The Harvard Classics, Volume 49, Epic and Saga - With Introductions And Notes
Author: Various
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_In the year 778 A.D., Charles the Great, King of the Franks, returned from a military expedition into Spain, whither he had been led by opportunities offered through dissensions among the Saracens who then dominated that country. On the 15th of August, while his army was marching through the passes of the Pyrenees, his rear-guard was attacked and annihilated by the Basque inhabitants of the mountains, in the valley of Roncesvaux About this disaster many popular songs, it is supposed, soon sprang up; and the chief hero whom they celebrated was Hrodland, Count of the Marches of Brittany.

There are indications that the earliest of these songs arose among the Breton followers of Hrodland or Roland; but they spread to Maine, to Anjou, to Normandy, until the theme became national. By the latter part of the eleventh century, when the form of the "Song of Roland" which we possess was probably composed, the historical germ of the story had almost disappeared under the mass of legendary accretion. Charlemagne, who was a man of thirty-six at the time of the actual Roncesvaux incident, has become in the poem an old man with a flowing white beard, credited with endless conquests; the Basques have disappeared, and the Saracens have taken their place; the defeat is accounted for by the invention of the treachery of Ganelon; the expedition of 777-778 has become a campaign of seven years; Roland is made the nephew of Charlemagne, leader of the twelve peers, and is provided with a faithful friend Oliver, and a betrothed, Alda.

The poem is the first of the great French heroic poems known as "chansons de geste." It is written in stanzas of various length, bound together by the vowel-rhyme known as assonance. It is not possible to reproduce effectively this device in English, and the author of the present translation has adopted what is perhaps the nearest equivalent—the romantic measure of Coleridge and Scott.

Simple almost to bareness in style, without subtlety or high imagination, the Song of Roland is yet not without grandeur; and its patriotic ardor gives it a place as the earliest of the truly national poems of the modern world._






The king our Emperor Carlemaine, Hath been for seven full years in Spain. From highland to sea hath he won the land; City was none might his arm withstand; Keep and castle alike went down— Save Saragossa, the mountain town. The King Marsilius holds the place, Who loveth not God, nor seeks His grace: He prays to Apollin, and serves Mahound; But he saved him not from the fate he found.


In Saragossa King Marsil made His council-seat in the orchard shade, On a stair of marble of azure hue. There his courtiers round him drew; While there stood, the king before, Twenty thousand men and more. Thus to his dukes and his counts he said, "Hear ye, my lords, we are sore bested. The Emperor Karl of gentle France Hither hath come for our dire mischance. Nor host to meet him in battle line, Nor power to shatter his power, is mine. Speak, my sages; your counsel lend: My doom of shame and death forefend." But of all the heathens none spake word Save Blancandrin, Val Fonde's lord.


Blancandrin was a heathen wise, Knightly and valiant of enterprise, Sage in counsel his lord to aid; And he said to the king, "Be not dismayed: Proffer to Karl, the haughty and high, Lowly friendship and fealty; Ample largess lay at his feet, Bear and lion and greyhound fleet. Seven hundred camels his tribute be, A thousand hawks that have moulted free. Let full four hundred mules be told, Laden with silver enow and gold For fifty waggons to bear away; So shall his soldiers receive their pay. Say, too long hath he warred in Spain,— Let him turn to France—to his Aix—again. At Saint Michael's feast you will thither speed, Bend your heart to the Christian creed, And his liegeman be in duty and deed. Hostages he may demand Ten or twenty at your hand. We will send him the sons whom our wives have nursed; Were death to follow, mine own the first. Better by far that they there should die Than be driven all from our land to fly, Flung to dishonor and beggary."


"Yea," said Blancandrin, "by this right hand, And my floating beard by the free wind fanned, Ye shall see the host of the Franks disband And hie them back into France their land; Each to his home as beseemeth well, And Karl unto Aix—to his own Chapelle. He will hold high feast on Saint Michael's day And the time of your tryst shall pass away. Tale nor tidings of us shall be; Fiery and sudden, I know, is he: He will smite off the heads of our hostages all: Better, I say, that their heads should fall Than we the fair land of Spain forego, And our lives be laden with shame and woe." "Yea," said the heathens, "it may be so."


King Marsil's council is over that day, And he called to him Clarin of Balaguet, Estramarin, and Eudropin his peer, Bade Garlon and Priamon both draw near, Machiner and his uncle Maheu—with these Joimer and Malbien from overseas, Blancandrin for spokesman,—of all his men He hath summoned there the most felon ten. "Go ye to Carlemaine," spake their liege,— "At Cordres city he sits in siege,— While olive branches in hand ye press, Token of peace and of lowliness. Win him to make fair treaty with me, Silver and gold shall your guerdon be, Land and lordship in ample fee." "Nay," said the heathens, "enough have we."


So did King Marsil his council end. "Lords," he said, "on my errand wend; While olive branches in hand ye bring, Say from me unto Karl the king, For sake of his God let him pity show; And ere ever a month shall come and go, With a thousand faithful of my race, I will follow swiftly upon his trace, Freely receive his Christian law, And his liegemen be in love and awe. Hostages asks he? it shall be done." Blancandrin answered, "Your peace is won."


Then King Marsil bade be dight Ten fair mules of snowy white, Erst from the King of Sicily brought Their trappings with silver and gold inwrought— Gold the bridle, and silver the selle. On these are the messengers mounted well; And they ride with olive boughs in hand, To seek the Lord of the Frankish land. Well let him watch; he shall be trepanned.



King Karl is jocund and gay of mood, He hath Cordres city at last subdued; Its shattered walls and turrets fell By Catapult and mangonel; Not a heathen did there remain But confessed him Christian or else was slain. The Emperor sits in an orchard wide, Roland and Olivier by his side: Samson the duke, and Anseis proud; Geoffrey of Anjou, whose arm was vowed The royal gonfalon to rear; Gerein, and his fellow in arms, Gerier; With them many a gallant lance, Full fifteen thousand of gentle France. The cavaliers sit upon carpets white, Playing at tables for their delight: The older and sager sit at the chess, The bachelors fence with a light address. Seated underneath a pine, Close beside an eglantine, Upon a throne of beaten gold, The lord of ample France behold; White his hair and beard were seen, Fair of body, and proud of mien, Who sought him needed not ask, I ween. The ten alight before his feet, And him in all observance greet.


Blancandrin first his errand gave, And he said to the king, "May God you save, The God of glory, to whom you bend! Marsil, our king, doth his greeting send. Much hath he mused on the law of grace, Much of his wealth at your feet will place— Bears and lions, and dogs of chase, Seven hundred camels that bend the knee, A thousand hawks that have moulted free, Four hundred mules, with silver and gold Which fifty wains might scantly hold, So shall you have of the red bezants To pay the soldiers of gentle France. Overlong have you dwelt in Spain,— To Aix, your city, return again. The lord I serve will thither come, Accept the law of Christendom, With clasped hands your liegeman be, And hold his realm of you in fee." The Emperor raised his hands on high, Bent and bethought him silently.


The Emperor bent his head full low; Never hasty of speech I trow; Leisurely came his words, and slow, Lofty his look as he raised his head: "Thou hast spoken well," at length he said. "King Marsil was ever my deadly foe, And of all these words, so fair in show, How may I the fulfilment know?" "Hostages will you?" the heathen cried, "Ten or twenty, or more beside. I will send my son, were his death at hand, With the best and noblest of all our land; And when you sit in your palace halls, And the feast of St. Michael of Peril falls, Unto the waters will come our king, Which God commanded for you to spring; There in the laver of Christ be laved." "Yea!" said Karl, "he may yet be saved."


Fair and bright did the evening fall: The ten white mules were stabled in stall; On the sward was a fair pavilion dressed, To give to the Saracens cheer of the best; Servitors twelve at their bidding bide, And they rest all night until morning tide. The Emperor rose with the day-dawn clear, Failed not Matins and Mass to hear, Then betook him beneath a pine, Summoned his barons by word and sign: As his Franks advise will his choice incline.


Under a pine is the Emperor gone, And his barons to council come forth anon: Archbishop Turpin, Duke Ogier bold With his nephew Henry was Richard the old, Gascony's gallant Count Acelin, Tybalt of Rheims, and Milo his kin, Gerein and his brother in arms, Gerier, Count Roland and his faithful fere, The gentle and valiant Olivier: More than a thousand Franks of France And Ganelon came, of woful chance; By him was the deed of treason done. So was the fatal consult begun.


"Lords my barons," the Emperor said, "King Marsil to me hath his envoys sped. He proffers treasure surpassing bounds, Bears and lions, and leashed hounds; Seven hundred camels that bend the knee; A thousand hawks that have moulted free; Four hundred mules with Arab gold, Which fifty wains might scantly hold. But he saith to France must I wend my way: He will follow to Aix with brief delay, Bend his heart unto Christ's belief, And hold his marches of me in fief; Yet I know not what in his heart may lie." "Beware! beware!" was the Franks' outcry.


Scarce his speech did the Emperor close, When in high displeasure Count Roland rose, Fronted his uncle upon the spot, And said, "This Marsil, believe him not: Seven full years have we warred in Spain; Commibles and Noples for you have I ta'en, Tudela and Sebilie, cities twain; Valtierra I won, and the land of Pine, And Balaguet fell to this arm of mine. King Marsil hath ever a traitor been: He sent of his heathens, at first fifteen. Bearing each one on olive bough, Speaking the self-same words as now. Into council with your Franks you went, Lightly they flattered your heart's intent; Two of your barons to him you sent,— They were Basan and Basil, the brother knights: He smote off their heads on Haltoia's heights. War, I say!—end as you well began, Unto Saragossa lead on your van; Were the siege to last your lifetime through, Avenge the nobles this felon slew."


The Emperor bent him and mused within, Twisted his beard upon lip and chin, Answered his nephew nor good nor ill; And the Franks, save Ganelon, all were still: Hastily to his feet he sprang, Haughtily his words outrang:— "By me or others be not misled,— Look to your own good ends," he said. "Since now King Marsil his faith assures, That, with hands together clasped in yours, He will henceforth your vassal be, Receive the Christian law as we, And hold his realm of you in fee, Whoso would treaty like this deny, Recks not, sire, by what death we die: Good never came from counsel of pride,— List to the wise, and let madmen bide."


Then his form Duke Naimes upreared, White of hair and hoary of beard. Better vassal in court was none. "You have hearkened," he said, "unto Ganelon. Well hath Count Ganelon made reply; Wise are his words, if you bide thereby. King Marsil is beaten and broken in war; You have captured his castles anear and far, With your engines shattered his walls amain, His cities burned, his soldiers slain: Respite and ruth if he now implore, Sin it were to molest him more. Let his hostages vouch for the faith he plights, And send him one of your Christian knights. 'Twere time this war to an ending came." "Well saith the duke!" the Franks exclaim.


"Lords my barons, who then were best In Saragossa to do our hest?" "I," said Naimes, "of your royal grace, Yield me in token your glove and mace." "Nay—my sagest of men art thou: By my beard upon lip and chin I vow Thou shalt never depart so far from me: Sit thee down till I summon thee."


"Lords my barons, whom send we, then, To Saragossa, the Saracen den?" "I," said Roland, "will blithely go." "Nay," said Olivier; "nay, not so. All too fiery of mood thou art; Thou wouldst play, I fear me, a perilous part. I go myself, if the king but will." "I command," said Karl, "that ye both be still. Neither shall be on this errand bound, Nor one of the twelve—my peers around; So by my blanching beard I swear." The Franks are abashed and silent there.


Turpin of Rheims from amid the ranks Said: "Look, my liege, on your faithful Franks: Seven full years have they held this land, With pain and peril on every hand. To me be the mace and the glove consigned; I will go this Saracen lord to find, And freely forth will I speak my mind." The Emperor answered in angry plight, "Sit thee down on that carpet white; Speak not till I thy speech invite."


"My cavaliers," he began anew, "Choose of my marches a baron true, Before King Marsil my best to do." "Be it, then," said Roland, "my stepsire Gan, In vain ye seek for a meeter man." The Franks exclaim, "He is worth the trust, So it please the king it is right and just." Count Ganelon then was with anguish wrung, His mantle of fur from his neck he flung, Stood all stark in his silken vest, And his grey eyes gleamed with a fierce unrest Fair of body and large of limb, All in wonderment gazed on him. "Thou madman," thus he to Roland cried, "What may this rage against me betide? I am thy stepsire, as all men know, And thou doom'st me on hest like this to go; But so God my safe return bestow, I promise to work thee scathe and strife Long as thou breathest the breath of life." "Pride and folly!" said Roland, then. "Am I known to wreck of the threats of men? But this is work for the sagest head. So it please the king, I will go instead."


"In my stead?—never, of mine accord. Thou art not my vassal nor I thy lord. Since Karl commands me his hest to fill, Unto Saragossa ride forth I will; Yet I fear me to wreak some deed of ill, Thereby to slake this passion's might." Roland listened, and laughed outright.


At Roland's laughter Count Ganelon's pain Was as though his bosom were cleft in twain. He turned to his stepson as one distraught: "I do not love thee," he said, "in aught; Thou hast false judgment against me wrought. O righteous Emperor, here I stand To execute your high command."


"Unto Saragossa I needs must go;— Who goeth may never return, I know;— Yet withal, your sister is spouse of mine, And our son—no fairer of mortal line— Baldwin bids to be goodly knight; I leave him my honors and fiefs of right. Guard him—no more shall he greet my sight" Saith Karl, "Thou art over tender of heart. Since I command it, thou shalt depart."


"Fair Sir Gan," the Emperor spake, "This my message to Marsil take: He shall make confession of Christ's belief, And I yield him, full half of Spain in fief; In the other half shall Count Roland reign. If he choose not the terms I now ordain, I will march unto Saragossa's gate, Besiege and capture the city straight, Take and bind him both hands and feet, Lead him to Aix, to my royal seat, There to be tried and judged and slain, Dying a death of disgrace and pain. I have sealed the scroll of my command. Deliver it into the heathen's hand."


"Gan," said the Emperor, "draw thou near: Take my glove and my baton here; On thee did the choice of thy fellows fall." "Sire, 'twas Roland who wrought it all. I shall not love him while life may last, Nor Olivier his comrade fast, Nor the peers who cherish and prize him so,— Gage of defiance to all I throw." Saith Karl, "Thine anger hath too much sway. Since I ordain it, thou must obey." "I go, but warranty none have I That I may not like Basil and Basan die."


The Emperor reached him his right-hand glove; Gan for his office had scanty love; As he bent him forward, it fell to ground: "God, what is this?" said the Franks around; "Evil will come of this quest we fear." "My lords," said Ganelon, "ye shall hear."


"Sire," he said, "let me wend my way; Since go I must, what boots delay?" Said the king, "In Jesus' name and mine!" And his right hand sained him with holy sign. Then he to Ganelon's grasp did yield His royal mace and missive sealed.


Home to his hostel is Ganelon gone, His choicest of harness and arms to don; On his charger Taschebrun to mount and ride, With his good sword Murgleis girt at side. On his feet are fastened the spurs of gold, And his uncle Guinemer doth his stirrup hold. Then might ye look upon cavaliers A-many round him who spake in tears. "Sir," they said, "what a woful day! Long were you ranked in the king's array, A noble vassal as none gainsay. For him who doomed you to journey hence Carlemagne's self shall be scant defence; Foul was the thought in Count Roland's mind, When you and he are so high affined. Sir," they said, "let us with you wend." "Nay," said Ganelon, "God forefend. Liefer alone to my death I go, Than such brave bachelors perish so. Sirs, ye return into France the fair; Greeting from me to my lady bear, To my friend and peer Sir Pinabel, And to Baldwin, my son, whom ye all know well,— Cherish him, own him your lord of right." He hath passed on his journey and left their sight.



Ganelon rides under olives high, And comes the Saracen envoys nigh. Blancandrin lingers until they meet, And in cunning converse each other greet. The Saracen thus began their parle: "What a man, what a wondrous man is Karl! Apulia—Calabria—all subdued, Unto England crossed he the salt sea rude, Won for Saint Peter his tribute fee; But what in our marches maketh he?" Ganelon said, "He is great of heart, Never man shall fill so mighty a part."


Said Blancandrin, "Your Franks are high of fame, But your dukes and counts are sore to blame. Such counsel to their lord they give, Nor he nor others in peace may live." Ganelon answered, "I know of none, Save Roland, who thus to his shame hath done. Last morn the Emperor sat in the shade, His nephew came in his mail arrayed,— He had plundered Carcassonne just before, And a vermeil apple in hand he bore: 'Sire,' he said, 'to your feet I bring The crown of every earthly king.' Disaster is sure such pride to blast; He setteth his life on a daily cast. Were he slain, we all should have peace at last."


"Ruthless is Roland," Blancandrin spake, "Who every race would recreant make. And on all possessions of men would seize; But in whom doth he trust for feats like these?" "The Franks! the Franks!" Count Ganelon cried; "They love him, and never desert his side; For he lavisheth gifts that seldom fail, Gold and silver in countless tale, Mules and chargers, and silks and mail, The king himself may have spoil at call. From hence to the East he will conquer all."


Thus Blancandrin and Ganelon rode, Till each on other his faith bestowed That Roland should be by practice slain, And so they journeyed by path and plain, Till in Saragossa they bridle drew, There alighted beneath a yew. In a pine-tree's shadow a throne was set; Alexandrian silk was the coverlet: There the monarch of Spain they found, With twenty thousand Saracens round, Yet from them came nor breath nor sound; All for the tidings they strained to hear, As they saw Blancandrin and Ganelon near.


Blancandrin stepped before Marsil's throne, Ganelon's hand was in his own. "Mahound you save," to the king he said, "And Apollin, whose holy law we dread! Fairly your errand to Karl was done; But other answer made he none, Save that his hands to Heaven he raised, Save that a space his God he praised; He sends a baron of his court, Knight of France, and of high report, Of him your tidings of peace receive." "Let him speak," said Marsil, "we yield him leave."


Gan had bethought him, and mused with art; Well was he skilled to play his part; And he said to Marsil, "May God you save, The God of glory, whose grace we crave! Thus saith the noble Carlemaine: You shall make in Christ confession plain. And he gives you in fief full half of Spain; The other half shall be Roland's share (Right haughty partner, he yields you there); And should you slight the terms I bear, He will come and gird Saragossa round, You shall be taken by force and bound, Led unto Aix, to his royal seat, There to perish by judgment meet, Dying a villainous death of shame." Over King Marsil a horror came; He grasped his javelin, plumed with gold, In act to smite, were he not controlled.


King Marsil's cheek the hue hath left, And his right hand grasped his weapon's heft. When Ganelon saw it, his sword he drew Finger lengths from the scabbard two. "Sword," he said, "thou art clear and bright; I have borne thee long in my fellows' sight, Mine emperor never shall say of me, That I perished afar, in a strange countrie, Ere thou in the blood of their best wert dyed." "Dispart the mellay," the heathens cried.


The noblest Saracens thronged amain, Seated the king on his throne again, And the Algalif said, "'Twas a sorry prank, Raising your weapon to slay the Frank. It was yours to hearken in silence there." "Sir," said Gan, "I may meetly bear, But for all the wealth of your land arrayed, For all the gold that God hath made, Would I not live and leave unsaid, What Karl, the mightiest king below, Sends, through me, to his mortal foe." His mantle of fur, that was round him twined, With silk of Alexandria lined, Down at Blancandrin's feet he cast, But still he held by his good sword fast, Grasping the hilt by its golden ball. "A noble knight," say the heathens all.


Ganelon came to the king once more. "Your anger," he said, "misserves you sore. As the princely Carlemaine saith, I say, You shall the Christian law obey. And half of Spain you shall hold in fee, The other half shall Count Roland's be, (And a haughty partner 'tis yours to see). Reject the treaty I here propose, Round Saragossa his lines will close; You shall be bound in fetters strong, Led to his city of Aix along. Nor steed nor palfrey shall you bestride, Nor mule nor jennet be yours to ride; On a sorry sumpter you shall be cast, And your head by doom stricken off at last. So is the Emperor's mandate traced,"— And the scroll in the heathen's hand he placed.


Discolored with ire was King Marsil's hue; The seal he brake and to earth he threw, Read of the scroll the tenor clear. "So Karl the Emperor writes me here. Bids me remember his wrath and pain For sake of Basan and Basil slain, Whose necks I smote on Haltoia's hill; Yet, if my life I would ransom still, Mine uncle the Algalif must I send, Or love between us were else at end." Then outspake Jurfalez, Marsil's son: "This is but madness of Ganelon. For crime so deadly his life shall pay; Justice be mine on his head this day." Ganelon heard him, and waved his blade, While his back against a pine he stayed.


Into his orchard King Marsil stepped. His nobles round him their station kept: There was Jurfalez, his son and heir, Blancandrin of the hoary hair, The Algalif, truest of all his kin. Said Blancandrin, "Summon the Christian in; His troth he pledged me upon our side." "Go," said Marsil, "be thou his guide." Blancandrin led him, hand-in-hand, Before King Marsil's face to stand. Then was the villainous treason planned.


"Fair Sir Ganelon," spake the king, "I did a rash and despighteous thing, Raising against thee mine arm to smite. Richly will I the wrong requite. See these sables whose worth were told At full five hundred pounds of gold: Thine shall they be ere the coming day." "I may not," said Gan, "your grace gainsay. God in His pleasure will you repay."


"Trust me I love thee, Sir Gan, and fain Would I hear thee discourse of Carlemaine. He is old, methinks, exceedingly old; And full two hundred years hath told; With toil his body spent and worn, So many blows on his buckler borne, So many a haughty king laid low, When will he weary of warring so?" "Such is not Carlemaine," Gan replied; "Man never knew him, nor stood beside, But will say how noble a lord is he, Princely and valiant in high degree. Never could words of mine express His honor, his bounty, his gentleness, 'Twas God who graced him with gifts so high. Ere I leave his vassalage I will die."


The heathen said, "I marvel sore Of Carlemaine, so old and hoar, Who counts I ween two hundred years, Hath borne such strokes of blades and spears, So many lands hath overrun, So many mighty kings undone, When will he tire of war and strife?" "Not while his nephew breathes in life Beneath the cope of heaven this day Such vassal leads not king's array. Gallant and sage is Olivier, And all the twelve, to Karl so dear, With twenty thousand Franks in van, He feareth not the face of man."


"Strange," said Marsil, "seems to me, Karl, so white with eld is he, Twice a hundred years, men say, Since his birth have passed away. All his wars in many lands, All the strokes of trenchant brands, All the kings despoiled and slain,— When will he from war refrain?" "Not till Roland breathes no more, For from hence to eastern shore, Where is chief with him may vie? Olivier his comrades by, And the peers, of Karl the pride, Twenty thousand Franks beside, Vanguard of his host, and flower: Karl may mock at mortal power."


"I tell thee, Sir Gan, that a power is mine; Fairer did never in armor shine, Four hundred thousand cavaliers, With the Franks of Karl to measure spears." "Fling such folly," said Gan, "away; Sorely your heathen would rue the day. Proffer the Emperor ample prize, A sight to dazzle the Frankish eyes; Send him hostages full of score, So returns he to France once more. But his rear will tarry behind the host; There, I trow, will be Roland's post— There will Sir Olivier remain. Hearken to me, and the counts lie slain; The pride of Karl shall be crushed that day, And his wars be ended with you for aye."


"Speak, then, and tell me, Sir Ganelon, How may Roland to death be done?" "Through Cizra's pass will the Emperor wind, But his rear will linger in march behind; Roland and Olivier there shall be, With twenty thousand in company. Muster your battle against them then, A hundred thousand heathen men. Till worn and spent be the Frankish bands, Though your bravest perish beneath their hands. For another battle your powers be massed, Roland will sink, overcome at last. There were a feat of arms indeed, And your life from peril thenceforth be freed."


"For whoso Roland to death shall bring, From Karl his good right arm will wring, The marvellous host will melt away, No more shall he muster a like array, And the mighty land will in peace repose." King Marsil heard him to the close; Then kissed him on the neck, and bade His royal treasures be displayed.


What said they more? Why tell the rest? Said Marsil, "Fastest bound is best; Come, swear me here to Roland's fall." "Your will," said Gan, "be mine in all." He swore on the relics in the hilt Of his sword Murgleis, and crowned his guilt.


A stool was there of ivory wrought. King Marsil bade a book be brought, Wherein was all the law contained Mahound and Termagaunt ordained. The Saracen hath sworn thereby, If Roland in the rear-guard lie, With all his men-at-arms to go, And combat till the count lay low. Sir Gan repeated, "Be it so."


King Marsil's foster-father came, A heathen, Valdabrun by name. He spake to Gan with laughter clear. "My sword, that never found its peer,— A thousand pieces would not buy The riches in the hilt that lie,— To you I give in guerdon free; Your aid in Roland's fall to see, Let but the rear-guard be his place." "I trust," said Gan, "to do you grace." Then each kissed other on the face.


Next broke with jocund laughter in, Another heathen, Climorin. To Gan he said, "Accept my helm, The best and trustiest in the realm, Conditioned that your aid we claim To bring the marchman unto shame." "Be it," said Ganelon, "as you list." And then on cheek and mouth they kissed.


Now Bramimonde, King Marsil's queen, To Ganelon came with gentle mien. "I love thee well, Sir Count," she spake, "For my lord the king and his nobles' sake. See these clasps for a lady's wrist, Of gold, and jacinth, and amethyst, That all the jewels of Rome outshine; Never your Emperor owned so fine; These by the queen to your spouse are sent." The gems within his boot he pent.


Then did the king on his treasurer call, "My gifts for Karl, are they ready all?" "Yea, sire, seven hundred camels' load Of gold and silver well bestowed, And twenty hostages thereby, The noblest underneath the sky."


On Ganelon's shoulder King Marsil leant. "Thou art sage," he said, "and of gallant bent; But by all thy holiest law deems dear, Let not thy thought from our purpose veer. Ten mules' burthen I give to thee Of gold, the finest of Araby; Nor ever year henceforth shall pass But it brings thee riches in equal mass. Take the keys of my city gates, Take the treasure that Karl awaits— Render them all; but oh, decide That Roland in the rear-guard bide; So may I find him by pass or height, As I swear to meet him in mortal fight." Cried Gan, "Meseemeth too long we stay," Sprang on his charger and rode away.


The Emperor homeward hath turned his face, To Gailne city he marched apace, (By Roland erst in ruins strown— Deserted thence it lay and lone, Until a hundred years had flown). Here waits he, word of Gan to gain With tribute of the land of Spain; And here, at earliest break of day, Came Gan where the encampment lay.


The Emperor rose with the day dawn clear, Failed not Matins and Mass to hear, Sate at his tent on the fair green sward, Roland and Olivier nigh their lord, Duke Naimes and all his peers of fame. Gan the felon, the perjured, came— False was the treacherous tale he gave,— And these his words, "May God you save! I bear you Saragossa's keys, Vast the treasure I bring with these, And twenty hostages; guard them well, The noble Marsil bids me tell— Not on him shall your anger fall, If I fetch not the Algalif here withal; For mine eyes beheld, beneath their ken, Three hundred thousand armed men, With sword and casque and coat of mail, Put forth with him on the sea to sail, All for hate of the Christian creed, Which they would neither hold nor heed. They had not floated a league but four, When a tempest down on their galleys bore Drowned they lie to be seen no more. If the Algalif were but living wight, He had stood this morn before your sight. Sire, for the Saracen king I say, Ere ever a month shall pass away, On into France he will follow free, Bend to our Christian law the knee, Homage swear for his Spanish land, And hold the realm at your command." "Now praise to God," the Emperor said, "And thanks, my Ganelon, well you sped." A thousand clarions then resound, The sumpter-mules are girt on ground, For France, for France the Franks are bound.


Karl the Great hath wasted Spain, Her cities sacked, her castles ta'en; But now "My wars are done," he cried, "And home to gentle France we ride." Count Roland plants his standard high Upon a peak against the sky; The Franks around encamping lie. Alas! the heathen host the while, Through valley deep and dark defile, Are riding on the Chistians' track, All armed in steel from breast to back; Their lances poised, their helmets laced, Their falchions glittering from the waist, Their bucklers from the shoulder swung, And so they ride the steeps among, Till, in a forest on the height, They rest to wait the morning light, Four hundred thousand crouching there. O God! the Franks are unaware.


The day declined, night darkling crept, And Karl, the mighty Emperor, slept. He dreamt a dream: he seemed to stand In Cizra's pass, with lance in hand. Count Ganelon came athwart, and lo, He wrenched the aspen spear him fro, Brandished and shook it aloft with might, Till it brake in pieces before his sight; High towards heaven the splinters flew; Karl awoke not, he dreamed anew.


In his second dream he seemed to dwell In his palace of Aix, at his own Chapelle. A bear seized grimly his right arm on, And bit the flesh to the very bone. Anon a leopard from Arden wood, Fiercely flew at him where he stood. When lo! from his hall, with leap and bound, Sprang to the rescue a gallant hound. First from the bear the ear he tore, Then on the leopard his fangs he bore. The Franks exclaim, "'Tis a stirring fray, But who the victor none may say." Karl awoke not—he slept alway.


The night wore by, the day dawn glowed, Proudly the Emperor rose and rode, Keenly and oft his host he scanned. "Lords, my barons, survey this land, See the passes so straight and steep: To whom shall I trust the rear to keep?" "To my stepson Roland:" Count Gan replied. "Knight like him have you none beside." The Emperor heard him with moody brow. "A living demon," he said, "art thou; Some mortal rage hath thy soul possessed. To head my vanguard, who then were best?" "Ogier," he answered, "the gallant Dane, Braver baron will none remain."


Roland, when thus the choice he saw, Spake, full knightly, by knightly law: "Sir Stepsire, well may I hold thee dear, That thou hast named me to guard the rear; Karl shall lose not, if I take heed, Charger, or palfrey, or mule or steed, Hackney or sumpter that groom may lead; The reason else our swords shall tell." "It is sooth," said Gan, "and I know it well."


Fiercely once more Count Roland turned To speak the scorn that in him burned. "Ha! deem'st thou, dastard, of dastard race, That I shall drop the glove in place, As in sight of Karl thou didst the mace?"


Then of his uncle he made demand: "Yield me the bow that you hold in hand; Never of me shall the tale be told, As of Ganelon erst, that it failed my hold." Sadly the Emperor bowed his head, With working finger his beard he spread, Tears in his own despite he shed.


But soon Duke Naimes doth by him stand— No better vassal in all his band. "You have seen and heard it all, O sire, Count Roland waxeth much in ire. On him the choice for the rear-guard fell, And where is baron could speed so well? Yield him the bow that your arm hath bent, And let good succor to him be lent." The Emperor reached it forth, and lo! He gave, and Roland received, the bow.


"Fair Sir Nephew, I tell thee free. Half of my host will I leave with thee." "God be my judge," was the count's reply, "If ever I thus my race belie. But twenty thousand with me shall rest, Bravest of all your Franks and best; The mountain passes in safety tread, While I breathe in life you have nought to dread."


Count Roland sprang to a hill-top's height, And donned his peerless armor bright; Laced his helm, for a baron made; Girt Durindana, gold-hilted blade; Around his neck he hung the shield, With flowers emblazoned was the field; Nor steed but Veillantif will ride; And he grasped his lance with its pennon's pride. White was the pennon, with rim of gold; Low to the handle the fringes rolled. Who are his lovers men now may see; And the Franks exclaim, "We will follow thee."


Roland hath mounted his charger on; Sir Olivier to his side hath gone; Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho the Count, and Berengier, Samson, and with him Anseis old, Gerard of Roussillon, the bold. Thither the Gascon Engelier sped; "I go," said Turpin, "I pledge my head;" "And I with thee," Count Walter said; "I am Roland's man, to his service bound." So twenty thousand knights were found.


Roland beckoned Count Walter then. "Take of our Franks a thousand men; Sweep the heights and the passes clear, That the Emperor's host may have nought to fear." "I go," said Walter, "at your behest," And a thousand Franks around him pressed. They ranged the heights and passes through, Nor for evil tidings backward drew, Until seven hundred swords outflew. The Lord of Belferna's land, that day, King Almaris met him in deadly fray.


Through Roncesvalles the march began; Ogier, the baron, led the van; For them was neither doubt nor fear, Since Roland rested to guard the rear, With twenty thousand in full array: Theirs the battle—be God their stay. Gan knows all; in his felon heart Scarce hath he courage to play his part.


High were the peaks, and the valleys deep, The mountains wondrous dark and steep; Sadly the Franks through the passes wound, Full fifteen leagues did their tread resound. To their own great land they are drawing nigh, And they look on the fields of Gascony. They think of their homes and their manors there, Their gentle spouses and damsels fair. Is none but for pity the tear lets fall; But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all. His sister's son at the gates of Spain Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain.


On the Spanish marches the twelve abide, With twice ten thousand Franks beside. Fear to die have they none, nor care: But Karl returns into France the fair; Beneath his mantle his face he hides. Naimes, the duke, at his bridle rides. "Say, sire, what grief doth your heart oppress?" "To ask," he said, "brings worse distress; I cannot but weep for heaviness. By Gan the ruin of France is wrought. In an angel's vision, last night, methought He wrested forth from my hand the spear: 'Twas he gave Roland to guard the rear. God! should I lose him, my nephew dear, Whom I left on a foreign soil behind, His peer on earth I shall never find!"


Karl the Great cannot choose but weep, For him hath his host compassion deep; And for Roland, a marvellous boding dread. It was Gan, the felon, this treason bred; He hath heathen gifts of silver and gold, Costly raiment, and silken fold, Horses and camels, and mules and steeds.— But lo! King Marsil the mandate speeds, To his dukes, his counts, and his vassals all, To each almasour and amiral. And so, before three suns had set, Four hundred thousand in muster met. Through Saragossa the tabors sound; On the loftiest turret they raise Mahound: Before him the Pagans bend and pray, Then mount and fiercely ride away, Across Cerdagna, by vale and height, Till stream the banners of France in sight, Where the peers of Carlemaine proudly stand, And the shock of battle is hard at hand.


Up to King Marsil his nephew rode, With a mule for steed, and a staff for goad: Free and joyous his accents fell, "Fair Sir King, I have served you well. So let my toils and my perils tell. I have fought and vanquished for you in field. One good boon for my service yield,— Be it mine on Roland to strike the blow; At point of lance will I lay him low; And so Mohammed to aid me deign, Free will I sweep the soil of Spain, From the gorge of Aspra to Dourestan, Till Karl grows weary such wars to plan. Then for your life have you won repose." King Marsil on him his glove bestows.


His nephew, while the glove he pressed, Proudly once more the king addressed. "Sire, you have crowned my dearest vow; Name me eleven of your barons now, In battle against the twelve to bide." Falsaron first to the call replied; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; "Fair Sir nephew, I go with thee; In mortal combat we front, to-day, The rear-guard of the grand array. Foredoomed to die by our spears are they."


King Corsablis the next drew nigh, Miscreant Monarch of Barbary; Yet he spake like vassal staunch and bold— Blench would he not for all God's gold. The third, Malprimis, of Brigal's breed, More fleet of foot than the fleetest steed, Before King Marsil he raised his cry, "On unto Roncesvalles I: In mine encounter shall Roland die."


An Emir of Balaguet came in place, Proud of body, and fair of face; Since first he sprang on steed to ride, To wear his harness was all his pride; For feats of prowess great laud he won; Were he Christian, nobler baron none. To Marsil came he, and cried aloud, "Unto Roncesvalles mine arm is vowed; May I meet with Roland and Olivier, Or the twelve together, their doom is near. The Franks shall perish in scathe and scorn; Karl the Great, who is old and worn, Weary shall grow his hosts to lead, And the land of Spain be for ever freed." King Marsil's thanks were his gracious meed.


A Mauritanian Almasour (Breathed not in Spain such a felon Moor) Stepped unto Marsil, with braggart boast: "Unto Roncesvalles I lead my host, Full twenty thousand, with lance and shield. Let me meet with Roland upon the field, Lifelong tears for him Karl shall yield."


Turgis, Count of Tortosa came. Lord of the city, he bears its name. Scathe to the Christian to him is best, And in Marsil's presence he joined the rest. To the king he said, "Be fearless found; Peter of Rome cannot mate Mahound. If we serve him truly, we win this day; Unto Roncesvalles I ride straightway. No power shall Roland from slaughter save: See the length of my peerless glaive, That with Durindana to cross I go, And who the victor, ye then shall know. Sorrow and shame old Karl shall share, Crown on earth never more shall wear."


Lord of Valtierra was Escremis; Saracen he, and the region his; He cried to Marsil, amid the throng, "Unto Roncesvalles I spur along, The pride of Roland in dust to tread, Nor shall he carry from thence his head; Nor Olivier who leads the band. And of all the twelve is the doom at hand. The Franks shall perish, and France be lorn, And Karl of his bravest vassals shorn."


Estorgan next to Marsil hied, With Estramarin his mate beside. Hireling traitors and felons they. Aloud cried Marsil, "My lords, away Unto Roncesvalles, the pass to gain, Of my people's captains ye shall be twain." "Sire, full welcome to us the call, On Roland and Olivier we fall. None the twelve from their death shall screen, The swords we carry are bright and keen; We will dye them red with the hot blood's vent The Franks shall perish and Karl lament. We will yield all France as your tribute meet. Come, that the vision your eyes may greet; The Emperor's self shall be at your feet."


With speed came Margaris—lord was he Of the land of Sibilie to the sea; Beloved of dames for his beauty's sake, Was none but joy in his look would take, The goodliest knight of heathenesse,— And he cried to the king over all the press, "Sire, let nothing your heart dismay; I will Roland in Roncesvalles slay, Nor thence shall Olivier scathless come, The peers await but their martyrdom. The Emir of Primis bestowed this blade; Look on its hilt, with gold inlaid: It shall crimsoned be with the red blood's trace: Death to the Franks, and to France disgrace! Karl the old, with his beard so white, Shall have pain and sorrow both day and night; France shall be ours ere a year go by; At Saint Denys' bourg shall our leaguer lie." King Marsil bent him reverently.


Chernubles is there, from the valley black, His long hair makes on the earth its track; A load, when it lists him, he bears in play, Which four mules' burthen would well outweigh. Men say, in the land where he was born Nor shineth sun, nor springeth corn, Nor falleth rain, nor droppeth dew; The very stones are of sable hue. 'Tis the home of demons, as some assert. And he cried, "My good sword have I girt, In Roncesvalles to dye it red. Let Roland but in my pathway tread, Trust ye to me that I strike him dead, His Durindana beat down with mine. The Franks shall perish and France decline." Thus were mustered King Marsil's peers, With a hundred thousand heathen spears. In haste to press to the battle on, In a pine-tree forest their arms they don.


They don their hauberks of Saracen mould, Wrought for the most with a triple fold; In Saragossa their helms were made; Steel of Vienne was each girded blade; Valentia lances and targets bright, Pennons of azure and red and white. They leave their sumpters and mules aside, Leap on their chargers and serried ride. Bright was the sunshine and fair the day; Their arms resplendent gave back the ray. Then sound a thousand clarions clear, Till the Franks the mighty clangor hear, "Sir Comrade," said Olivier, "I trow There is battle at hand with the Saracen foe." "God grant," said Roland, "it may be so. Here our post for our king we hold; For his lord the vassal bears heat and cold, Toil and peril endures for him, Risks in his service both life and limb. For mighty blows let our arms be strung, Lest songs of scorn be against us sung. With the Christian is good, with the heathen ill: No dastard part shall ye see me fill."





Olivier clomb to a mountain height, Glanced through the valley that stretched to right; He saw advancing the Saracen men, And thus to Roland he spake agen: "What sights and sounds from the Spanish side, White gleaming hauberks and helms in pride? In deadliest wrath our Franks shall be! Ganelon wrought this perfidy; It was he who doomed us to hold the rear." "Hush," said Roland; "O Olivier, No word be said of my stepsire here."

[Footnote 1: The stanzas of the translation not found in the Oxford MS., but taken from the stanzas inserted from other versions by M. Gautier, are, as regards Part II, the following: Stanzas 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 126, 127, 139, 143, 144, 145, 146, 163.]


Sir Olivier to the peak hath clomb, Looks far on the realm of Spain therefrom; He sees the Saracen power arrayed,— Helmets gleaming with gold inlaid, Shields and hauberks in serried row, Spears with pennons that from them flow. He may not reckon the mighty mass, So far their numbers his thought surpass. All in bewilderment and dismay, Down from the mountain he takes his way, Comes to the Franks the tale to say.


"I have seen the paynim," said Olivier. "Never on earth did such host appear: A hundred thousand with targets bright, With helmets laced and hauberks white, Erect and shining their lances tall; Such battle as waits you did ne'er befall. My Lords of France, be God your stay, That you be not vanquished in field to-day." "Accursed," say the Franks, "be they who fly None shall blench from the fear to die."



"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; 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."


"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, 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. By their evil star are the felons led; They shall all be numbered among the dead."


"Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast! Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed, And the Franks return on their path full fast." "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, 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."


"I deem of neither reproach nor stain. 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." Roland answered him, "All the more My spirit within me burns therefore. God and his angels of heaven defend That France through me from her glory bend. Death were better than fame laid low. Our Emperor loveth a downright blow."


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. 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. 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." "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."


When Roland felt that the battle came, 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; 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: 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."


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; 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. 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.


The Franks arose from bended knee, 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. 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. King Marsil deemeth us bought and sold; The price shall be with our good swords told."


Roland rideth the passes through, On Veillantif, his charger true; Girt in his harness that shone full fair, 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, 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— "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 word, the hosts are in act to strike.


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; 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." 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. Fearless, too, are their paynim foes. Frank and Saracen, thus they close.



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, 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, 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. 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, 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 Dealt in the fight doth to us belong: We have the right and these dogs the wrong."


A duke was there, named Falsaron, Of the land of Dathan and Abiron; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; 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. 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; 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. 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.


A king was there of a strange countrie, 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. 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, 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. 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; 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.


Gerein to Malprimis of Brigal sped, 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; Prone and sudden the heathen fell, And Satan carried his soul to hell.


Anon, his comrade in arms, Gerier, Spurred at the Emir with levelled spear; Severed his shield and his mail apart,— The lance went through them, to pierce his heart. Dead on the field at the blow he lay. Olivier said, "'Tis a stirring fray."


At the Almasour's shield Duke Samson rode— With blazon of flowers and gold it glowed; 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."


Anseis cast his bridle free; 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. So lay he lifeless, at point of spear. Said Roland, "Struck like a cavalier."


Engelier, Gascon of Bordeaux, On his courser's mane let the bridle flow; Smote Escremis, from Valtierra sprung, 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.


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. Said Otho, "Thus shall ye all be slain."


Berengier smote Estramarin, Planting his lance his heart within, Through shivered shield and hauberk torn. The Saracen to earth was borne 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.


Count Margaris was a valiant knight, 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. Margaris rideth unhurt withal, Sounding his trumpet, his men to call.


Mingled and marvellous grows the fray, And in Roland's heart is no dismay. He fought with lance while his good lance stood; 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: 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, 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 earnest in evil hour; To save thee passeth Mohammed's power. Never to miscreants like to thee Shall come the guerdon of victory."


Count Roland rideth the battle through, With Durindana, to cleave and hew; Havoc fell of the foe he made, 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; 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.


Through the storm of battle rides Olivier, 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, 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? 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."


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 Ferree. At a stroke he severed his head in two, 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! The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!" Around them the cry of "Montjoie!" arose.


Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier Is mounted on his own Pass-deer: The reins they slacken, and prick full well 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. 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, By Jupiter thither in magic led. "Well have we 'scaped," the archbishop said: "Crushed is the caitiff," Count Roland replies, "Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!"


Furious waxeth the fight, and strange; 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, 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, 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, To whom was hope of grace denied.


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. "Gan, the traitor, hath made of us," Said Walter, "a bargain full dolorous."


King Almaris to the mount hath clomb, With sixty thousand of heathendom. In deadly wrath on the Franks they fall, 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, And with evil greeting his foeman faced.


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; 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.


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, 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, Nor Karl who waits them the pass beyond.


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; And an earthquake ran—the sooth I say, From Besancon 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— 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.


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, 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.


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, And the heathens feel 'tis a fierce dispute.


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: 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— O God, what sorrow remains to tell!


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! 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. Marsil the while with his host is near.


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; 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, To tell King Marsil what chanced that day.


Alone King Margaris left the field, With broken spear and pierced shield, Scarce half a foot from the knob remained, And his brand of steel with blood was stained; 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, 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," Marsil listened with heart aflame. Onward in search of the Franks he came.


King Marsil on through the valley sped, With the mighty host he has marshalled. Twice ten battalions the king arrayed: 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, 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. 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."


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: "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. 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.


King Marsil on the hill-top bides, 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— "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, 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. Proudly mounted they at his word, And, like lions chafed, at the heathen spurred.


Thus doth King Marsil divide his men: He keeps around him battalions ten. As the Franks the other ten descry, "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, 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,— Few may we be, but staunch and bold." Their spurs against the foe they set, Frank and paynim—once more they met.


A heathen of Saragossa came. Full half the city was his to claim. 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 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, 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: Strike in, my pagans, give blow for blow." For their champion slain, the Franks cry woe.


Sir Roland called unto Olivier, "Sir Comrade, dead lieth Engelier; Braver knight had we none than he." "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. 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; Won great laud by my side he hath; Us such prowess to Karl endears. Fight on, fight ever, my cavaliers."


Then came the Saracen Valdabrun, Of whom King Marsil was foster-son. 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. '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, 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." The Franks cry woe for their cavalier.


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, 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 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."


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, 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. Dead he lieth, his day is o'er, And the Franks the loss of their peer deplore.


Turpin rideth the press among; Never such priest the Mass had sung, Nor who hath such feats of his body done. "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.


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, 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; 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. Say the Franks, lamenting, "We perish fast."


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! Right dearly shalt thou this blood repay." His war-horse springs to the spur straightway, And they come together—go down who may.


A gallant captain was Grandonie, Great in arms and in chivalry. 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; 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, 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.


The battle is wondrous yet, and dire, 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! For thy sons are strong over might of man." And one and all unto Marsil cried, "Hither, O king, to our succor ride."


Marvellous yet is the fight around, The Franks are thrusting with spears embrowned; 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; The Franks as hotly pursue in chase.


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. 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; 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.


King Marsil looks on his legions strown, He bids the clarion blast be blown, With all his host he onward speeds: Abime the heathen his vanguard leads. No felon worse in the host than he, 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; 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,— 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."


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, 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. The archbishop spurred him in fiery haste, And, on the moment Abime he faced, Came down on the wondrous shield the blow, The shield with amethysts all aglow, Carbuncle and topaz, each priceless stone; '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. Say the Franks, "Such deeds beseem the brave. Well the archbishop his cross can save."


Count Roland Olivier bespake: "Sir comrade, dost thou my thought partake? A braver breathes not this day on earth 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. For the Christians, alas, 'tis a tale of woes!


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; 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. "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, 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; If Roland live, we are all foredone."


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; 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; And the spirit within him groans for pain.


Count Roland entered within the prease, And smote full deadly without surcease; While Durindana aloft he held, Hauberk and helm he pierced and quelled, Intrenching body and hand and head. The Saracens lie by the hundred dead, And the heathen host is discomfited.


Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere, Brandished on high his sword Hauteclere— 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, This day shall set on our love the seal! The Emperor cometh to find us dead, For ever parted and severed. France never looked on such woful day; Nor breathes a Frank but for us will pray,— 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; We will die together, if God so will."


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; 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 All but sixty, who yet remain; God preserved them, that ere they die, They may sell their lives full hardily.



As Roland gazed on his slaughtered men, He bespake his gentle compeer agen: "Ah, dear companion, may God thee shield! Behold, our bravest lie dead on field! Well may we weep for France the fair, Of her noble barons despoiled and bare. Had he been with us, our king and friend! Speak, my brother, thy counsel lend,— How unto Karl shall we tidings send?" Olivier answered, "I wist not how. Liefer death than be recreant now."


"I will sound," said Roland, "upon my horn, Karl, as he passeth the gorge, to warn. The Franks, I know, will return apace." Said Olivier, "Nay, it were foul disgrace On your noble kindred to wreak such wrong; They would bear the stain their lifetime long. Erewhile I sought it, and sued in vain; But to sound thy horn thou wouldst not deign. Not now shall mine assent be won, Nor shall I say it is knightly done. Lo! both your arms are streaming red." "In sooth," said Roland, "good strokes I sped."


Said Roland, "Our battle goes hard, I fear; I will sound my horn that Karl may hear." "'Twere a deed unknightly," said Olivier; "Thou didst disdain when I sought and prayed: Saved had we been with our Karl to aid; Unto him and his host no blame shall be: By this my beard, might I hope to see My gentle sister Alda's face, Thou shouldst never hold her in thine embrace."


"Ah, why on me doth thine anger fall?" "Roland, 'tis thou who hast wrought it all. Valor and madness are scarce allied,— Better discretion than daring pride. All of thy folly our Franks lie slain, Nor shall render service to Karl again, As I implored thee, if thou hadst done, The king had come and the field were won; Marsil captive, or slain, I trow. Thy daring, Roland, hath wrought our woe. No service more unto Karl we pay, That first of men till the judgment day; Thou shalt die, and France dishonored be Ended our loyal company— A woful parting this eve shall see."


Archbishop Turpin their strife hath heard, His steed with the spurs of gold he spurred, And thus rebuked them, riding near: "Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Olivier, Contend not, in God's great name, I crave. Not now availeth the horn to save; And yet behoves you to wind its call,— Karl will come to avenge our fall, Nor hence the foemen in joyance wend. The Franks will all from their steeds descend; When they find us slain and martyred here, They will raise our bodies on mule and bier, And, while in pity aloud they weep, Lay us in hallowed earth to sleep; Nor wolf nor boar on our limbs shall feed." Said Roland, "Yea, 'tis a goodly rede."


Then to his lips the horn he drew, And full and lustily he blew. The mountain peaks soared high around; Thirty leagues was borne the sound. Karl hath heard it, and all his band. "Our men have battle," he said, "on hand." Ganelon rose in front and cried, "If another spake, I would say he lied."


With deadly travail, in stress and pain, Count Roland sounded the mighty strain. Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang, And his temples burst for the very pang. On and onward was borne the blast, Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he passed, And Naimes and all his men of war. "It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor, "And, save in battle, he had not blown." "Battle," said Ganelon, "is there none. Old are you grown—all white and hoar; Such words bespeak you a child once more. Have you, then, forgotten Roland's pride, Which I marvel God should so long abide, How he captured Noples without your hest? Forth from the city the heathen pressed, To your vassal Roland they battle gave,— He slew them all with the trenchant glaive, Then turned the waters upon the plain, That trace of blood might none remain. He would sound all day for a single hare: 'Tis a jest with him and his fellows there; For who would battle against him dare? Ride onward—wherefore this chill delay? Your mighty land is yet far away."


On Roland's mouth is the bloody stain, Burst asunder his temple's vein; His horn he soundeth in anguish drear; King Karl and the Franks around him hear. Said Karl, "That horn is long of breath." Said Naimes, "'Tis Roland who travaileth. There is battle yonder by mine avow. He who betrayed him deceives you now. Arm, sire; ring forth your rallying cry, And stand your noble household by; For you hear your Roland in jeopardy."


The king commands to sound the alarm. To the trumpet the Franks alight and arm; With casque and corselet and gilded brand, Buckler and stalwart lance in hand, Pennons of crimson and white and blue, The barons leap on their steeds anew, And onward spur the passes through; Nor is there one but to other saith, "Could we reach but Roland before his death, Blows would we strike for him grim and great." Ah! what availeth!—'tis all too late.


The evening passed into brightening dawn. Against the sun their harness shone; From helm and hauberk glanced the rays, And their painted bucklers seemed all ablaze. The Emperor rode in wrath apart. The Franks were moody and sad of heart; Was none but dropped the bitter tear, For they thought of Roland with deadly fear.— Then bade the Emperor take and bind Count Gan, and had him in scorn consigned To Besgun, chief of his kitchen train. "Hold me this felon," he said, "in chain." Then full a hundred round him pressed, Of the kitchen varlets the worst and best; His beard upon lip and chin they tore, Cuffs of the fist each dealt him four, Roundly they beat him with rods and staves; Then around his neck those kitchen knaves Flung a fetterlock fast and strong, As ye lead a bear in a chain along; On a beast of burthen the count they cast, Till they yield him back to Karl at last.


Dark, vast, and high the summits soar, The waters down through the valleys pour. The trumpets sound in front and rear, And to Roland's horn make answer clear. The Emperor rideth in wrathful mood, The Franks in grievous solicitude; Nor one among them can stint to weep, Beseeching God that He Roland keep, Till they stand beside him upon the field, To the death together their arms to wield. Ah, timeless succor, and all in vain! Too long they tarried, too late they strain.


Onward King Karl in his anger goes; Down on his harness his white beard flows. The barons of France spur hard behind; But on all there presseth one grief of mind— That they stand not beside Count Roland then, As he fronts the power of the Saracen. Were he hurt in fight, who would then survive? Yet three score barons around him strive. And what a sixty! Nor chief nor king Had ever such gallant following.


Roland looketh to hill and plain, He sees the lines of his warriors slain, And he weeps like a noble cavalier, "Barons of France, God hold you dear, And take you to Paradise's bowers, Where your souls may lie on the holy flowers; Braver vassals on earth were none, So many kingdoms for Karl ye won; Years a-many your ranks I led, And for end like this were ye nurtured. Land of France, thou art soothly fair; To-day thou liest bereaved and bare; It was all for me your lives you gave, And I was helpless to shield or save. May the great God save you who cannot lie. Olivier, brother, I stand thee by; I die of grief, if I 'scape unslain: In, brother, in to the fight again."


Once more pressed Roland within the fight, His Durindana he grasped with might; Faldron of Pui did he cleave in two, And twenty-four of their bravest slew. Never was man on such vengeance bound; And, as flee the roe-deer before the hound, So in face of Roland the heathen flee. Saith Turpin, "Right well this liketh me. Such prowess a cavalier befits, Who harness wears, and on charger sits; In battle shall he be strong and great, Or I prize him not at four deniers' rate; Let him else be monk in a cloister cell, His daily prayers for our souls to tell." Cries Roland, "Smite them, and do not spare." Down once more on the foe they bear, But the Christian ranks grow thinned and rare.


Who knoweth ransom is none for him, Maketh in battle resistance grim; The Franks like wrathful lions strike, But King Marsil beareth him baron-like; He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight, And he pricketh him hard, Sir Beuve to smite, The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town, Through shield and cuirass, he struck him down: Dead past succor of man he lay. Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay; Gerard of Roussillon beside. Not far was Roland, and loud he cried, "Be thou forever in God's disgrace, Who hast slain my fellows before my face, Before we part thou shalt blows essay, And learn the name of my sword to-day." Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand, And from Marsil severed his good right hand: With another stroke, the head he won Of the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil's son. "Help us, Mahound!" say the heathen train, "May our gods avenge us on Carlemaine! Such daring felons he hither sent, Who will hold the field till their lives be spent." "Let us flee and save us," cry one and all, Unto flight a hundred thousand fall, Nor can aught the fugitives recall.


But what availeth? though Marsil fly, His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh; Lord of Carthagena is he, Of Alferna's shore and Garmalie, And of Ethiopia, accursed land: The black battalions at his command, With nostrils huge and flattened ears, Outnumber fifty thousand spears; And on they ride in haste and ire, Shouting their heathen war-cry dire. "At last," said Roland, "the hour is come, Here receive we our martyrdom; Yet strike with your burnished brands—accursed Who sells not his life right dearly first; In life or death be your thought the same, That gentle France be not brought to shame. When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent, And he sees the Saracens' chastisement, Fifteen of their dead against our one, He will breathe on our souls his benison."



When Roland saw the abhorred 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. Fight, my Franks, 'tis my last command." Said Olivier, "Shame is the laggard's due." And at his word they engage anew.


When the heathen saw that the Franks were few, Heart and strength from the sight they drew; 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, 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."

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