| |
LXXXVI
“In mighty strength are the heathen crew,” | |
| Olivier said, “and our Franks are few; | |
| My comrade, Roland, sound on your horn; | |
| Karl will hear and his host return.” | |
| “I were mad,” said Roland, “to do such deed; | 5 |
| Lost in France were my glory’s meed. | |
| My Durindana shall smite full hard, | |
| And her hilt be red to the golden guard. | |
| The heathen felons shall find their fate; | |
| Their death, I swear, in the pass they wait.” | 10 |
| |
LXXXVII
“O Roland, sound on your ivory horn, | |
| To the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne: | |
| He will bid his legions backward bend, | |
| And all his barons their aid will lend.” | |
| “Now God forbid it, for very shame, | 15 |
| That for me my kindred were stained with blame, | |
| Or that gentle France to such vileness fell: | |
| This good sword that hath served me well, | |
| My Durindana such strokes shall deal, | |
| That with blood encrimsoned shall be the steel. | 20 |
| By their evil star are the felons led; | |
| They shall all be numbered among the dead.” | |
| |
LXXXVIII
“Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast! | |
| Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed, | |
| And the Franks return on their path full fast.” | 25 |
| “I will not sound on mine ivory horn: | |
| It shall never be spoken of me in scorn, | |
| That for heathen felons one blast I blew; | |
| I may not dishonor my lineage true. | |
| But I will strike, ere this fight be o’er, | 30 |
| A thousand strokes and seven hundred more, | |
| And my Durindana shall drip with gore. | |
| Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave | |
| The Saracens flock but to find a grave.” | |
| |
LXXXIX
“I deem of neither reproach nor stain. | 35 |
| I have seen the Saracen host of Spain, | |
| Over plain and valley and mountain spread, | |
| And the regions hidden beneath their tread. | |
| Countless the swarm of the foe, and we | |
| A marvellous little company.” | 40 |
| Roland answered him, “All the more | |
| My spirit within me burns therefore. | |
| God and his angles of heaven defend | |
| That France through me from her glory bend. | |
| Death were better than fame laid low. | 45 |
| Our Emperor loveth a downright blow.” | |
| |
XC
Roland is daring and Olivier wise, | |
| Both of marvellous high emprise; | |
| On their chargers mounted, and girt in mail, | |
| To the death in battle they will not quail. | 50 |
| Brave are the counts, and their words are high, | |
| And the Pagans are fiercely riding nigh. | |
| “See, Roland, see them, how close they are, | |
| The Saracen foemen, and Karl how far! | |
| Thou didst disdain on thy horn to blow. | 55 |
| Were the king but here we were spared this woe. | |
| Look up through Aspra’s dread defile, | |
| Where standeth our doomed rear-guard the while; | |
| They will do their last brave feat this day, | |
| No more to mingle in mortal fray.” | 60 |
| “Hush!” said Roland, “the craven tale— | |
| Foul fall who carries a heart so pale; | |
| Foot to foot shall we hold the place, | |
| And rain our buffets and blows apace.” | |
| |
XCI
When Roland felt that the battle came, | 65 |
| Lion or leopard to him were tame; | |
| He shouted aloud to his Franks, and then | |
| Called to his gentle compeer agen. | |
| “My friend, my comrade, my Olivier, | |
| The Emperor left us his bravest here; | 70 |
| Twice ten thousand he set apart, | |
| And he knew among them no dastard heart. | |
| For his lord the vassal must bear the stress | |
| Of the winter’s cold and the sun’s excess— | |
| Peril his flesh and his blood thereby: | 75 |
| Strike thou with thy good lance-point and I, | |
| With Durindana, the matchless glaive | |
| Which the king himself to my keeping gave, | |
| That he who wears it when I lie cold | |
| May say ’twas the sword of a vassal bold.” | 80 |
| |
XCII
Archbishop Turpin, above the rest, | |
| Spurred his steed to a jutting crest. | |
| His sermon thus to the Franks he spake:— | |
| “Lords, we are here for our monarch’s sake; | |
| Hold we for him, though our death should come; | 85 |
| Fight for the succor of Christendom. | |
| The battle approaches—ye know it well, | |
| For ye see the ranks of the infidel. | |
| Cry mea culpa, and lowly kneel; | |
| I will assoil you, your souls to heal. | 90 |
| In death ye are holy martyrs crowned.” | |
| The Franks alighted, and knelt on ground; | |
| In God’s high name the host he blessed, | |
| And for penance gave them—to smite their best. | |
| |
XCIII
The Franks arose from bended knee, | 95 |
| Assoiled, and from their sins set free; | |
| The archbishop blessed them fervently: | |
| Then each one sprang on his bounding barb, | |
| Armed and laced in knightly garb, | |
| Apparelled all for the battle line. | 100 |
| At last said Roland, “Companion mine, | |
| Too well the treason is now displayed, | |
| How Ganelon hath our band betrayed. | |
| To him the gifts and the treasures fell; | |
| But our Emperor will avenge us well. | 105 |
| King Marsil deemeth us bought and sold; | |
| The price shall be with our good swords told.” | |
| |
XCIV
Roland rideth the passes through, | |
| On Veillantif, his charger true; | |
| Girt in his harness that shone full fair, | 110 |
| And baron-like his lance he bare. | |
| The steel erect in the sunshine gleamed, | |
| With the snow-white pennon that from it streamed; | |
| The golden fringes beat on his hand. | |
| Joyous of visage was he, and bland, | 115 |
| Exceeding beautiful of frame; | |
| And his warriors hailed him with glad acclaim. | |
| Proudly he looked on the heathen ranks, | |
| Humbly and sweetly upon his Franks. | |
| Courteously spake he, in words of grace— | 120 |
| “Ride, my barons, at gentle pace. | |
| The Saracens here to their slaughter toil: | |
| Reap we, to-day, a glorious spoil, | |
| Never fell to Monarch of France the like.” | |
| At his words, the hosts are in act to strike. | 125 |
| |
XCV
Said Olivier, “Idle is speech, I trow; | |
| Thou didst disdain on thy horn to blow. | |
| Succor of Karl is far apart; | |
| Our strait he knows not, the noble heart: | |
| Not to him nor his host be blame; | 130 |
| Therefore, barons, in God’s good name, | |
| Press ye onward, and strike your best, | |
| Make your stand on this field to rest; | |
| Think but of blows, both to give and take, | |
| Never the watchword of Karl forsake.” | 135 |
| Then from the Franks resounded high— | |
| “Montjoie!” Whoever had heard that cry | |
| Would hold remembrance of chivalry. | |
| Then ride they—how proudly, O God, they ride!— | |
| With rowels dashed in their coursers’ side. | 140 |
| Fearless, too, are their paynim foes. | |
| Frank and Saracen, thus they close. | |
| |
