| |
CLXIV
WHEN 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. | 5 |
| Fight, my Franks, ’tis my last command.” | |
| Said Olivier, “Shame is the laggard’s due.” | |
| And at his word they engage anew. | |
| |
CLXV
When the heathen saw that the Franks were few, | |
| Heart and strength from the sight they drew; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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.” | 20 |
| |
CLXVI
Olivier 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, | 25 |
| 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 boast | |
| To wife or dame on thy natal coast, | 30 |
| Of one denier from the Emperor won, | |
| Or of scathe to me or to others done.” | |
| Then Roland’s aid he called upon. | |
| |
CLXVII
Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; | |
| The more to vengeance he hasteneth; | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| Corpse upon corpse, each other by, | |
| Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet | |
| Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget— | |
| “Montjoie!” he shouted, shrill and clear; | |
| Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, | 45 |
| “Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; | |
| This day of dolor shall us divide.” | |
| |
CLXVIII
Roland looked Olivier in the face,— | |
| Ghastly paleness was there to trace; | |
| Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow, | 50 |
| And rain in showers to the earth below. | |
| “O God!” said Roland, “is this the end | |
| Of all thy prowess, my gentle friend? | |
| Nor know I whither to bear me now: | |
| On earth shall never be such as thou. | 55 |
| 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. | |
| |
CLXIX
See Roland there on his charger swooned, | 60 |
| 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; | 65 |
| 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? | 70 |
| 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.” | 75 |
| “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. | |
| |
CLXX
Olivier feeleth his throe begin; | 80 |
| His eyes are turning his head within, | |
| Sight and hearing alike are gone. | |
| He alights and couches the earth upon; | |
| His Mea Culpa aloud he cries, | |
| And his hands in prayer unto God arise, | 85 |
| 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,— | 90 |
| So passed Sir Olivier away. | |
| Roland was left to weep alone: | |
| Man so woful hath ne’er been known. | |
| |
CLXXI
When Roland saw that life had fled, | |
| And with face to earth his comrade dead, | 95 |
| He thus bewept him, soft and still: | |
| “Ah, friend, thy prowess wrought thee ill! | |
| So many days and years gone by | |
| We lived together, thou and I: | |
| And thou hast never done me wrong, | 100 |
| 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. | 105 |
| |
CLXXII
When passed away had Roland’s swoon, | |
| With sense restored, he saw full soon | |
| What ruin lay beneath his view. | |
| His Franks have perished all save two— | |
| The archbishop and Walter of Hum alone. | 110 |
| From the mountain-side hath Walter flown, | |
| Where he met in battle the bands of Spain, | |
| And the heathen won and his men were slain | |
| In his own despite to the vale he came; | |
| Called unto Roland, his aid to claim. | 115 |
| “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. | 120 |
| 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.” | 125 |
| Count Roland heard as he spake the word, | |
| Pricked his steed, and anear him spurred. | |
| |
CLXXIII
“Walter,” said Roland, “thou hadst affray | |
| With the Saracen foe on the heights to-day. | |
| Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be: | 130 |
| 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,— | 135 |
| Armenians, Turks, and the giant brood | |
| Of Balisa, famous for hardihood, | |
| Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet, | |
| Such host in battle ’twas ours to meet; | |
| Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,— | 140 |
| 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, | 145 |
| That from every part the bright blood flows, | |
| And feebler ever my body grows. | |
| I am dying fast, I am well aware: | |
| The liegeman I, and claim thy care. | |
| If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive, | 150 |
| 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. | |
| |
CLXXIV
In Roland’s sorrow his wrath arose, | 155 |
| Hotly the 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. | 160 |
| 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. | |
| |
CLXXV
Count Roland in sooth is a noble peer; | 165 |
| 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 steeds a thousand Saracens leap, | 170 |
| 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, | 175 |
| 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! | 180 |
| |
CLXXVI
When 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— | 185 |
| Brave warrior yields with life alone.” | |
| He drew Almace’s burnished steel, | |
| A thousand ruthless blows to deal. | |
| In after time, the Emperor said | |
| He found four hundred round him spread,— | 190 |
| 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; | 195 |
| He little weets who knows it not. | |
| |
CLXXVII
Count 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; | 200 |
| 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. | 205 |
| 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, | 210 |
| The hills re-echo, the vales reply. | |
| It is now no jest for the heathen band. | |
| “Karl!” they cry, “it is Karl at hand!” | |
| |
CLXXVIII
They said, “’Tis the Emperor’s advance, | |
| We hear the trumpets resound of France. | 215 |
| 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; | 220 |
| With serried power they on him press, | |
| And dire in sooth is the count’s distress. | |
| |
CLXXIX
When Roland saw his coming foes, | |
| All proud and stern his spirit rose; | |
| Alive he shall never be brought to yield: | 225 |
| 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; | 230 |
| “These are the trumpets of France we hear— | |
| It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near.” | |
| |
CLXXX
Count Roland never hath loved the base, | |
| Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,— | |
| Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,— | 235 |
| 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. | 240 |
| 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.” | |
| |
CLXXXI
The heathens said, “We were born to shame. | 245 |
| 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. | 250 |
| 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, | 255 |
| 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, | 260 |
| Beneath his rider they cast him, dead; | |
| Then from the field have the heathen flown: | |
| Roland remaineth, on foot, alone. | |
| |
