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CLXXXIX
ROLAND feeleth his death is near, | |
| His brain is oozing by either ear. | |
| For his peers he prayed—God keep them well; | |
| Invoked the angel Gabriel. | |
| That none reproach him, his horn he clasped; | 5 |
| His other hand Durindana grasped; | |
| Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent, | |
| Across the march of Spain he went, | |
| Where, on a mound, two trees between, | |
| Four flights of marble steps were seen; | 10 |
| Backward he fell, on the field to lie; | |
| And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh. | |
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CXC
High were the mountains and high the trees, | |
| Bright shone the marble terraces; | |
| On the green grass Roland hath swooned away. | 15 |
| A Saracen spied him where he lay: | |
| Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead, | |
| His face and body with blood bespread. | |
| To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,— | |
| He was fair and strong and of courage tried, | 20 |
| In pride and wrath he was overbold,— | |
| And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold. | |
| “The nephew of Karl is overthrown! | |
| To Araby bear I this sword, mine own.” | |
| He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew, | 25 |
| Roland returned to his sense anew. | |
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CXCI
He saw the Saracen seize his sword; | |
| His eyes he oped, and he spake one word— | |
| “Thou art not one of our band, I trow,” | |
| And he clutched the horn he would ne’er forego; | 30 |
| On the golden crest he smote him full, | |
| Shattering steel and bone and skull, | |
| Forth from his head his eyes he beat, | |
| And cast him lifeless before his feet. | |
| “Miscreant, makest thou then so free, | 35 |
| As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me? | |
| Who hears it will deem thee a madman born; | |
| Behold the mouth of mine ivory horn | |
| Broken for thee, and the gems and gold | |
| Around its rim to earth are rolled.” | 40 |
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CXCII
Roland feeleth his eyesight reft, | |
| Yet he stands erect with what strength is left; | |
| From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled, | |
| But his Durindana all bare he held. | |
| In front a dark brown rock arose— | 45 |
| He smote upon it ten grievous blows. | |
| Grated the steel as it struck the flint, | |
| Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint. | |
| “Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid! | |
| Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade, | 50 |
| I may no longer thy guardian be! | |
| What fields of battle I won with thee! | |
| What realms and regions ’twas ours to gain, | |
| Now the lordship of Carlemaine! | |
| Never shalt thou possessor know | 55 |
| Who would turn from face of mortal foe; | |
| A gallant vassal so long thee bore, | |
| Such as France the free shall know no more.” | |
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CXCIII
He smote anew on the marble stair. | |
| It grated, but breach nor notch was there. | 60 |
| When Roland found that it would not break, | |
| Thus began he his plaint to make. | |
| “Ah, Durindana, how fair and bright | |
| Thou sparklest, flaming against the light! | |
| When Karl in Maurienne valley lay, | 65 |
| God sent his angel from heaven to say— | |
| ‘This sword shall a valorous captain’s be,’ | |
| And he girt it, the gentle king, on me. | |
| With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine, | |
| Provence I conquered and Aquitaine; | 70 |
| I conquered Normandy the free, | |
| Anjou, and the marches of Brittany; | |
| Romagna I won, and Lombardy, | |
| Bavaria, Flanders from side to side, | |
| And Burgundy, and Poland wide; | 75 |
| Constantinople affiance vowed, | |
| And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed; | |
| Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland’s plain, | |
| Of England made he his own domain. | |
| What mighty regions I won of old, | 80 |
| For the hoary-headed Karl to hold! | |
| But there presses on me a grievous pain, | |
| Lest thou in heathen hands remain. | |
| O God our Father, keep France from stain!” | |
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CXCIV
His strokes once more on the brown rock fell, | 85 |
| And the steel was bent past words to tell; | |
| Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain, | |
| Erect it leaped to the sky again. | |
| When he failed at the last to break his blade, | |
| His lamentation he inly made. | 90 |
| “Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword, | |
| What relics lie in thy pommel stored! | |
| Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil’s blood, | |
| Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed, | |
| Fragment of holy Mary’s vest. | 95 |
| ’Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest; | |
| Thee should the hand of a Christian serve | |
| One who would never in battle swerve. | |
| What regions won I with thee of yore, | |
| The empire now of Karl the hoar! | 100 |
| Rich and mighty is he therefore.” | |
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CXCV
That death was on him he knew full well; | |
| Down from his head to his heart it fell. | |
| On the grass beneath a pine-tree’s shade, | |
| With face to earth, his form he laid, | 105 |
| Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, | |
| And turned his face to the heathen horde. | |
| Thus hath he done the sooth to show, | |
| That Karl and his warriors all may know, | |
| That the gentle count a conqueror died. | 110 |
| Mea Culpa full oft he cried; | |
| And, for all his sins, unto God above, | |
| In sign of penance, he raised his glove. | |
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CXCVI
Roland feeleth his hour at hand; | |
| On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land. | 115 |
| With one hand beats he upon his breast: | |
| “In thy sight, Ò God, be my sins confessed. | |
| From my hour of birth, both the great and small, | |
| Down to this day, I repent of all.” | |
| As his glove he raises to God on high, | 120 |
| Angels of heaven descend him nigh. | |
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CXCVII
Beneath a pine was his resting-place, | |
| To the land of Spain hath he turned his face, | |
| On his memory rose full many a thought— | |
| Of the lands he won and the fields he fought; | 125 |
| Of his gentle France, of his kin and line; | |
| Of his nursing father, King Karl benign;— | |
| He may not the tear and sob control, | |
| Nor yet forgets he his parting soul. | |
| To God’s compassion he makes his cry: | 130 |
| “O Father true, who canst not lie, | |
| Who didst Lazarus raise unto life agen, | |
| And Daniel shield in the lions’ den; | |
| Shield my soul from its peril, due | |
| For the sins I sinned my lifetime through.” | 135 |
| He did his right-hand glove uplift— | |
| Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift; | |
| Then drooped his head upon his breast, | |
| And with claspèd hands he went to rest. | |
| God from on high sent down to him | 140 |
| One of his angel Cherubim— | |
| Saint Michael of Peril of the sea, | |
| Saint Gabriel in company— | |
| From heaven they came for that soul of price, | |
| And they bore it with them to Paradise. | 145 |
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