lions' den;Shield my soul from its peril, dueFor the sins I sinned my lifetime through."He did his right-hand glove uplift--Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift;Then drooped his head upon his breast,And with claspèd hands he went to rest.God from on high sent down to himOne of his angel Cherubim--Saint Michael of Peril of the sea,Saint Gabriel in company--From heaven they came for that soul of price,And they bore it with them to Paradise.PART IIITHE REPRISALSTHE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENSCXCVIIIDead is Roland; his soul with God.While to Roncesvalles the Emperor rode,Where neither path nor track he found,Nor open space nor rood of ground,But was strewn with Frank or heathen slain,"Where art thou, Roland?" he cried in pain:"The Archbishop where, and Olivier,Gerein and his brother in arms, Gerier?Count Otho where, and Berengier,Ivon and Ivor, so dear to me;And Engelier of Gascony;Samson the duke, and Anseis the bold;Gerard, of Roussillon, the old;My peers, the twelve whom I left behind?"In vain!--No answer may he find."O God," he cried, "what grief is mineThat I was not in front of this battle line!"For very wrath his beard he tore,His knights and barons weeping sore;Aswoon full fifty thousand fall:Duke Naimes hath pity and dole for all.CXCIXNor knight nor baron was there to seeBut wept full fast, and bitterly;For son and brother their tears descend,For lord and liege, for kin and friend;Aswoon all numberless they fell,But Naimes did gallantly and well.He spake the first to the Emperor--"Look onward, sire, two leagues before,See the dust from the ways arise,--There the strength of the heathen lies.Ride on; avenge you for this dark day.""O God," said Karl, "they are far away!Yet for right and honor, the sooth ye say.Fair France's flower they have torn from me."To Otun and Gebouin beckoned he,To Tybalt of Rheims, and Milo the count."Guard the battle-field, vale, and mount--Leave the dead as ye see them lie;Watch, that nor lion nor beast come nigh,Nor on them varlet or squire lay hand;None shall touch them, 'tis my command,Till with God's good grace we return again."They answered lowly, in loving strain,"Great lord, fair sire, we will do your hest,"And a thousand warriors with them rest.CCThe Emperor bade his clarions ring,Marched with his host the noble king.They came at last on the heathens' trace,And all together pursued in chase;But the king of the falling eve was ware:He alighted down in a meadow fair,Knelt on the earth unto God to prayThat he make the sun in his course delay,Retard the night, and prolong the day.Then his wonted angel who with him spake,Swiftly to Karl did answer make,"Ride on! Light shall not thee forego;God seeth the flower of France laid low;Thy vengeance wreak on the felon crew."The Emperor sprang to his steed anew.CCIGod wrought for Karl a miracle:In his place in heaven the sun stood still.The heathens fled, the Franks pursued,And in Val Tenèbres beside them stood;Towards Saragossa the rout they drave,And deadly were the strokes they gave.They barred against them path and road;In front the water of Ebro flowed:Strong was the current, deep and large,Was neither shallop, nor boat, nor barge.With a cry to their idol Termagaunt,The heathens plunge, but with scanty vaunt.Encumbered with their armor's weight,Sank the most to the bottom, straight;Others floated adown the stream;And the luckiest drank their fill, I deem:All were in marvellous anguish drowned.Cry the Franks, "In Roland your fate ye found."CCIIAs he sees the doom of the heathen host,Slain are some and drowned the most,(Great spoil have won the Christian knights),The gentle king from his steed alights,And kneels, his thanks unto God to pour:The sun had set as he rose once more."It is time to rest," the Emperor cried,"And to Roncesvalles 'twere late to ride.Our steeds are weary and spent with pain;Strip them of saddle and bridle-rein,Free let them browse on the verdant mead.""Sire," say the Franks, "it were well indeed."CCIIIThe Emperor hath his quarters ta'en,And the Franks alight in the vacant plain;The saddles from their steeds they strip,And the bridle-reins from their heads they slip;They set them free on the green grass fair,Nor can they render them other care.On the ground the weary warriors slept;Watch nor vigil that night they kept.CCIVIn the mead the Emperor made his bed,With his mighty spear beside his head,Nor will he doff his arms to-night,But lies in his broidered hauberk white.Laced is his helm, with gold inlaid,Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade,Which changes thirty times a dayThe brightness of its varying ray.Nor may the lance unspoken beWhich pierced our Saviour on the tree;Karl hath its point--so God him graced--Within his golden hilt enchased.And for this honor and boon of heaven,The name Joyeuse to the sword was given;The Franks may hold it in memory.Thence came "Montjoie," their battle-cry,And thence no race with them may vie.CCVClear was the night, and the fair moon shone.But grief weighed heavy King Karl upon;He thought of Roland and Olivier,Of his Franks and every gallant peer,Whom he left to perish in Roncesvale,Nor can he stint but to weep and wail,Imploring God their souls to bless,--Till, overcome with long distress,He slumbers at last for heaviness.The Franks are sleeping throughout the meads;Nor rest on foot can the weary steeds--They crop the herb as they stretch them prone.--Much hath he learned who hath sorrow known.CCVIThe Emperor slumbered like man forespent,While God his angel Gabriel sentThe couch of Carlemaine to guard.All night the angel kept watch and ward,And in a vision to Karl presagedA coming battle against him waged.'Twas shown in fearful augury;The king looked upward to the sky--There saw he lightning, and hail, and storm,Wind and tempest in fearful form.A dread apparel of fire and flame,Down at once on his host they came.Their ashen lances the flames enfold,And their bucklers in to the knobs of gold;Grated the steel of helm and mail.Yet other perils the Franks assail,And his cavaliers are in deadly strait.Bears and lions to rend them wait,Wiverns, snakes and fiends of fire,More than a thousand griffins dire;Enfuried at the host they fly."Help us, Karl!" was the Franks' outcry,Ruth and sorrow the king beset;Fain would he aid, but was sternly let.A lion came from the forest path,Proud and daring, and fierce in wrath;Forward sprang he the king to grasp,And each seized other with deadly clasp;But who shall conquer or who shall fall,None knoweth. Nor woke the king withal.CCVIIAnother vision came him o'er:He was in France, his land, once more;In Aix, upon his palace stair,And held in double chain a bear.When thirty more from Arden ran,Each spake with voice of living man:"Release him, sire!" aloud they call;"Our kinsman shall not rest in thrall.To succor him our arms are bound."Then from the palace leaped a hound,On the mightiest of the bears he pressed,Upon the sward, before the rest.The wondrous fight King Karl may see,But knows not who shall victor be.These did the angel to Karl display;But the Emperor slept till dawning day.CCVIIIAt morning-tide when day-dawn broke,The Emperor from his slumber woke.His holy guardian, Gabriel,With hand uplifted sained him well.The king aside his armor laid,And his warriors all were disarrayed.Then mount they, and in haste they ride,Through lengthening path and highway wideUntil they see the doleful sightIn Roncesvalles, the field of fight.CCIXUnto Roncesvalles King Karl hath sped,And his tears are falling above the dead;"Ride, my barons, at gentle pace,--I will go before, a little space,For my nephew's sake, whom I fain would find.It was once in Aix, I recall to mind,When we met at the yearly festal-tide,--My cavaliers in vaunting viedOf stricken fields and joustings proud,--I heard my Roland declare aloud,In foreign land would he never fallBut in front of his peers and his warriors all,He would lie with head to the foeman's shore,And make his end like a conqueror."Then far as man a staff might fling,Clomb to a rising knoll the king.CCXAs the king in quest of Roland speeds,The flowers and grass throughout the meadsHe sees all red with our baron's blood,And his tears of pity break forth in flood.He upward climbs, till, beneath two trees,The dints upon the rock he sees.Of Roland's corse he was then aware;Stretched it lay on the green grass bare.No marvel sorrow the king oppressed;He alighted down, and in haste he pressed,Took the body his arms between,And fainted: dire his grief I ween.CCXIAs did reviving sense begin,Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin,The noble Geoffrey of Anjou,And his brother Henry nigh him drew.They made a pine-tree's trunk his stay;But he looked to earth where his nephew lay,And thus all gently made his dole:"My friend, my Roland, God guard thy soul!Never on earth such knight hath been,Fields of battle to fight and win.My pride and glory, alas, are gone!"He endured no longer; he swooned anon.CCXIIAs Karl the king revived once more,His hands were held by barons four.He saw his nephew, cold and wan;Stark his frame, but his hue was gone;His eyes turned inward, dark and dim;And Karl in love lamented him:"Dear Roland, God thy spirit restIn Paradise, amongst His blest!In evil hour thou soughtest Spain:No day shall dawn but sees my pain,And me of strength and pride bereft.No champion of mine honor left;Without a friend beneath the sky;And though my kindred still be nigh,Is none like thee their ranks among."With both his hands his beard he wrung.The Franks bewailed in unison;A hundred thousand wept like one.CCXIII"Dear Roland, I return againTo Laon, to mine own domain;Where men will come from many a land,And seek Count Roland at my hand.A bitter tale must I unfold--'In Spanish earth he lieth cold,'A joyless realm henceforth I hold,And weep with daily tears untold."CCXIV"Dear Roland, beautiful and brave,All men of me will tidings crave,When I return to La Chapelle.Oh, what a tale is mine to tell!That low my glorious nephew lies.Now will the Saxon foeman rise;Bulgar and Hun in arms will come,Apulia's power, the might of Rome,Palermitan and Afric bands,And men from fierce and distant lands.To sorrow sorrow must succeed;My hosts to battle who shall lead,When the mighty captain is overthrown?'Ah! France deserted now, and lone.Come, death, before such grief I bear."Once more his beard and hoary hairBegan he with his hands to tear;A hundred thousand fainted there.CCXV"Dear Roland, and was this thy fate?May Paradise thy soul await.Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane:I cannot live, so deep my pain.For me my kindred lie undone;And would to Holy Mary's Son,Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight,My soul may take its parting flight:My spirit would with theirs abide;My body rest their dust beside."With sobs his hoary beard he tore."Alas!" said Naimes, "for the Emperor."CCXVI"Sir Emperor," Geoffrey of Anjou said,"Be not by sorrow so sore misled.Let us seek our comrades throughout the plain,Who fell by the hands of the men of Spain;And let their bodies on biers be borne.""Yea," said the Emperor. "Sound your horn."CCXVIINow doth Count Geoffrey his bugle sound,And the Franks from their steeds alight to groundAs they their dead companions find,They lay them low on biers reclined;Nor prayers of bishop or abbot ceased,Of monk or canon, or tonsured priest.The dead they blessed in God's great name,Set myrrh and frankincense aflame.Their incense to the dead they gave,Then laid them, as beseemed the brave--What could they more?--in honored grave.CCXVIIIBut the king kept watch o'er Roland's bierO'er Turpin and Sir Olivier.He bade their bodies opened be,Took the hearts of the barons three,Swathed them in silken cerements light,Laid them in urns of the marble white.Their bodies did the Franks enfoldIn skins of deer, around them rolled;Laved them with spices and with wine,Till the king to Milo gave his sign,To Tybalt, Otun, and Gebouin;Their bodies three on biers they set,Each in its silken coverlet.CCXIXTo Saragossa did Marsil flee.He alighted beneath an olive tree,And sadly to his serfs he gaveHis helm, his cuirass, and his glaive,Then flung him on the herbage green;Came nigh him Bramimonde his queen.Shorn from his wrist was his right hand good;He swooned for pain and waste of blood.The queen, in anguish, wept and cried,With twenty thousand by her side.King Karl and gentle France they cursed;Then on their gods their anger burst.Unto Apollin's crypt they ran,And with revilings thus began:"Ah, evil-hearted god, to bringSuch dark dishonor on our king.Thy servants ill dost thou repay."His crown and wand they wrench away,They bind him to a pillar fast,And then his form to earth they cast,His limbs with staves they bruise and break:From Termagaunt his gem they take:Mohammed to a trench they bear,For dogs and boars to tread and tear.CCXXWithin his vaulted hall they boreKing Marsil, when his swoon was o'er;The hall with colored writings stained.And loud the queen in anguish plained,The while she tore her streaming hair,"Ah, Saragossa, reft and bare,Thou seest thy noble king o'erthrown!Such felony our gods have shown,Who failed in fight his aids to be.The Emir comes--a dastard he,Unless he will that race essay,Who proudly fling their lives away.Their Emperor of the hoary beard,In valor's desperation reared,Will never fly for mortal foe.Till he be slain, how deep my woe[2]!"[2]Here intervenes the episode of the great battle fought between Charlemagne and Baligant, Emir of Babylon, who had come, with a mighty army, to the succor of King Marsil his vassal. This episode has been suspected of being a later interpolation. The translation is resumed at the end of the battle, after the Emir had been slain by Charlemagne's own hand, and when the Franks enter Saragossa in pursuit of the Saracens.CCXXIFierce is the heat and thick the dust.The Franks the flying Arabs thrust.To Saragossa speeds their flight.The queen ascends a turret's height.The clerks and canons on her wait,Of that false law God holds in hate.Order or tonsure have they none.And when she thus beheld undoneThe Arab power, all disarrayed,Aloud she cried, "Mahound us aid!My king! defeated is our race,The Emir slain in foul disgrace."King Marsil turns him to the wall,And weeps--his visage darkened all.He dies for grief--in sin he dies,His wretched soul the demon's prize.CCXXIIDead lay the heathens, or turned to flight,And Karl was victor in the fight.Down Saragossa's wall he brake--Defence he knew was none to make.And as the city lay subdued,The hoary king all proudly stood,There rested his victorious powers.The queen hath yielded up the towers--Ten great towers and fifty small.Well strives he whom God aids withal.CCXXIIIDay passed; the shades of night drew on,And moon and stars refulgent shone.Now Karl is Saragossa's lord,And a thousand Franks, by the king's award,Roam the city, to search and seeWhere mosque or synagogue may be.With axe and mallet of steel in hand,They let nor idol nor image stand;The shrines of sorcery down they hew,For Karl hath faith in God the True,And will Him righteous service do.The bishops have the water blessed,The heathen to the font are pressed.If any Karl's command gainsay,He has him hanged or burned straightway.So a hundred thousand to Christ are won;But Bramimonde the queen aloneShall unto France be captive brought,And in love be her conversion wrought.CCXXIVNight passed, and came the daylight hours,Karl garrisoned the city's towers;He left a thousand valiant knights,To sentinel their Emperor's rights.Then all his Franks ascend their steeds,While Bramimonde in bonds he leads,To work her good his sole intent.And so, in pride and strength, they went;They passed Narbonne in gallant show,And reached thy stately walls, Bordeaux.There, on Saint Severin's altar high,Karl placed Count Roland's horn to lie,With mangons filled, and coins of gold,As pilgrims to this hour behold.Across Garonne he bent his way,In ships within the stream that lay,And brought his nephew unto Blaye,With his noble comrade, Olivier,And Turpin sage, the gallant peer.Of the marble white their tombs were made;In Saint Roman's shrine are the baron's laid,Whom the Franks to God and his saints commendAnd Karl by hill and vale doth wend,Nor stays till Aix is reached, and thereAlighteth on his marble stair.When sits he in his palace hall,He sends around to his judges all,From Frisia, Saxony, Loraine,From Burgundy and Allemaine,From Normandy, Brittaine, Poitou:The realm of France he searches through,And summons every sagest man.The plea of Ganelon then began.CCXXVFrom Spain the Emperor made retreat,To Aix in France, his kingly seat;And thither, to his halls, there came,Alda, the fair and gentle dame."Where is my Roland, sire," she cried,"Who vowed to take me for his bride?"O'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept;He tore his beard and loud he wept."Dear sister, gentle friend," he said,"Thou seekest one who lieth dead:I plight to thee my son instead,--Louis, who lord of my realm shall be.""Strange," she said, "seems this to me.God and his angels forbid that IShould live on earth if Roland die."Pale grew her cheek--she sank amain,Down at the feet of Carlemaine.So died she. God receive her soul!The Franks bewail her in grief and dole.CCXXVISo to her death went Alda fair.The king but deemed she fainted there.While dropped his tears of pity warm,He took her hands and raised her form.Upon his shoulder drooped her head,And Karl was ware that she was dead.When thus he saw that life was o'er,He summoned noble ladies four.Within a cloister was she borne;They watched beside her until morn;Beneath a shrine her limbs were laid;--Such honor Karl to Alda paid.CCXXVIIThe Emperor sitteth in Aix again,With Gan, the felon, in iron chain,The very palace walls beside,By serfs unto a stake was tied.They bound his hands with leathern thong,Beat him with staves and cordage strong;Nor hath he earned a better fee.And there in pain awaits his plea.CCXXVIII'Tis written in the ancient geste,How Karl hath summoned east and west.At La Chapelle assembled they;High was the feast and great the day--Saint Sylvester's, the legend ran.The plea and judgment then beganOf Ganelon, who the treason wrought,Now face to face with his Emperor brought.CCXXIX"Lords, my barons," said Karl the king,"On Gan be righteous reckoning:He followed in my host to Spain;Through him ten thousand Franks lie slainAnd slain was he, my sister's son,Whom never more ye look upon,With Olivier the sage and bold,And all my peers, betrayed for gold.""Shame befall me," said Gan, "if INow or ever the deed deny;Foully he wronged me in wealth and land,And I his death and ruin planned:Therein, I say, was treason none."They said, "We will advise thereon."CCXXXCount Gan to the Emperor's presence came,Fresh of hue and lithe of frame,With a baron's mien, were his heart but true.On his judges round his glance he threw,And on thirty kinsmen by his side,And thus, with mighty voice, he cried:"Hear me, barons, for love of God.In the Emperor's host was I abroad--Well I served him, and loyally,But his nephew, Roland, hated me:He doomed my doom of death and woe,That I to Marsil's court should go.My craft, the danger put aside,But Roland loudly I defied,With Olivier, and all their crew,As Karl, and these his barons, knew.Vengeance, not treason, have I wrought.""Thereon," they answered, "take we thought."CCXXXIWhen Ganelon saw the plea begin,He mustered thirty of his kin,With one revered by all the rest--Pinabel of Sorrence's crest.Well can his tongue his cause unfold,And a vassal brave his arms to hold."Thine aid," said Ganelon, "I claim;To rescue me from death and shame."Said Pinabel, "Rescued shalt thou be.Let any Frank thy death decree,And, wheresoe'er the king deems meet,I will him body to body greet,Give him the lie with my brand of steel."Ganelon sank at his feet to kneel.CCXXXIICome Frank and Norman to council in,Bavarian, Saxon, and Poitevin,With all the barons of Teuton blood;But the men of Auvergne are mild of mood--Their hearts are swayed unto Pinabel.Saith each to other, "Pause we well.Let us leave this plea, and the king imploreTo set Count Ganelon free once more.Henceforth to serve him in love and faith:Count Roland lieth cold in death:Not all the gold beneath the skyCan give him back to mortal eye;Such battle would but madness be."They all applauded his decree,Save Thierry--Geoffrey's brother he.CCXXXIIIThe barons came the king before."Fair Sire, we all thy grace implore,
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