| |
XCVI
King Marsil’s nephew, Aelroth his name, | |
| Vaunting in front of the battle came, | |
| Words of scorn on our Franks he cast: | |
| “Felon Franks, ye are met at last, | |
| By your chosen guardian betrayed and sold, | 5 |
| By your king left madly the pass to hold. | |
| This day shall France of her fame be shorn, | |
| And from Karl the mighty his right arm torn.” | |
| Roland heard him in wrath and pain!— | |
| He spurred his steed, he slacked the rein, | 10 |
| Drave at the heathen with might and main, | |
| Shattered his shield and his hauberk broke, | |
| Right to the breast-bone went the stroke; | |
| Pierced him, spine and marrow through, | |
| And the felon’s soul from his body flew. | 15 |
| A moment reeled he upon his horse, | |
| Then all heavily dropped the corse; | |
| Wrenched was his neck as on earth he fell, | |
| Yet would Roland scorn with scorn repel. | |
| “Thou dastard! never hath Karl been mad, | 20 |
| Nor love for treason or traitors had. | |
| To guard the passes he left us here, | |
| Like a noble king and chevalier. | |
| Nor shall France this day her fame forego. | |
| Strike in, my barons; the foremost blow | 25 |
| Dealt in the fight doth to us belong: | |
| We have the right and these dogs the wrong.” | |
| |
XCVII
A duke was there, named Falsaron, | |
| Of the land of Dathan and Abiron; | |
| Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; | 30 |
| More miscreant felon ye might not see. | |
| Huge of forehead, his eyes between, | |
| A span of a full half-foot, I ween. | |
| Bitter sorrow was his, to mark | |
| His nephew before him lie slain and stark. | 35 |
| Hastily came he from forth the press, | |
| Raising the war-cry of heathenesse. | |
| Braggart words from his lips were tost: | |
| “This day the honour of France is lost.” | |
| Hotly Sir Olivier’s anger stirs; | 40 |
| He pricked his steed with golden spurs, | |
| Fairly dealt him a baron’s blow, | |
| And hurled him dead from the saddle-bow. | |
| Buckler and mail were reft and rent, | |
| And the pennon’s flaps to his heart’s blood went. | 45 |
| He saw the miscreant stretched on earth: | |
| “Caitiff, thy threats are of little worth. | |
| On, Franks! the felons before us fall; | |
| Montjoie!” ’Tis the Emperor’s battle-call. | |
| |
XCVIII
A king was there of a strange countrie, | 50 |
| King Corsablis of Barbary; | |
| Before the Saracen van he cried, | |
| “Right well may we in this battle bide; | |
| Puny the host of the Franks I deem, | |
| And those that front us, of vile esteem. | 55 |
| Not one by succor of Karl shall fly; | |
| The day hath dawned that shall see them die.” | |
| Archbishop Turpin hath heard him well; | |
| No mortal hates he with hate so fell: | |
| He pricked with spurs of the fine gold wrought, | 60 |
| And in deadly passage the heathen sought; | |
| Shield and corselet were pierced and riven, | |
| And the lance’s point through his body driven; | |
| To and fro, at the mighty thrust, | |
| He reeled, and then fell stark in dust. | 65 |
| Turpin looked on him, stretched on ground. | |
| “Loud thou liest, thou heathen hound! | |
| King Karl is ever our pride and stay; | |
| Nor one of the Franks shall blench this day, | |
| But your comrades here on the field shall lie; | 70 |
| I bring you tidings: ye all shall die. | |
| Strike, Franks! remember your chivalry; | |
| First blows are ours, high God be praised!” | |
| Once more the cry, “Montjoie!” he raised. | |
| |
XCIX
Gerein to Malprimis of Brigal sped, | 75 |
| Whose good shield stood him no whit in stead; | |
| Its knob of crystal was cleft in twain, | |
| And one half fell on the battle plain. | |
| Right through the hauberk, and through the skin, | |
| He drave the lance to the flesh within; | 80 |
| Prone and sudden the heathen fell, | |
| And Satan carried his soul to hell. | |
| |
C
Anon, his comrade in arms, Gerier, | |
| Spurred at the Emir with levelled spear, | |
| Severed his shield and his mail apart,— | 85 |
| The lance went through them, to pierce his heart. | |
| Dead on the field at the blow he lay. | |
| Olivier said, “’Tis a stirring fray.” | |
| |
CI
At the Almasour’s shield Duke Samson rode— | |
| With blazon of flowers and gold it glowed; | 90 |
| But nor shield nor cuirass availed to save, | |
| When through heart and lungs the lance he drave. | |
| Dead lies he, weep him who list or no. | |
| The Archbishop said, “’Tis a baron’s blow.” | |
| |
CII
Anseis cast his bridle free; | 95 |
| At Turgis, Tortosa’s lord, rode he: | |
| Above the centre his shield he smote, | |
| Brake his mail with its double coat, | |
| Speeding the lance with a stroke so true, | |
| That the iron traversed his body through. | 100 |
| So lay he lifeless, at point of spear. | |
| Said Roland, “Struck like a cavalier.” | |
| |
CIII
Engelier, Gascon of Bordeaux, | |
| On his courser’s mane let the bridle flow; | |
| Smote Escremis, from Valtierra sprung, | 105 |
| Shattered the shield from his neck that swung; | |
| On through his hauberk’s vental pressed, | |
| And betwixt his shoulders pierced his breast. | |
| Forth from the saddle he cast him dead. | |
| “So shall ye perish all,” he said. | 110 |
| |
CIV
The heathen Estorgan was Otho’s aim: | |
| Right in front of his shield he came; | |
| Rent its colors of red and white, | |
| Pierced the joints of his harness bright, | |
| Flung him dead from his bridle rein. | 115 |
| Said Otho, “Thus shall ye all be slain.” | |
| |
CV
Berengier smote Estramarin, | |
| Planting his lance his heart within, | |
| Through shivered shield and hauberk torn. | |
| The Saracen to earth was borne | 120 |
| Amid a thousand of his train. | |
| Thus ten of the heathen twelve are slain; | |
| But two are left alive I wis— | |
| Chernubles and Count Margaris. | |
| |
CVI
Count Margaris was a valiant knight, | 125 |
| Stalwart of body, and lithe and light: | |
| He spurred his steed unto Olivier, | |
| Brake his shield at the golden sphere, | |
| Pushed the lance till it touched his side; | |
| God of his grace made it harmless glide. | 130 |
| Margaris rideth unhurt withal, | |
| Sounding his trumpet, his men to call. | |
| |
CVII
Mingled and marvellous grows the fray, | |
| And in Roland’s heart is no dismay. | |
| He fought with lance while his good lance stood; | 135 |
| Fifteen encounters have strained its wood. | |
| At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand | |
| His Durindana, his naked brand. | |
| He smote Chernubles’ helm upon, | |
| Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: | 140 |
| Down through his coif and his fell of hair, | |
| Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare, | |
| Down through his plated harness fine, | |
| Down through the Saracen’s chest and chine, | |
| Down through the saddle with gold inlaid, | 145 |
| Till sank in the living horse the blade, | |
| Severed the spine where no joint was found, | |
| And horse and rider lay dead on ground. | |
| “Caitiff, thou camest in evil hour; | |
| To save thee passeth Mohammed’s power. | 150 |
| Never to miscreants like to thee | |
| Shall come the guerdon of victory.” | |
| |
CVIII
Count Roland rideth the battle through, | |
| With Durindana, to cleave and hew; | |
| Havoc fell of the foe he made, | 155 |
| Saracen corse upon corse was laid, | |
| The field all flowed with the bright blood shed; | |
| Roland, to corselet and arm, was red— | |
| Red his steed to the neck and flank. | |
| Nor is Olivier niggard of blows as frank; | 160 |
| Nor to one of the peers be blame this day, | |
| For the Franks are fiery to smite and slay. | |
| “Well fought,” said Turpin, “our barons true!” | |
| And he raised the war-cry, “Montjoie!” anew. | |
| |
CIX
Through the storm of battle rides Olivier, | 165 |
| His weapon, the butt of his broken spear, | |
| Down upon Malseron’s shield he beat, | |
| Where flowers and gold emblazoned meet, | |
| Dashing his eyes from forth his head: | |
| Low at his feet were the brains bespread, | 170 |
| And the heathen lies with seven hundred dead! | |
| Estorgus and Turgin next he slew, | |
| Till the shaft he wielded in splinters flew. | |
| “Comrade!” said Roland, “what makest thou? | |
| Is it time to fight with a truncheon now? | 175 |
| Steel and iron such strife may claim; | |
| Where is thy sword, Hauteclere by name, | |
| With its crystal pommel and golden guard?” | |
| “Of time to draw it I stood debarred, | |
| Such stress was on me of smiting hard.” | 180 |
| |
CX
Then drew Sir Olivier forth his blade, | |
| As had his comrade Roland prayed. | |
| He proved it in knightly wise straightway, | |
| On the heathen Justin of Val Ferrée. | |
| At a stroke he severed his head in two, | 185 |
| Cleft him body and harness through; | |
| Down through the gold-incrusted selle, | |
| To the horse’s chine, the falchion fell: | |
| Dead on the sward lay man and steed. | |
| Said Roland, “My brother, henceforth, indeed | 190 |
| The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!” | |
| Around them the cry of “Montjoie!” arose. | |
| |
CXI
Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier | |
| Is mounted on his own Pass-deer: | |
| The reins they slacken, and prick full well | 195 |
| Against the Saracen Timozel. | |
| One smites his cuirass, and one his shield, | |
| Break in his body the spears they wield; | |
| They cast him dead on the fallow mould. | |
| I know not, nor yet to mine ear was told, | 200 |
| Which of the twain was more swift and bold. | |
| Then Espreveris, Borel’s son, | |
| By Engelier unto death was done. | |
| Archbishop Turpin slew Siglorel, | |
| The wizard, who erst had been in hell, | 205 |
| By Jupiter thither in magic led. | |
| “Well have we ’caped,” the archbishop said: | |
| “Crushed is the caitiff,” Count Roland replies, | |
| “Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!” | |
| |
CXII
Furious waxeth the fight, and strange; | 210 |
| Frank and heathen their blows exchange; | |
| While these defend, and those assail, | |
| And their lances broken and bloody fail. | |
| Ensign and pennon are rent and cleft, | |
| And the Franks of their fairest youth bereft, | 215 |
| Who will look on mother or spouse no more, | |
| Or the host that waiteth the gorge before. | |
| Karl the Mighty may weep and wail; | |
| What skilleth sorrow, if succour fail? | |
| An evil service was Gan’s that day, | 220 |
| When to Saragossa he bent his way, | |
| His faith and kindred to betray. | |
| But a doom thereafter awaited him— | |
| Amerced in Aix, of life and limb, | |
| With thirty of his kin beside, | 225 |
| To whom was hope of grace denied. | |
| |
CXIII
King Almaris with his band, the while, | |
| Wound through a marvellous strait defile, | |
| Where doth Count Walter the heights maintain | |
| And the passes that lie at the gates of Spain. | 230 |
| “Gan, the traitor, hath made of us,” | |
| Said Walter, “a bargain full dolorous.” | |
| |
CXIV
King Almaris to the mount hath clomb, | |
| With sixty thousand of heathendom. | |
| In deadly wrath on the Franks they fall, | 235 |
| And with furious onset smite them all: | |
| Routed, scattered or slain they lie. | |
| Then rose the wrath of Count Walter high; | |
| His sword he drew, his helm he laced, | |
| Slowly in front of the line he paced, | 240 |
| And with evil greeting his foeman faced. | |
| |
CXV
Right on his foemen doth Walter ride, | |
| And the heathen assail him on every side; | |
| Broken down was his shield of might, | |
| Bruised and pierced was his hauberk white; | 245 |
| Four lances at once did his body wound: | |
| No longer bore he—four times he swooned; | |
| He turned perforce from the field aside, | |
| Slowly adown the mount he hied, | |
| And aloud to Roland for succour cried. | 250 |
| |
CXVI
Wild and fierce is the battle still: | |
| Roland and Olivier fight their fill; | |
| The Archbishop dealeth a thousand blows | |
| Nor knoweth one of the peers repose; | |
| The Franks are fighting commingled all, | 255 |
| And the foe in hundreds and thousands fall; | |
| Choice have they none but to flee or die, | |
| Leaving their lives despighteously. | |
| Yet the Franks are reft of their chivalry, | |
| Who will see nor parent nor kindred fond, | 260 |
| Nor Karl who waits them the pass beyond. | |
| |
CXVII
Now a wondrous storm o’er France hath passed, | |
| With thunder-stroke and whirlwind’s blast; | |
| Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came, | |
| Sharp and sudden the lightning’s flame; | 265 |
| And an earthquake ran—the sooth I say, | |
| From Besançon city to Wissant Bay; | |
| From Saint Michael’s Mount to thy shrine, Cologne, | |
| House unrifted was there none. | |
| And a darkness spread in the noontide high— | 270 |
| No light, save gleams from the cloven sky. | |
| On all who saw came a mighty fear. | |
| They said, “The end of the world is near.” | |
| Alas, they spake but with idle breath,— | |
| ’Tis the great lament for Roland’s death. | 275 |
| |
CXVIII
Dread are the omens and fierce the storm, | |
| Over France the signs and wonders swarm: | |
| From noonday on to the vesper hour, | |
| Night and darkness alone have power; | |
| Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed, | 280 |
| Who sees it ranks him among the dead. | |
| Well may they suffer such pain and woe, | |
| When Roland, captain of all, lies low. | |
| Never on earth hath his fellow been, | |
| To slay the heathen or realms to win. | 285 |
| |
CXIX
Stern and stubborn is the fight; | |
| Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite; | |
| Nor is there one but whose blade is red, | |
| “Montjoie!” is ever their war-cry dread. | |
| Through the land they ride in hot pursuit, | 290 |
| And the heathens feel ’tis a fierce dispute. | |
| |
CXX
In wrath and anguish, the heathen race | |
| Turn in flight from the field their face; | |
| The Franks as hotly behind them strain. | |
| Then might ye look on a cumbered plain: | 295 |
| Saracens stretched on the green grass bare, | |
| Helms and hauberks that shone full fair, | |
| Standards riven and arms undone: | |
| So by the Franks was the battle won. | |
| The foremost battle that then befell— | 300 |
| O God, what sorrow remains to tell! | |
| |
CXXI
With heart and prowess the Franks have stood; | |
| Slain was the heathen multitude; | |
| Of a hundred thousand survive not two: | |
| The archbishop crieth, “O staunch and true! | 305 |
| Written it is in the Frankish geste, | |
| That our Emperor’s vassals shall bear them best.” | |
| To seek their dead through the field they press, | |
| And their eyes drop tears of tenderness: | |
| Their hearts are turned to their kindred dear. | 310 |
| Marsil the while with his host is near. | |
| |
CXXII
Distraught was Roland with wrath and pain; | |
| Distraught were the twelve of Carlemaine— | |
| With deadly strokes the Franks have striven, | |
| And the Saracen horde to the slaughter given; | 315 |
| Of a hundred thousand escaped but one— | |
| King Margaris fled from the field alone; | |
| But no disgrace in his flight he bore— | |
| Wounded was he by lances four. | |
| To the side of Spain did he take his way, | 320 |
| To tell King Marsil what chanced that day. | |
| |
CXXIII
Alone King Margaris left the field, | |
| With broken spear and piercèd shield, | |
| Scarce half a foot from the knob remained, | |
| And his brand of steel with blood was stained; | 325 |
| On his body were four lance wounds to see: | |
| Were he Christian, what a baron he! | |
| He sped to Marsil his tale to tell; | |
| Swift at the feet of the king he fell: | |
| “Ride, sire, on to the field forthright, | 330 |
| You will find the Franks in an evil plight; | |
| Full half and more of their host lies slain, | |
| And sore enfeebled who yet remain; | |
| Nor arms have they in their utmost need: | |
| To crush them now were an easy deed,” | 335 |
| Marsil listened with heart aflame. | |
| Onward in search of the Franks he came. | |
| |
CXXIV
King Marsil on through the valley sped, | |
| With the mighty host he has marshallèd. | |
| Twice ten battalions the king arrayed: | 340 |
| Helmets shone, with their gems displayed. | |
| Bucklers and braided hauberks bound, | |
| Seven thousand trumpets the onset sound; | |
| Dread was the clangor afar to hear. | |
| Said Roland, “My brother, my Olivier, | 345 |
| Gan the traitor our death hath sworn, | |
| Nor may his treason be now forborne. | |
| To our Emperor vengeance may well belong,— | |
| To us the battle fierce and strong; | |
| Never hath mortal beheld the like. | 350 |
| With my Durindana I trust to strike; | |
| And thou, my comrade, with thy Hauteclere: | |
| We have borne them gallantly otherwhere. | |
| So many fields ’twas ours to gain, | |
| They shall sing against us no scornful strain.” | 355 |
| |
CXXV
As the Franks the heathen power descried, | |
| Filling the champaign from side to side, | |
| Loud unto Roland they made their call, | |
| And to Olivier and their captains all, | |
| Spake the archbishop as him became: | 360 |
| “O barons, think not one thought of shame; | |
| Fly not, for sake of our God I pray. | |
| That on you be chaunted no evil lay. | |
| Better by far on the field to die; | |
| For in sooth I deem that our end is nigh. | 365 |
| But in holy Paradise ye shall meet, | |
| And with the innocents be your seat.” | |
| The Franks exult his words to hear, | |
| And the cry “Montjoie;” resoundeth clear. | |
| |
CXXVI
King Marsil on the hill-top bides, | 370 |
| While Grandonie with his legion rides. | |
| He nails his flag with three nails of gold: | |
| “Ride ye onwards, my barons bold.” | |
| Then loud a thousand clarions rang. | |
| And the Franks exclaimed as they heard the clang— | 375 |
| “O God, our Father, what cometh on! | |
| Woe that we ever saw Ganelon: | |
| Foully, by treason, he us betrayed.” | |
| Gallantly then the archbishop said, | |
| “Soldiers and lieges of God are ye, | 380 |
| And in Paradise shall your guerdon be. | |
| To lie on its holy flowerets fair, | |
| Dastard never shall enter there.” | |
| Say the Franks, “We will win it every one.” | |
| The archbishop bestoweth his benison. | 385 |
| Proudly mounted they at his word, | |
| And, like lions chafed, at the heathen spurred. | |
| |
CXXVII
Thus doth King Marsil divide his men: | |
| He keeps around him battalions ten. | |
| As the Franks the other ten descry, | 390 |
| “What dark disaster,” they said, “is nigh? | |
| What doom shall now our peers betide?” | |
| Archbishop Turpin full well replied. | |
| “My cavaliers, of God the friends, | |
| Your crown of glory to-day He sends, | 395 |
| To rest on the flowers of Paradise, | |
| That never were won by cowardice.” | |
| The Franks made answer, “No cravens we, | |
| Nor shall we gainsay God’s decree; | |
| Against the enemy yet we hold,— | 400 |
| Few may we be, but staunch and bold.” | |
| Their spurs against the foe they set, | |
| Frank and paynim—once more they met. | |
| |
CXXVIII
A heathen of Saragossa came. | |
| Full half the city was his to claim. | 405 |
| It was Climorin: hollow of heart was he, | |
| He had plighted with Gan in perfidy, | |
| What time each other on mouth they kissed, | |
| And he gave him his helm and amethyst. | |
| He would bring fair France from her glory down | 410 |
| And from the Emperor wrest his crown. | |
| He sate upon Barbamouche, his steed, | |
| Than hawk or swallow more swift in speed. | |
| Pricked with the spur, and the rein let flow, | |
| To strike at the Gascon of Bordeaux, | 415 |
| Whom shield nor cuirass availed to save. | |
| Within his harness the point he drave, | |
| The sharp steel on through his body passed, | |
| Dead on the field was the Gascon cast. | |
| Said Climorin, “Easy to lay them low: | 420 |
| Strike in, my pagans, give blow for blow.” | |
| For their champion slain, the Franks cry woe. | |
| |
CXXIX
Sir Roland called unto Olivier, | |
| “Sir Comrade, dead lieth Engelier; | |
| Braver knight had we none than he.” | 425 |
| “God grant,” he answered, “revenge to me.” | |
| His spurs of gold to his horse he laid, | |
| Grasping Hauteclere with his bloody blade. | |
| Climorin smote he, with stroke so fell, | |
| Slain at the blow was the infidel. | 430 |
| Whose soul the Enemy bore away. | |
| Then turned he, Alphaien, the duke, to slay; | |
| From Escababi the head he shore, | |
| And Arabs seven to the earth he bore. | |
| Saith Roland, “My comrade is much in wrath; | 435 |
| Won great laud by my side he hath; | |
| Us such prowess to Karl endears. | |
| Fight on, fight ever, my cavaliers.” | |
| |
CXXX
Then came the Saracen Valdabrun, | |
| Of whom King Marsil was foster-son. | 440 |
| Four hundred galleys he owned at sea, | |
| And of all the mariners lord was he. | |
| Jerusalem erst he had falsely won, | |
| Profaned the temple of Solomon, | |
| Slaying the patriarch at the fount. | 445 |
| ’Twas he who in plight unto Gan the count, | |
| His sword with a thousand coins bestowed. | |
| Gramimond named he the steed he rode, | |
| Swifter than ever was falcon’s flight; | |
| Well did he prick with the sharp spurs bright, | 450 |
| To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight. | |
| Buckler and cuirass at once he rent, | |
| And his pennon’s flaps through his body sent; | |
| Dead he cast him, with levelled spear. | |
| “Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near.” | 455 |
| The Franks cry woe for their cavalier. | |
| |
CXXXI
When Roland was ware of Samson slain, | |
| Well may you weet of his bitter pain. | |
| With bloody spur he his steed impelled, | |
| While Durindana aloft he held, | 460 |
| The sword more costly than purest gold; | |
| And he smote, with passion uncontrolled, | |
| On the heathen’s helm, with its jewelled crown,— | |
| Through head, and cuirass, and body down, | |
| And the saddle embossed with gold, till sank | 465 |
| The griding steel in the charger’s flank; | |
| Blame or praise him, the twain he slew. | |
| “A fearful stroke!” said the heathen crew. | |
| “I shall never love you,” Count Roland cried. | |
| “With you are falsehood and evil pride.” | 470 |
| |
CXXXII
From Afric’s shore, of Afric’s brood, | |
| Malquiant, son of King Malcus stood; | |
| Wrought of the beaten gold, his vest | |
| Flamed to the sun over all the rest. | |
| Saut-perdu hath he named his horse, | 475 |
| Fleeter than ever was steed in course; | |
| He smote Anseis upon the shield, | |
| Cleft its vermeil and azure field, | |
| Severed the joints of his hauberk good, | |
| In his body planted both steel and wood. | 480 |
| Dead he lieth, his day is o’er, | |
| And the Franks the loss of their peer deplore. | |
| |
CXXXIII
Turpin rideth the press among; | |
| Never such priest the Mass had sung, | |
| Nor who hath such feats of his body done. | 485 |
| “God send thee,” he said, “His malison! | |
| For the knight thou slewest my heart is sore.” | |
| He sets the spur to his steed once more, | |
| Smites the shield in Toledo made, | |
| And the heathen low on the sward is laid. | 490 |
| |
CXXXIV
Forth came the Saracen Grandonie, | |
| Bestriding his charger Marmorie; | |
| He was son unto Cappadocia’s king, | |
| And his steed was fleeter than bird on wing. | |
| He let the rein on his neck decline, | 495 |
| And spurred him hard against Count Gerein, | |
| Shattered the vermeil shield he bore, | |
| And his armor of proof all open tore; | |
| In went the pennon, so fierce the shock, | |
| And he cast him, dead, on a lofty rock; | 500 |
| Then he slew his comrade in arms, Gerier, | |
| Guy of Saint Anton and Berengier. | |
| Next lay the great Duke Astor prone. | |
| The Lord of Valence upon the Rhone. | |
| Among the heathen great joy he cast. | 505 |
| Say the Franks, lamenting, “We perish fast.” | |
| |
CXXXV
Count Roland graspeth his bloody sword: | |
| Well hath he heard how the Franks deplored; | |
| His heart is burning within his breast. | |
| “God’s malediction upon thee rest! | 510 |
| Right dearly shalt thou this blood repay.” | |
| His war-horse springs to the spur straightway, | |
| And they come together—go down who may. | |
| |
CXXXVI
A gallant captain was Grandonie, | |
| Great in arms and in chivalry. | 515 |
| Never, till then, had he Roland seen, | |
| But well he knew him by form and mien, | |
| By the stately bearing and glance of pride, | |
| And a fear was on him he might not hide. | |
| Fain would he fly, but it skills not here; | 520 |
| Roland smote him with stroke so sheer, | |
| That it cleft the nasal his helm beneath, | |
| Slitting nostril and mouth and teeth, | |
| Cleft his body and mail of plate, | |
| And the gilded saddle whereon he sate, | 525 |
| Deep the back of the charger through: | |
| Beyond all succor the twain he slew. | |
| From the Spanish ranks a wail arose, | |
| And the Franks exult in their champion’s blows. | |
| |
CXXXVII
The battle is wondrous yet, and dire, | 530 |
| And the Franks are cleaving in deadly ire; | |
| Wrists and ribs and chines afresh, | |
| And vestures, in to the living flesh; | |
| On the green grass streaming the bright blood ran, | |
| “O mighty country, Mahound thee ban! | 535 |
| For thy sons are strong over might of man.” | |
| And one and all unto Marsil cried, | |
| “Hither, O king, to our succor ride.” | |
| |
CXXXVIII
Marvellous yet is the fight around, | |
| The Franks are thrusting with spears embrowned; | 540 |
| And great the carnage there to ken, | |
| Slain and wounded and bleeding men, | |
| Flung, each by other, on back or face. | |
| Hold no more can the heathen race. | |
| They turn and fly from the field apace; | 545 |
| The Franks as hotly pursue in chase. | |
| |
CXXXIX
Knightly the deeds by Roland done, | |
| Respite or rest for his Franks is none; | |
| Hard they ride on the heathen rear, | |
| At trot or gallop in full career. | 550 |
| With crimson blood are their bodies stained, | |
| And their brands of steel are snapped or strained; | |
| And when the weapons their hands forsake, | |
| Then unto trumpet and horn they take. | |
| Serried they charge, in power and pride; | 555 |
| And the Saracens cry—“May ill betide | |
| The hour we came on this fatal track!” | |
| So on our host do they turn the back, | |
| The Christians cleaving them as they fled, | |
| Till to Marsil stretcheth the line of dead. | 560 |
| |
CXL
King Marsil looks on his legions strown, | |
| He bids the clarion blast be blown, | |
| With all his host he onward speeds: | |
| Abîme the heathen his vanguard leads. | |
| No felon worse in the host than he, | 565 |
| Black of hue as a shrivelled pea; | |
| He believes not in Holy Mary’s Son; | |
| Full many an evil deed hath done. | |
| Treason and murder he prizeth more | |
| Than all the gold of Galicia’s shore; | 570 |
| Men never knew him to laugh nor jest, | |
| But brave and daring among the best— | |
| Endeared to the felon king therefor; | |
| And the dragon flag of his race he bore. | |
| The archbishop loathed him—full well he might,— | 575 |
| And as he saw him he yearned to smite, | |
| To himself he speaketh, low and quick, | |
| “This heathen seems much a heretic; | |
| I go to slay him, or else to die, | |
| For I love not dastards or dastardy.” | 580 |
| |
CXLI
The archbishop began the fight once more; | |
| He rode the steed he had won of yore, | |
| When in Denmark Grossaille the king he slew. | |
| Fleet the charger, and fair to view: | |
| His feet were small and fashioned fine, | 585 |
| Long the flank, and high the chine, | |
| Chest and croup full amply spread, | |
| With taper ear and tawny head, | |
| And snow-white tail and yellow mane: | |
| To seek his peer on earth were vain. | 590 |
| The archbishop spurred him in fiery haste, | |
| And, on the moment Abîme he faced, | |
| Came down on the wondrous shield the blow, | |
| The shield with amethysts all aglow, | |
| Carbuncle and topaz, each priceless stone; | 595 |
| ’Twas once the Emir Galafir’s own; | |
| A demon gave it in Metas vale; | |
| But when Turpin smote it might nought avail— | |
| From side to side did his weapon trace, | |
| And he flung him dead in an open space. | 600 |
| Say the Franks, “Such deeds beseem the brave. | |
| Well the archbishop his cross can save.” | |
| |
CXLII
Count Roland Olivier bespake: | |
| “Sir comrade, dost thou my thought partake? | |
| A braver breathes not this day on earth | 605 |
| Than our archbishop in knightly worth. | |
| How nobly smites he with lance and blade!” | |
| Saith Olivier, “Yea, let us yield him aid;” | |
| And the Franks once more the fight essayed. | |
| Stern and deadly resound the blows. | 610 |
| For the Christians, alas, ’tis a tale of woes! | |
| |
CXLIII
The Franks of France of their arms are reft, | |
| Three hundred blades alone are left. | |
| The glittering helms they smite and shred, | |
| And cleave asunder full many a head; | 615 |
| Through riven helm and hauberk rent, | |
| Maim head and foot and lineament. | |
| “Disfigured are we,” the heathens cry. | |
| “Who guards him not hath but choice to die.” | |
| Right unto Marsil their way they take. | 620 |
| “Help, O king, for your people’s sake!” | |
| King Marsil heard their cry at hand, | |
| “Mahound destroy thee, O mighty land; | |
| Thy race came hither to crush mine own. | |
| What cities wasted and overthrown, | 625 |
| Doth Karl of the hoary head possess! | |
| Rome and Apulia his power confess, | |
| Constantinople and Saxony; | |
| Yet better die by the Franks than flee. | |
| On, Saracens! recreant heart be none; | 630 |
| If Roland live, we are all foredone.” | |
| |
CXLIV
Then with the lance did the heathens smite | |
| On shield and gleaming helmet bright; | |
| Of steel and iron arose the clang, | |
| Towards heaven the flames and sparkles sprang; | 635 |
| Brains and blood on the champaign flowed; | |
| But on Roland’s heart is a dreary load, | |
| To see his vassals lie cold in death; | |
| His gentle France he remembereth, | |
| And his uncle, the good King Carlemaine; | 640 |
| And the spirit within him groans for pain. | |
| |
CXLV
Count Roland entered within the prease, | |
| And smote full deadly without surcease; | |
| While Durindana aloft he held, | |
| Hauberk and helm he pierced and quelled, | 645 |
| Intrenching body and hand and head. | |
| The Saracens lie by the hundred dead, | |
| And the heathen host is discomfited. | |
| |
CXLVI
Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere, | |
| Brandished on high his sword Hauteclere— | 650 |
| Save Durindana, of swords the best. | |
| To the battle proudly he him addressed. | |
| His arms with the crimson blood were dyed. | |
| “God, what a vassal!” Count Roland cried. | |
| “O gentle baron, so true and leal, | 655 |
| This day shall set on our love the seal! | |
| The Emperor cometh to find us dead, | |
| For ever parted and severèd. | |
| France never looked on such woful day; | |
| Nor breaths a Frank but for us will pray,— | 660 |
| From the cloister cells shall the orisons rise, | |
| And our souls find rest in Paradise.” | |
| Olivier heard him, amid the throng, | |
| Spurred his steed to his side along. | |
| Saith each to other, “Be near me still; | 665 |
| We will die together, if God so will.” | |
| |
CXLVII
Roland and Olivier then are seen | |
| To lash and hew with their falchions keen; | |
| With his lance the archbishop thrusts and slays, | |
| And the numbers slain we may well appraise; | 670 |
| In charter and writ is the tale expressed— | |
| Beyond four thousand, saith the geste. | |
| In four encounters they sped them well: | |
| Dire and grievous the fifth befell. | |
| The cavaliers of the Franks are slain | 675 |
| All but sixty, who yet remain; | |
| God preserved them, that ere they die, | |
| They may sell their lives full hardily. | |
| |
