| |
CLXXXII
THE HEATHENS fly in rage and dread; | |
| To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped; | |
| Nor can Count Roland make pursuit— | |
| Slain in his steed, and he rests afoot; | |
| To succor Turpin he turned in haste, | 5 |
| The golden helm from his head unlaced, | |
| Ungirt the corselet from his breast, | |
| In stripes divided his silken vest; | |
| The archbishop’s wounds hath he staunched and bound, | |
| His arms around him softly wound; | 10 |
| On the green sward gently his body laid, | |
| And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed: | |
| “For a little space, let me take farewell; | |
| Our dear companions, who round us fell, | |
| I go to seek; if I haply find, | 15 |
| I will place them at thy feet reclined.” | |
| “Go,” said Turpin; “the field is thine— | |
| To God the glory, ’tis thine and mine.” | |
| |
CLXXXIII
Alone seeks Roland the field of fight, | |
| He searcheth vale, the searcheth height. | 20 |
| Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low, | |
| And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux, | |
| Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; | |
| Otho he found, and Berengier; | |
| Samson the duke, and Anseis bold, | 25 |
| Gerard of Roussillon, the old. | |
| Their bodies, one after one, he bore, | |
| And laid them Turpin’s feet before. | |
| The archbishop saw them stretched arow, | |
| Nor can he hinder the tears that flow; | 30 |
| In benediction his hands he spread: | |
| “Alas! for your doom, my lords,” he said, | |
| “That God in mercy your souls may give, | |
| On the flowers of Paradise to live; | |
| Mine own death comes, with anguish sore | 35 |
| That I see mine Emperor never more.” | |
| |
CLXXXIV
Once more to the field doth Roland wend, | |
| Till he findeth Olivier his friend; | |
| The lifeless form to his heart he strained, | |
| Bore him back with what strength remained, | 40 |
| On a buckler laid him, beside the rest, | |
| The archbishop assoiled them all, and blessed. | |
| Their dole and pity anew find vent, | |
| And Roland maketh his fond lament: | |
| “My Olivier, my chosen one, | 45 |
| Thou wert the noble Duke Renier’s son, | |
| Lord of the March unto Rivier vale. | |
| To shiver lance and shatter mail, | |
| The brave in council to guide and cheer, | |
| To smite the miscreant foe with fear,— | 50 |
| Was never on earth such cavalier.” | |
| |
CLXXXV
Dead around him his peers to see, | |
| And the man he loved so tenderly, | |
| Fast the tears of Count Roland ran, | |
| His visage discolored became, and wan, | 55 |
| He swooned for sorrow beyond control. | |
| “Alas,” said Turpin, “how great thy dole!” | |
| |
CLXXXVI
To look on Roland swooning there, | |
| Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare; | |
| He stretched his hand, the horn he took,— | 60 |
| Through Roncesvalles there flowed a brook,— | |
| A draught to Roland he thought to bring; | |
| But his steps were feeble and tottering, | |
| Spent his strength, from waste of blood,— | |
| He struggled on for scarce a rood, | 65 |
| When sank his heart, and drooped his frame, | |
| And his mortal anguish on him came. | |
| |
CLXXXVII
Roland revived from his swoon again; | |
| On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain; | |
| He looked on high, and he looked below, | 70 |
| Till, a space his other companions fro, | |
| He beheld the baron, stretched on sward, | |
| The archbishop, vicar of God our Lord. | |
| Mea Culpa was Turpin’s cry, | |
| While he raised his hands to heaven on high, | 75 |
| Imploring Paradise to gain. | |
| So died the soldier of Carlemaine,— | |
| With word or weapon, to preach or fight, | |
| A champion over of Christian right, | |
| And a deadly foe of the infidel. | 80 |
| God’s benediction within him dwell! | |
| |
CLXXXVIII
When Roland saw him stark on earth | |
| (His very vitals were bursting forth, | |
| And his brain was oozing from out his head), | |
| He took the fair white hands outspread, | 85 |
| Crossed and clasped them upon his breast, | |
| And thus his plaint to the dead addressed,— | |
| So did his country’s law ordain:— | |
| “Ah, gentleman of noble strain, | |
| I trust thee unto God the True, | 90 |
| Whose service never man shall do | |
| With more devoted heart and mind: | |
| To guard the faith, to win mankind, | |
| From the apostles’ days till now, | |
| Such prophet never rose as thou. | 95 |
| Nor pain or torment thy soul await, | |
| But of Paradise the open gate.” | |
| |
