| |
Translated by Harriet W. Preston
AT Arles in the Carlovingian days, | |
| By the swift Rhône water, | |
| A hundred thousand on either side, | |
| Christian and Saracen fought till the tide | |
| Ran red with the slaughter. | 5 |
| |
| May God forefend such another flood | |
| Of direful war! | |
| The Count of Orange on that black morn | |
| By seven great kings was overborne, | |
| And fled afar, | 10 |
| |
| Whenas he would avenge the death | |
| Of his nephew slain. | |
| Now are the kings upon his trail; | |
| He slays as he flies; like fiery hail | |
| His sword-strokes rain. | 15 |
| |
| He hies him into the Aliscamp, 1 | |
| No shelter there! | |
| A Moorish hive is the home of the dead, | |
| And hard he spurs his goodly steed | |
| In his despair. | 20 |
| |
| Over the mountain and over the moor | |
| Flies Count Guillaume; | |
| By sun and by moon he ever sees | |
| The coming cloud of his enemies; | |
| Thus gains his home, | 25 |
| |
| Halts, and lifts at the castle gate | |
| A mighty cry, | |
| Calling his haughty wife by name, | |
| “Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame, | |
| Open! ’T is I! | 30 |
| |
| “Open the gate to thy Guillaume, | |
| Ta’en is the city | |
| By thirty thousand Saracen, | |
| Lo, they are hunting me to my den; | |
| Guibour, have pity!” | 35 |
| |
| But the countess from the rampart cried, | |
| “Nay, chevalier, | |
| I will not open my gates to thee; | |
| For, save the women and babes,” said she, | |
| “Whom I shelter here, | 40 |
| |
| “And the priest who keeps the lamps alight, | |
| Alone am I. | |
| My brave Guillaume and his barons all | |
| Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall, | |
| And scorn to fly!” | 45 |
| |
| “Guibour, Guibour, it is I myself! | |
| And those men of mine, | |
| (God rest their souls!) they are dead,” he cried, | |
| “Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea-tide. | |
| I have seen the shine | 50 |
| |
| “Of Arles on fire in the dying day; | |
| I have heard one shriek | |
| Go up from all the arenas where | |
| The nuns disfigure their bodies fair | |
| Lest the Marran wreak | 55 |
| |
| “His brutal will. Avignon’s self | |
| Will fall to-day! | |
| Sweetheart, I faint; O, let me in | |
| Before the savage Mograbin | |
| Fall on his prey!” | 60 |
| |
| “I swear thou liest,” cried Guibour, | |
| “Thou base deceiver! | |
| Thou art perchance thyself a Moor | |
| Who whinest thus outside my door, | |
| My Guillaume, never! | 65 |
| |
| “Guillaume to look on burning towns | |
| And fired by—thee! | |
| Guillaume to see his comrades die, | |
| Or borne to sore captivity, | |
| And then to flee! | 70 |
| |
| “He knows not flight! He is a tower | |
| Where others fly! | |
| The heathen spoiler’s doom is sure, | |
| The virgin’s honor aye secure, | |
| When he is by!” | 75 |
| |
| Guillaume leapt up, his bridle set | |
| Between his teeth, | |
| While tears of love and tears of shame | |
| Under his burning eyelids came, | |
| And hard drew breath | 80 |
| |
| And seized his sword and plunged his spurs | |
| Right deep, and so | |
| A storm, a demon, did descend | |
| To roar and smite, to rout and rend | |
| The Moorish foe. | 85 |
| |
| As when one shakes an almond-tree, | |
| The heathen slain | |
| Upon the tender grass fall thick | |
| Until the flying remnant seek | |
| Their ships again. | 90 |
| |
| Four kings with his own hand he slew, | |
| And when once more | |
| He turned him homeward from the fight, | |
| Upon the drawbridge long in sight | |
| Stood brave Guibour. | 95 |
| |
| “By the great gateway enter in, | |
| My lord!” she cried, | |
| And might no further welcome speak, | |
| But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek, | |
| With tears of pride. | 100 |
