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From the Chanson de Roland
THE ARCHBISHOP, whom God loved in high degree, | |
| Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; | |
| And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, | |
| And a faint shudder through his members ran. | |
| Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; | 5 |
| Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, | |
| Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, | |
| And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. | |
| Then raising in his arms the man of God, | |
| Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. | 10 |
| “Rest, Sire,” he cried,—“for rest thy suffering needs.” | |
| The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds! | |
| The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! | |
| But death steals on,—there is no hope of life; | |
| In paradise, where Almoners live again, | 15 |
| There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain.” | |
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| Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! | |
| That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. | |
| When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, | |
| “O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! | 20 |
| Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! | |
| Beloved France! how have the good and brave | |
| Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!” | |
| Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er | |
| His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, | 25 |
| “My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe! | |
| Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;— | |
| Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee! | |
| Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, | |
| The Hebrew Prophets from the second death.” | 30 |
| Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, | |
| He went, and one by one unaided drew | |
| To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore;— | |
| No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, | |
| He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he | 35 |
| Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. | |
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| The Archbishop, then, on whom God’s benison rest, | |
| Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;— | |
| His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, | |
| And many a wound his swollen visage bore. | 40 |
| Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, | |
| Death comes apace,—no hope of cure relieves. | |
| Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed | |
| That God, who for our sins was mortal made, | |
| Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, | 45 |
| In paradise would place him by his side. | |
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| Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, | |
| In battle great and eke great orison;— | |
| ’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; | |
| God grant to him his holy benison. | 50 |
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