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diff --git a/23819-h/23819-h.htm b/23819-h/23819-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b22e9c --- /dev/null +++ b/23819-h/23819-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6249 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of La Chanson de Roland, by Léon Gautier</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; font-weight: normal; + } + h1.pg { font-weight: bold; } + h3.pg { font-weight: bold; } + hr { width: 50%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + hr.two { width: 15%; + margin-top: 1.5em; + margin-bottom: 1.5em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + + body {margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + ul {list-style-type: none;} + ul.IX { /* styling the IndeX */ + list-style-type: none; margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 90%; text-indent: -2em; + } + ul.IX li { /* list items in an index list: compressed */ + margin-top: 0; text-indent: -2em;} + + + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: .8em; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .center2 {text-align: center; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-top: + 0em;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.90em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; font-size: 0.80em; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .80em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:20%; font-size: 1em; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i0_5 {display: block; margin-left: 0.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i13 {display: block; margin-left: 13em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, La Chanson de Roland, by Léon Gautier, +Translated by Léonce Rabillon</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: La Chanson de Roland</p> +<p>Author: Léon Gautier</p> +<p>Release Date: December 11, 2007 [eBook #23819]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3 class="pg">E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>LA CHANSON DE ROLAND</h1> + + +<h5><i>TRANSLATED FROM THE SEVENTH EDITION OF LEON<br /> +GAUTIER, PROFESSOR AT THE ECOLE DES<br /> +CHARTES, PARIS.</i></h5> + + +<h3><small><small><small>BY</small></small></small><br /> + +LÉONCE RABILLON,<br /> + +<small>Licencié en droit, Paris University, French Lecturer at<br /> +Johns Hopkins University.</small></h3> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/printers.png" +style="margin-top: 1em;" width="100px" alt="printer's mark" /> +</div> + +<h5>NEW YORK<br /> + +HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY<br /> + +1885</h5> + + +<h5>COPYRIGHT, 1885<br /> +BY<br /> +HENRY HOLT & CO.<br /> +W. L. MERSHON & CO.,<br /> +Printers and Electrotypers,<br /> +RAHWAY, N. J.<br /><br /></h5> + + +<h5><small>TO</small><br /> + +<big>DANIEL C. GILMAN,</big><br /> + +<i>President of Johns Hopkins University</i>,<br /> + +<i>THIS TRANSLATION<br /> + +IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.</i></h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[vii]</span></p> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + + +<p>Several years ago, the maker of this version translated into French one +of the early works of H. W. Longfellow. This circumstance was not +forgotten by the American poet who kindly consented to listen to this +new attempt at rendering into English the "CHANSON DE ROLAND."</p> + +<p>To his encouragement is due the present publication. The writer will +ever proudly treasure up the remembrance of his friendly welcome and +counsel....</p> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<p>The translator has followed, as literally as possible, the text of the +Oxford MS., as revised by Léon Gautier. The parts inclosed in +parentheses are interpolations of the learned Professor. This revised +text should be kept in hand by the English reader for comparison with +the original, which is nine centuries old. The translator may thus be +more likely to obtain the indulgence of the reader for the quaint +representation, in a modern language, of the coloring of this most +ancient poem.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[viii]</span>The orthography of all the names, as well as their prosodic accent, has +been preserved in their ancient form; and accordingly, an index has been +appended to the work.</p> + +<p>The seventh edition of Léon Gautier's "CHANSON DE ROLAND," contains a +vast amount of explanatory notes, grammatical and historical, to which +the reader is referred.</p> + + +<h4>HISTORY OF THE POEM.</h4> + +<p>On the 15th of August, 778, in a little Pyrenean Valley, still known in +our days by the name of Ronceval, a terrible event took place. +Charlemagne, returning from his expedition to Spain, crossed that valley +and the Pyrenees, leaving his rear-guard in command of Roland, Prefect +of the Marches of Brittany. His main army had passed unmolested; but at +the moment when the rear-guard advanced into the defiles of the +mountain, thousands of Gascons rushed from their ambush, fell upon the +French army and slaughtered the whole guard to the last man. So perished +Roland.</p> + +<p>Eginhard, the historian of Charlemagne, terminates his narrative with +these words: "The House-intendant, (Regiæ mensæ præpositus), Eggihard, +Anselm, Count of the Palace, Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany +(Hruolandus britannici limitis præfectus), with many more, perished in +<span class='pagenum'>[ix]</span>the fight. It was not possible to take revenge on the spot. The +treacherous attempt once perpetrated, the enemy dispersed and left no +trace." (Eginhard's Life of Charlemagne, Vol. I., p. 31; edition of the +Société de l'histoire de France.)</p> + +<p>From the moment of the defeat of Ronceval, legend commenced its labor +upon this truly epic event which, in its origin, is absolutely French, +but has found its echoes throughout Europe, from Iceland to Eastern +regions.</p> + +<p>The commentators generally agree in dating the composition of the Poem +before the first crusade in the year 1096. The author, it is +ascertained, was Norman, the dialect used by him being Norman +throughout. Whether this author was really Turoldus, named in the last +line of the Poem, is a point which Léon Gautier refuses to affirm. We +refer the reader to the very interesting preface of <i>Genin</i>, and to the +learned introductions of Léon Gautier, for more complete information.</p> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<p>The word "<i>Aoi</i>," which is placed at the end of every stanza, and found in +no other ancient French poems, is interpreted differently by the +commentators. M. Francisque Michel assimilated it at first to the +termination of an ecclesiastical chant—Preface, xxvii.—and later to +the Saxon <i>Abeg</i>, or the English <i>Away</i>, as a sort of refrain which the +"<i>jongleur</i>" repeated at the end of the couplets. M. <span class='pagenum'>[x]</span>Génin explains it by +<i>ad viam</i>, a vei, avoie, away! it is done, let us go on!</p> + +<p>M. Gautier, with his skeptical honesty, declares the word unexplained. +See Note 9, p. 4, of his seventh edition.</p> +<hr class="two" /> + +<h4>MANUSCRIPTS.</h4> + +<p>The most complete and ancient is that of Oxford, in the Bodleian +Library, marked "Digby, 23," a copy of the XIIth. century. All others +are <i>Rifaccimenti</i>, Refashionings.</p> + +<p>Two in Venice, in St. Mark Library, XIIIth. century; French MSS., No. 4 +& 7.</p> + +<p>In the National Library, Paris, No. 860, XIIIth. century.</p> + +<p>The Versailles MS., now deposited in the Library of Chateauroux, a copy +of which is in Paris Nat. Library; 15, 108; XIIIth. century.</p> + +<p>In the Lyons Library, 964; XIVth. century.</p> + +<p>In Cambridge, Trinity Collage, R. 3-32; XVIth. century.</p> + +<p>One called the Lorrain, a fragment found near Metz.</p> + +<p>The Karlomagnus Saga, an Icelandic copy of the Oxford MS.; XIIIth. +century.</p> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<p>In M. Petit de Julleville's Introduction to his version can be found a +chronological list of the <span class='pagenum'>[xi]</span>works which concern the "CHANSON DE ROLAND," +the translations of it, and dissertations on the subject in France and +Germany.</p> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<p>There are twenty-one translations in different languages:</p> + +<p>Four in German, by Th. Müller, Hertz, Boehmer, Eug. Kölbing.</p> + +<p>One in Polish, by Mad. Duchinska.</p> + +<p>One in Danish, by Unger.</p> + +<p>One in Icelandish, Karlomagnus' Saga.</p> + +<p>Twelve in French, by Francisque Michel, Bourdillon, Delécluze, Génin, P. +Paris, Vitet, Jônain, de Saint-Albin, d'Avril, Petit de Julleville, +Lehugeur and Léon Gautier, of whose translation seven editions were +issued.</p> + +<p>Two in English, one in England by J. O'Hagan, and one in America, the +latest and present one.</p> + +<p>Besides, a version from Vitet's French paraphrase, by Mrs. Marsh.</p> +<hr class="two" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[1]</span></p> + + +<h4>SARRAGOSSA.</h4> + +<h4>COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_1" id="St_1">I.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + + +<span class="i0">Carle our most noble Emperor and King,</span> +<span class="i0">Hath tarried now full seven years in Spain,</span> +<span class="i0">Conqu'ring the highland regions to the sea;</span> +<span class="i0">No fortress stands before him unsubdued,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor wall, nor city left, to be destroyed,</span> +<span class="i0">Save Sarraguce, high on a mountain set.</span> +<span class="i0">There rules the King Marsile who loves not God,</span> +<span class="i0">Apollo worships and Mohammed serves;</span> +<span class="i0">Nor can he from his evil doom escape.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_2" id="St_2">II.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The King Marsile abides in Sarraguce</span> +<span class="i0">Where underneath an orchard's leafy shade,</span> +<span class="i0">Upon a terrace with blue marble paved</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[2]</span><span class="i0">He rests. Around him twenty thousand men</span> +<span class="i0">And more are ranked. His Dukes and Counts he calls:</span> +<span class="i0">"Oyez, <i>Seigneurs</i>, what gath'ring ills are ours:</span> +<span class="i0">Great Carle, the Emperor who rules Sweet France</span> +<span class="i0">Comes to this land to 'whelm us with his might.</span> +<span class="i0">To give him battle I no army have,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor people to array against his host:</span> +<span class="i0">Your counsel give me, Lords, as my wise men,</span> +<span class="i0">And so defend your King from death and shame;"</span> +<span class="i0">But answer none a single Pagan gave,</span> +<span class="i0">Save Blancandrin <i>del Castel Val-Fondé</i>.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_3" id="St_3">III.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin, 'midst the wisest Pagans wise,</span> +<span class="i0">Who, in his vassalage a valiant knight,</span> +<span class="i0">Most prudent counsels gave to help his lord,</span> +<span class="i0">Said to the King:—"Be not by this dismayed!</span> +<span class="i0">To Carle the proud, the fierce, send messengers</span> +<span class="i0">With words of faith and love. Send to him gifts</span> +<span class="i0">Of bears and lions, packs of dogs; present</span> +<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels also, fifty score</span> +<span class="i0">Of molted<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> falcons, and four hundred mules</span> +<span class="i0">With heavy weight of gold and silver packed;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[3]</span><span class="i0">Then fifty chariots with their burthens heaped:</span> +<span class="i0">Well can this treasure all his soldiers pay.</span> +<span class="i0">Within this land he long enough has camped.</span> +<span class="i0">To France—to Aix let him at last return;</span> +<span class="i0">There will you join him on Saint-Michael's feast,</span> +<span class="i0">Accept the Christian law, and swear to be</span> +<span class="i0">His man in faith and honor. Should he ask</span> +<span class="i0">Hostages, ten or twenty grant, to lure</span> +<span class="i0">His trust; let us send our wives' sons. Mine—although</span> +<span class="i0">He die, I give. Far better that their heads</span> +<span class="i0">Should fall than we lose honor and domain,</span> +<span class="i0">Than we ourselves to beggary be brought."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_4" id="St_4">IV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He further said:—"By this right hand of mine,</span> +<span class="i0">And by the beard the air waves on my breast,</span> +<span class="i0">Soon shall you see the host of Franks disperse;</span> +<span class="i0">To France, their land, the Franks will take their way.</span> +<span class="i0">When each has gained the shelter of his home,</span> +<span class="i0">King Carle will in his chapel be at Aix,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[4]</span><span class="i0">To celebrate Saint Michael's solemn feast.</span> +<span class="i0">The day will come, the term allowed will pass,</span> +<span class="i0">And from us shall he hear nor word nor news.</span> +<span class="i0">The King is fierce, his soul is hard; and thus</span> +<span class="i0">Each hostage head beneath his sword shall fall.</span> +<span class="i0">'Twere better far that these should lose their heads</span> +<span class="i0">Than we for aye lose glorious Spain the Fair,</span> +<span class="i0">And suffer so great ills and doleful woes."</span> +<span class="i0">Then say the Pagans:—"This may be the truth."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_5" id="St_5">V.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hereat the King Marsile the council closed.</span> +<span class="i0">Then summon'd he Clarin de Balaguer,</span> +<span class="i0">Estramarin and Eudropin his peer;</span> +<span class="i0">With Priamon Guarlan the bearded knight,</span> +<span class="i0">And Machiner together with Mahen</span> +<span class="i0">His uncle, Joïmer and Malbien born</span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the sea, and Blancandrin, to hear</span> +<span class="i0">His words. These ten, the fiercest, he addressed:</span> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, ye shall go toward Carl'magne;</span> +<span class="i0">He to Cordrès, the city, now lays siege.</span> +<span class="i0">Bear in each hand a branch of olive-tree</span> +<span class="i0">In token of humility and peace.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[5]</span> +<span class="i0">If by your arts his favor you can gain,</span> +<span class="i0">I give of gold and silver, lands and fiefs</span> +<span class="i0">To each, whatever he may ask of me."</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans answer all:—"[Well said our lord!"]</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_6" id="St_6">VI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Marsile his council closed:—"My Lords, ye shall</span> +<span class="i0">Set forth;—an olive branch bear in each hand:</span> +<span class="i0">And in my name adjure King Carlemagne</span> +<span class="i0">That by his God he mercy have on me;</span> +<span class="i0">And ere a month be past, he shall behold</span> +<span class="i0">Me follow with a thousand faithful knights,</span> +<span class="i0">There to submit myself to Christian law</span> +<span class="i0">And be his man in love and faith; and if</span> +<span class="i0">He hostages require, them shall he have."</span> +<span class="i0">Quoth Blancandrin:—"Good treaty will be yours."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_7" id="St_7">VII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Marsile then ordered forth the ten white mules</span> +<span class="i0">The King of Sicily once sent to him;—</span> +<span class="i0">Golden their bits—their saddles silver-wrought—</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[6]</span><span class="i0">And on them mounted his ambassadors.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus holding each a branch of olive-tree,</span> +<span class="i0">They rode away and came to Carle of France.</span> +<span class="i0">Nor can he from the treacherous snare escape.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[7]</span></p> +<h4>COUNCIL OF CHARLEMAGNE AT<br /> +CORDOBA.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_8" id="St_8">VIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Cheerful and blithe the Emp'ror, for Cordrès</span> +<span class="i0">Has been subdued, its massy walls o'erthrown,</span> +<span class="i0">Its towers by mighty catapults destroyed;</span> +<span class="i0">And there his knights have found abundant spoils</span> +<span class="i0">Of gold and silver, and rich garnitures.</span> +<span class="i0">Nor was one Pagan in the city left</span> +<span class="i0">Alive, who did not own the Christian Faith.</span> +<span class="i0">Now is the Emperor within a wide</span> +<span class="i0">And spreading orchard; there around him stand</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd and Olivier, Samsun the Duke,</span> +<span class="i0">And Anseïs the bold, Gefrei d'Anjou,</span> +<span class="i0">Gonfaloneer of Carle, and also there</span> +<span class="i0">Gerin and Gerier. Where these were, came</span> +<span class="i0">Of others many more. In all, from France</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[8]</span><span class="i0">Were gathered fully fifteen thousand knights.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon white <i>pallies</i><a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">2</a> sit these chevaliers;</span> +<span class="i0">They play at tables<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> to divert themselves;</span> +<span class="i0">The wiser and the elder play at chess.</span> +<span class="i0">In mimic sword-play strive the joyous youths.</span> +<span class="i0">Under a pine-tree, near an eglantine,</span> +<span class="i0">Is placed a faldstool of pure gold whereon</span> +<span class="i0">Sits he, the King—great Ruler of Sweet France.</span> +<span class="i0">White is his beard, his head all flowering white;</span> +<span class="i0">Graceful his form and proud his countenance;</span> +<span class="i0">None need to point him out to those who come</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan messengers, dismounting, stood</span> +<span class="i0">Before him, proffering humble faith and love.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_9" id="St_9">IX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin was the first to speak, and said</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the king:—"Hail! in the name of God,</span> +<span class="i0">The Glorious One we must adore! To you</span> +<span class="i0">I bring this message from Marsile the brave:</span> +<span class="i0">Well has he studied your Salvation's Law;</span> +<span class="i0">And would upon you lavish his great wealth.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[9]</span><span class="i0">Bears—lions—packs of hounds enchained he gives,</span> +<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels also—fifty score</span> +<span class="i0">Of molted falcons—mules, four hundred, packed</span> +<span class="i0">With gold and silver—fifty carts to carry</span> +<span class="i0">These gifts, and <i>bezants</i><a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> of the purest gold</span> +<span class="i0">He also sends, which will your soldiers pay.</span> +<span class="i0">Too long within our land you have remained;</span> +<span class="i0">To France—to Aix he wills you straight return.</span> +<span class="i0">There will he follow you: so says my lord."</span> +<span class="i0">To God the Emperor uplifts his hands;</span> +<span class="i0">Bends low his head and counsel takes in thought.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_10" id="St_10">X.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Emperor sat silent with drooped head.</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er rash in words, he never speaks in haste.</span> +<span class="i0">At last he rose. Proudly he looked and spake</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the messengers:—"Ye have well said</span> +<span class="i0">That King Marsile e'er stood my greatest foe!</span> +<span class="i0">On these fair-seeming words how far can I</span> +<span class="i0">Rely?" The crafty Saracen replied:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[10]</span><span class="i0">"Would you have hostages? you shall have ten,</span> +<span class="i0">Fifteen, yea, twenty. Though his fate be death</span> +<span class="i0">My son shall go, and others nobler still,</span> +<span class="i0">I deem. When to your lordly palace, home</span> +<span class="i0">Returned—when comes Saint Michael del Peril,</span> +<span class="i0">His feast, my Lord will follow to those springs,</span> +<span class="i0">He says, brought forth by God for you, and there</span> +<span class="i0">Baptized, a faithful Christian will become!"</span> +<span class="i0">Carl'magne makes answer:—"He may yet be saved!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_11" id="St_11">XI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The eve was soft and fair, the sunset bright;</span> +<span class="i0">The ten mules stabled by the King's command;</span> +<span class="i0">In the great orchard a pavilion raised</span> +<span class="i0">To house the messengers, his Pagan guests.</span> +<span class="i0">Twelve sergeants to their service were assigned,</span> +<span class="i0">And there they rested till the dawn repelled</span> +<span class="i0">The night. With day the Emperor arose;</span> +<span class="i0">Heard mass and matins first, then having gone</span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a stately pine, he summons all</span> +<span class="i0">His wisest barons, council grave to hold,</span> +<span class="i0">Thus ever guided by the men of France.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[11]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_12" id="St_12">XII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Beneath a pine the Monarch has repaired;</span> +<span class="i0">His barons to the council called: the Duke</span> +<span class="i0">Ogier—Archbishop Turpin—old Richard,</span> +<span class="i0">Also his nephew Henri, and the brave</span> +<span class="i0">Count Acelin of Gascuïgne—Tedbald</span> +<span class="i0">De Reins—his cousin Milon—Gerier,</span> +<span class="i0">Gerin, together with the Count Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, the brave and noble knight.</span> +<span class="i0">One thousand Franks of France and more were met—</span> +<span class="i0">Then Ganelon came, who treason wrought; and now</span> +<span class="i0">Was opened that ill-fated council thus:</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_13" id="St_13">XIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons," began the Emp'ror Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">"The King Marsile his messengers hath sent</span> +<span class="i0">To offer me large store of his great wealth;</span> +<span class="i0">Bears—lions—hounds in leash;—of camels he</span> +<span class="i0">Gives seven hundred—falcons, fifty score—</span> +<span class="i0">Four hundred mules packed high with Arab gold,</span> +<span class="i0">And more than fifty chariots loaded full;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[12]</span><span class="i0">But he demands that I return to France.</span> +<span class="i0">There will he follow: then arrived at Aix,</span> +<span class="i0">Will in my palace take Salvation's Faith,</span> +<span class="i0">Will Christ obey, and hold his lands from me;</span> +<span class="i0">But what is in his heart, I do not know."</span> +<span class="i0">The French exclaim:—"Of him we must beware!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_14" id="St_14">XIV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Emp'ror ended thus. But Count Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Approving not the terms, stands forth and speaks</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the King with arguments adverse:</span> +<span class="i0">"Trust never more Marsile. 'Tis full seven years</span> +<span class="i0">Since we came into Spain. For you I took</span> +<span class="i0">Both Noplés and Commiblés; gained Valterne</span> +<span class="i0">And all the land of Pine, and Balaguer,</span> +<span class="i0">And Tuele and Sebile—yet King Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">Still plotting treachery, sent from his horde</span> +<span class="i0">Of Pagans, fifteen men; each bore in hand</span> +<span class="i0">Like these, a branch of olive-tree, and spake</span> +<span class="i0">The self-same words. On that you counsel took</span> +<span class="i0">From your too lightly flattering French; two Counts</span> +<span class="i0">Of yours you to the Pagan sent, the one,</span> +<span class="i0">Bazan, Bastile the other, and their heads</span> +<span class="i0">He struck off near Haltoie. As you began,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[13]</span><span class="i0">War on! To Sarraguce your army lead,</span> +<span class="i0">Besiege her walls, though all your life it take,</span> +<span class="i0">And thus avenge the knights the felon slew."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_15" id="St_15">XV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At this the Emperor, bending low his head,</span> +<span class="i0">Twists his mustache and plucks his hoary beard,</span> +<span class="i0">Answering his nephew neither yea nor nay.</span> +<span class="i0">The Franks keep silence—all save Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Who rose and stood before the King, and spake</span> +<span class="i0">Bold words and haughty:—"Put not faith in fools,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor me nor others; follow your own rede!</span> +<span class="i0">Since King Marsile makes offer to become</span> +<span class="i0">Your man, with hands joined; furthermore will hold</span> +<span class="i0">Spain as a fief from you; yea, will receive</span> +<span class="i0">Our law as his law, he who counsel gives</span> +<span class="i0">Such proffer to reject, cares not a whit</span> +<span class="i0">What death we die. No counsel take of pride;</span> +<span class="i0">Let pass the fools and listen to the wise."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_16" id="St_16">XVI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now Duke Naimes arose: his beard and hair</span> +<span class="i0">As white as drifted snow. In all the court</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[14]</span><span class="i0">No better vassal stood; and to the King:</span> +<span class="i0">"Have you marked well the words Count Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">In answer spoke but now? His plan is wise;</span> +<span class="i0">Follow it then. This King Marsile in war</span> +<span class="i0">Is overcome, his strongholds all pulled down;</span> +<span class="i0">By warlike engines are his walls destroyed,</span> +<span class="i0">His cities burned, his men subdued;—when now</span> +<span class="i0">He for your mercy prays, foul sin it were</span> +<span class="i0">To press him harder. Since he, furthermore</span> +<span class="i0">Will bind his word by gift of hostages,</span> +<span class="i0">[One of your barons also send to him.]</span> +<span class="i0">In truth no longer this great war should rage."</span> +<span class="i0">The French all cry:—"Duke Naimes has spoken well."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_17" id="St_17">XVII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send</span> +<span class="i0">To meet the King Marsile in Sarraguce?"</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes responds:—"I, with your leave will go;</span> +<span class="i0">Give me the glove and staff."—"Nay," quoth King Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">"A sage you are in council, well I know:</span> +<span class="i0">By this mustache and by this beard of mine,</span> +<span class="i0">So far away from me you shall not go.</span> +<span class="i0">Back to your seat, since none hath summoned you."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_18" id="St_18">XVIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'>[15]</span> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send</span> +<span class="i0">As messengers to Sarraguce where rules</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile?"—Rollánd responds:—"Behold me here!"</span> +<span class="i0">"—You shall not, by my troth!" cries Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">"Your pride too fierce, and courage far too hot;</span> +<span class="i0">I fear some misadventure from your zeal.</span> +<span class="i0">Should our King grant me but his leave, 'tis I</span> +<span class="i0">Will go!"—The King exclaimed:—"Be silent both—</span> +<span class="i0">Nor you, nor he, shall yonder set your foot!</span> +<span class="i0">Ay, by this hoary beard of mine, I swear,</span> +<span class="i0">Not one of my twelve Peers shall thither go."</span> +<span class="i0">The French are dumb—-all silenced by these words.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_19" id="St_19">XIX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Turpin de Reins arises from the ranks</span> +<span class="i0">And to the King he says: "Let your Franks stay,</span> +<span class="i0">To this land seven years ago you came,</span> +<span class="i0">And they have suffered much of toil and pain.</span> +<span class="i0">Give me the glove and staff, and I will go</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[16]</span><span class="i0">And speak my mind to that proud Saracen."</span> +<span class="i0">With anger great the Emperor replies:</span> +<span class="i0">"Back to your seat on yonder <i>pallie</i> white</span> +<span class="i0">Nor speak another word, save by command!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_20" id="St_20">XX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then said the Emperor:—"Chevaliers of France,</span> +<span class="i0">Choose ye for me a baron of my realm,</span> +<span class="i0">One who can bear my words to King Marsile!"</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd rejoins:—"Let my step-father go;</span> +<span class="i0">If he remain, no wiser man is found."</span> +<span class="i0">The French say:—-"Well can he fulfill the task:</span> +<span class="i0">[If the King wills, 'tis right he should be sent."]</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_21" id="St_21">XXI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus spoke the King:—"Sire Ganelon, draw near:</span> +<span class="i0">Receive the glove and staff—you heard the Franks</span> +<span class="i0">Pass judgment, and on you their choice has fallen."</span> +<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:—"All this Rollánd has done!</span> +<span class="i0">My life-long, never will I love him more,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor Olivier, his comrade and his friend,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor the twelve Peers, for that they love him well.</span> +<span class="i0">Here in your presence, I defy them all!"</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[17]</span><span class="i0">The King replied:—"Too wroth you are. At once</span> +<span class="i0">You shall depart.—I spoke it."—"Sire, I go,</span> +<span class="i0">Although for me there is nor shield nor guard:</span> +<span class="i0">Basile had none, Bazan, his brother, none!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_22" id="St_22">XXII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To Sarraguce I go, and know full well</span> +<span class="i0">Who thither goes, may ne'er return. Nay more,</span> +<span class="i0">Your sister is my wife, and I by her</span> +<span class="i0">Have one fair son, Baldewin, the goodliest child</span> +<span class="i0">Who [if he live] will be a noble knight.</span> +<span class="i0">To him I leave my fiefs and honors: guard</span> +<span class="i0">Him well, for him these eyes no more shall see."</span> +<span class="i0">Carle answers:—"Much too tender is your heart;</span> +<span class="i0">Since I command, your duty 'tis to go."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_23" id="St_23">XXIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Count Ganelon, at this, rose full of wrath,</span> +<span class="i0">And, casting from his neck his zibelline</span> +<span class="i0">Of fur, stood forth, clothed in his silk <i>blialt.</i><a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">5</a></span> +<span class="i0">Gray were his eyes and very fierce his face;</span> +<span class="i0">Graceful his form—his breast, of mighty mold.</span> +<span class="i0">So fair was he, all eyes upon him rest.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[18]</span><span class="i0">"Rollánd," he said, "wherefore this foolish wrath?</span> +<span class="i0">Since thy step-father, 'tis well known, I am,</span> +<span class="i0">For this thou choosest me to seek Marsile!</span> +<span class="i0">'Tis well. If God but grant me safe return,</span> +<span class="i0">I such ill fortune hurl on thee, shall smite</span> +<span class="i0">Thy life from now and ever with a curse."</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd replies:—"Mad words and proud I hear.</span> +<span class="i0">All know it well, I care for no man's threat;</span> +<span class="i0">But since a wise man must this message bear,</span> +<span class="i0">If the King wills it, in your place I go."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_24" id="St_24">XXIV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thou shalt not take my place," said Ganelon;</span> +<span class="i0">"My vassal art thou not, nor yet am I</span> +<span class="i0">Thy lord; and since the King hath given me</span> +<span class="i0">Command this service I should take, I shall</span> +<span class="i0">Go to Marsile. But once in Sarraguce</span> +<span class="i0">Will I with fuel feed my heart's fierce ire."</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd, on hearing this, began to laugh.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_25" id="St_25">XXV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Ganelon saw the laughter of Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">It seemed as though his breast would burst with wrath;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[19]</span> +<span class="i0">His brain was well-nigh maddened by his rage.</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the Count he cried:—"I love you not;</span> +<span class="i0">This judgment have you caused on me to fall!</span> +<span class="i0">Right Emp'ror, in your presence, lo! I stand,</span> +<span class="i0">And I am ready to fulfill your word."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_26" id="St_26">XXVI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The King presents to him his right hand glove;</span> +<span class="i0">But Ganelon would well have ne'er stood there,</span> +<span class="i0">For ere he touched the royal glove, it fell.</span> +<span class="i0">The French exclaim:—"What bodes this omen? Shall</span> +<span class="i0">This embassy not have a woeful end?—"</span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs</i>," said Ganelon, "you will hear of this!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_27" id="St_27">XXVII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:—"Give me dismissal, Sire!</span> +<span class="i0">Since I must go, my time is precious." Then</span> +<span class="i0">Adjured the King:—"For Jesus' sake and mine!"</span> +<span class="i0">With his right hand he Ganelon absolved</span> +<span class="i0">And blessed, deliv'ring up the brief and staff.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_28" id="St_28">XXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'>[20]</span> +<span class="i0">Count Ganelon his own house seeks, to make</span> +<span class="i0">Equipment and prepare his arms: his choice</span> +<span class="i0">The best that he can find. With golden spurs</span> +<span class="i0">He clasps his heels; belts to his side his sword,</span> +<span class="i0">Murgleis, and mounts his courser Tachebrun.</span> +<span class="i0">His uncle Guinemer the stirrup held;</span> +<span class="i0">There many a chevalier you might have seen</span> +<span class="i0">In tears, who said: "Baron, such evil fate</span> +<span class="i0">Was yours. You, in the King's Court so long, and there</span> +<span class="i0">Revered as liege-man high!—The man who judged</span> +<span class="i0">That you should go, not Carle himself shall cure</span> +<span class="i0">Or save; the Count Rollánd bethought him not</span> +<span class="i0">Of that high lineage whence you sprang!"—And they</span> +<span class="i0">Entreat:—"My lord with you take us along!"</span> +<span class="i0">But Ganelon replies:—"Lord God forbid!</span> +<span class="i0">Better to die alone than with me fall</span> +<span class="i0">So many brave!—Lords, to sweet France ye will go.</span> +<span class="i0">Salute for me my wife, and Pinabel,</span> +<span class="i0">My friend and peer, and my son Baldewin whom</span> +<span class="i0">Ye all know—guard him—hold him for your lord."</span> +<span class="i0">The Count departs and goes upon his way.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[21]</span></p> + +<h4>THE EMBASSY AND CRIME OF GANELON.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_29" id="St_29">XXIX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Count rides on beneath tall olive trees</span> +<span class="i0">And joins the messengers of King Marsile.</span> +<span class="i0">To meet him Blancandrin has checked his speed:</span> +<span class="i0">With skillful words each to the other spake.</span> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin said: "A wond'rous man is Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Who conquered Pouille and overran Calabre,</span> +<span class="i0">Crossed the salt-seas to England, and from thence</span> +<span class="i0">Gained tribute for <i>Saint-Pierre</i>. In this our land</span> +<span class="i0">What claims he?" "Such his might," said Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">"No man shall ever match with him in arms."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_30" id="St_30">XXX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said Blancandrin: "The Franks are noble, but</span> +<span class="i0">Those Dukes, those Counts harm much their lord, who give</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[22]</span><span class="i0">To him such counsels, wronging him and all."</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon answered: "No man, save Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">Know I, who should this blame incur; it was</span> +<span class="i0">But yestermorn, the King sat in the shade,</span> +<span class="i0">When Rollánd came before him, all encased</span> +<span class="i0">In glittering arms, fresh from the siege and sack</span> +<span class="i0">Of Carcasonne, holding an apple red;</span> +<span class="i0">And thus his uncle greeted: 'Sire, behold!</span> +<span class="i0">I lay the crowns of all Kings at your feet.'</span> +<span class="i0">Swift punishment should overtake such pride,</span> +<span class="i0">For ev'ry day he blindly runs to death.</span> +<span class="i0">Were he but slain, all lands might rest in peace."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_31" id="St_31">XXXI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin said: "Most cruel is Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Who makes all nations cry for mercy thus,</span> +<span class="i0">And will o'er all the lands his power impose.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon what people doth he then rely</span> +<span class="i0">For such attempt?" Ganelon said: "The French!...</span> +<span class="i0">They love him so, they fail him ne'er in aught.</span> +<span class="i0">Lavish is he of gifts: Silver and gold,</span> +<span class="i0">Mules, chargers, silken robes and garnitures,</span> +<span class="i0">He gives the King himself all that he craves;</span> +<span class="i0">From here to the far East, all lands must fall!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[23]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_32" id="St_32">XXXII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin with Count Ganelon rode on,</span> +<span class="i0">Until together had they pledged their faith</span> +<span class="i0">To snare Rollánd and lead him to his death.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus on they rode through vales and mountain-paths,</span> +<span class="i0">Till Sarraguce was reached. Beneath a yew</span> +<span class="i0">They lighted: a faldstool by shady pines</span> +<span class="i0">O'erhung, was spread with Alexandrine silk.</span> +<span class="i0">There sat the King who ruled all Spain, and stood</span> +<span class="i0">Around him twenty thousand Saracens,</span> +<span class="i0">Who neither spoke nor breathed, to hear the news;</span> +<span class="i0">And lo! came Blancandrin with Ganelon.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_33" id="St_33">XXXIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blancandrin stepped before the Pagan King</span> +<span class="i0">With Ganelon the Count held by the wrist.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus to Marsile he said: "Mohammed save</span> +<span class="i0">The King! Apollo, too, whose holy law</span> +<span class="i0">We keep. We bore your message to Carl'magne;</span> +<span class="i0">Both hands he lifted, praying to his God;</span> +<span class="i0">No other answer gave.—He sends you here</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[24]</span><span class="i0">One of his noble Barons, a rich Frank.</span> +<span class="i0">Learn from his lips if it be peace or war."</span> +<span class="i0">Responds Marsile: "Then let him speak. We hear!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_34" id="St_34">XXXIV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then Ganelon, who well had weighed his thoughts,</span> +<span class="i0">Begins to speak as one of knowledge vast,</span> +<span class="i0">And says unto the King: "By God be saved,</span> +<span class="i0">The Glorious God we must adore! Carl'magne</span> +<span class="i0">The Baron, sends his message to Marsile:</span> +<span class="i0">The holy Christian Faith if you receive,</span> +<span class="i0">One half of Spain he grants to you in fief.</span> +<span class="i0">These terms refuse, and your fair Sarraguce</span> +<span class="i0">He will besiege, and drag you forth in chains</span> +<span class="i0">To Aix, his royal city, there to meet</span> +<span class="i0">A felon's doom."—Quivering with rage and fear,</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile, who held a gold-winged dart,</span> +<span class="i0">Aims it at him; but others stayed his hand.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_35" id="St_35">XXXV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile turned pale, and full of wrath,</span> +<span class="i0">Brandished the shaft of his winged dart on high.</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon saw, laid hand upon his sword,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[25]</span><span class="i0">And quick unsheathed two fingers' breadth of blade,</span> +<span class="i0">Saying: "Sword of mine you are most fair and bright;</span> +<span class="i0">As long as by me borne in this King's court,</span> +<span class="i0">Never shall say the Emperor of France</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon died alone in foreign land,</span> +<span class="i0">Ere a high price for you the best have paid!"</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans cry in haste: "Check this affray."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_36" id="St_36">XXXVI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wisest Pagans urged the wrathful King,</span> +<span class="i0">Till, yielding, on his throne he has resumed</span> +<span class="i0">His seat. The Kalif said: "Great wrong you brought</span> +<span class="i0">Upon us, menacing to strike the Frank.</span> +<span class="i0">You should have hearkened to his words." "This wrong,"</span> +<span class="i0">Said Ganelon, "I calmly will endure;</span> +<span class="i0">But for the gold that God hath made all wealth</span> +<span class="i0">Stored in this land, I would not leave untold,</span> +<span class="i0">While I have power of speech, the message sent</span> +<span class="i0">By Carle, the mighty Emperor, through me</span> +<span class="i0">His messenger, to thee his mortal foe."</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon on the ground his mantle dropped</span> +<span class="i0">Of Alexandrine silk, and richly lined</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[26]</span><span class="i0">With zibelline; Blancandrin took it up:</span> +<span class="i0">But from his sword the Count would never part;</span> +<span class="i0">And his right hand still grasps the golden hilt.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans say:—"Behold a Baron true!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_37" id="St_37">XXXVII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then Ganelon strode nearer to the King</span> +<span class="i0">And said:—"All idle is this wrath of yours.</span> +<span class="i0">This is the message of King Carle of France;</span> +<span class="i0">Hear his command:—"Receive the Christian law"—</span> +<span class="i0">One half of Spain he grants to you in fief,</span> +<span class="i0">And to Rollánd, his nephew, he will give</span> +<span class="i0">The other half. (A haughty partner he</span> +<span class="i0">Will prove.) To this agreement should you not</span> +<span class="i0">Consent, 'gainst Sarraguce his host will lay</span> +<span class="i0">The siege; by force you will be tak'n and bound,</span> +<span class="i0">And brought to Aix, the royal seat. Hope not</span> +<span class="i0">To ride on palfrey, nor on steed, on mule</span> +<span class="i0">Female or male;—on a vile beast of burden</span> +<span class="i0">You shall be thrown, and doomed to have your head</span> +<span class="i0">Struck off.—Behold the Brief our Emp'ror sends!"</span> +<span class="i0">With his right hand he gives it to the King.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[27]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_38" id="St_38">XXXVIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White with exceeding wrath, the King Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">Has brok'n the seal, let fall the wax on earth,</span> +<span class="i0">And, glancing on the Brief, has read the script:</span> +<span class="i0">"I learn from Carle who holds France in his sway,</span> +<span class="i0">That I should bear in mind his ire and grief:</span> +<span class="i0">Bazan—Basile, his brother, they whose heads</span> +<span class="i0">I took on Mount Haltoïe, his anger's cause.</span> +<span class="i0">If I my body's life would save, to him</span> +<span class="i0">The Kalif, my good uncle, I must send,</span> +<span class="i0">Or else can he ne'er be my friend."—Then spake</span> +<span class="i0">To King Marsile his son:—"This Ganelon,"</span> +<span class="i0">Said he, "speaks madly, and such wrong hath done,</span> +<span class="i0">That he should live no more. Now give him up</span> +<span class="i0">To me, that I to him quick justice deal!"</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon, hearing this, unsheathed his sword,</span> +<span class="i0">And set his back against a branching pine.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_39" id="St_39">XXXIX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into his orchard King Marsile repaired,</span> +<span class="i0">Attended only by his wisest men;</span> +<span class="i0">Came thither too the gray-haired Blancandrin</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[28]</span><span class="i0">With Turfaleu his son and heir; with them</span> +<span class="i0">The Kalif, brother and good friend of King</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile.—Said Blancandrin:—"Recall the Frank;</span> +<span class="i0">To serve us he has pledged his faith."—The King</span> +<span class="i0">Replied:—"Go, bring him hither."—Then he took</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon's fingers into his right hand,</span> +<span class="i0">And brought him to the grove before the King;</span> +<span class="i0">And lo! was woven there the traitor's plot.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_40" id="St_40">XL.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile said:—"Fair Sire Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">Unwise and all too hasty was I, when</span> +<span class="i0">In my great wrath I poised my lance to strike.</span> +<span class="i0">This gift of sables take as your amends:</span> +<span class="i0">More than five hundred marks their weight in gold.</span> +<span class="i0">Before to-morrow-eve the boon is yours."</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon answers:—"I reject it not.</span> +<span class="i0">May God, if 'tis his will, your grace reward."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_41" id="St_41">XLI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Marsile spake thus:—"Sire Ganelon, believe,</span> +<span class="i0">Much I desire to love you, and of Carle</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[29]</span> +<span class="i0">I crave to hear. Is he not old, his prime</span> +<span class="i0">Has he not passed? Men tell me he has lived</span> +<span class="i0">More than two hundred years; his body dragged</span> +<span class="i0">Throughout so many lands; so many blows</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his shield!—So many mighty Kings</span> +<span class="i0">To beggary reduced!—When will he cease</span> +<span class="i0">To march on battle-fields?"—Then Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Responded:—"Such is not King Carle; no man</span> +<span class="i0">Alive who sees and knows him but will tell</span> +<span class="i0">How our great Emperor is Baron true.</span> +<span class="i0">I could not praise and honor him enough,</span> +<span class="i0">For no man lives so valiant and so good.</span> +<span class="i0">His valor ... who on earth could ever tell?</span> +<span class="i0">His soul God with such virtue has illumed,</span> +<span class="i0">I'd rather die than quit my noble lord!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_42" id="St_42">XLII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Pagan said:—"Amazed am I at Carle</span> +<span class="i0">So old and so white-haired; his age, I know,</span> +<span class="i0">Two hundred years and more. His limbs he toiled</span> +<span class="i0">Across so many lands; so oft was struck</span> +<span class="i0">By swords and spears; so many kings compelled</span> +<span class="i0">To beg!—When will he cease to war?"—"Carle?—ne'er!"</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[30]</span><span class="i0">Ganelon answered, "while his nephew lives:</span> +<span class="i0">No vassal like him 'neath the starry arch;</span> +<span class="i0">And bold as he his comrade Olivier.</span> +<span class="i0">The twelve Peers held by Carle so dear, behold!</span> +<span class="i0">The vanguard form of twenty thousand knights;</span> +<span class="i0">With them King Carle is safe, and fears no man."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_43" id="St_43">XLIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Again the Pagan:—"I am wonder-struck</span> +<span class="i0">On knowing Carle so old and so white-haired!</span> +<span class="i0">Methinks he passed two hundred years; by arms</span> +<span class="i0">He won so many lands—so many wounds</span> +<span class="i0">In battle he received from trenchant swords!</span> +<span class="i0">So many powerful kings on battle-fields</span> +<span class="i0">Conquered or slew!—When will he cease to war?"</span> +<span class="i0">"—Never!"—said Ganelon, "while lives Rollánd:</span> +<span class="i0">From here to farthest east no knight his peer</span> +<span class="i0">E'er lived: his comrade too, Count Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">Is brave; and the twelve Peers, so dear to Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">The van-guard make of twenty thousand knights.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle may have peace, and fears no living man!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_44" id="St_44">XLIV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fair Sire," said King Marsile to Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">"Than mine no fairer people can you see:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[31]</span><span class="i0">Four hundred thousand knights I can array</span> +<span class="i0">In combat 'gainst King Carle and 'gainst his Franks."—</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon says:—"The time has not yet come,</span> +<span class="i0">Yea, and great loss your people then will have.</span> +<span class="i0">But leave this folly, and to wisdom hold;</span> +<span class="i0">Offer the King of treasures such a store</span> +<span class="i0">That all the French will marvel at the gift.</span> +<span class="i0">For twenty hostages that you will send,</span> +<span class="i0">Back to Sweet France will Carle ere long repair.</span> +<span class="i0">His rear-guard, notice well, will rest behind:</span> +<span class="i0">There will Rollánd, his nephew, be, I trow,</span> +<span class="i0">With Olivier the brave and courteous knight.</span> +<span class="i0">Trust to my counsel and both Counts are doomed,</span> +<span class="i0">Nay, Carle shall see his lofty pride cast down</span> +<span class="i0">And never more shall covet war with you."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_45" id="St_45">XLV.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">[Thus King Marsile] said:—"Fair sire Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">What means have I to kill the Count Rollànd?"</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon answered:—"This can I well say:</span> +<span class="i0">The King will reach the wider pass of Sizre</span> +<span class="i0">And leave his rear behind, where great Rollànd</span> +<span class="i0">Eke Olivier, whom both he greatly trusts,</span> +<span class="i0">Will be the chiefs of twenty thousand Franks.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[32]</span><span class="i0">On these your hundred thousand Pagans throw,</span> +<span class="i0">And let them straightway make an onset fierce:</span> +<span class="i0">Stricken and slain shall be the men of France;</span> +<span class="i0">I say not that of yours none shall be slain,</span> +<span class="i0">But follow up this fight with like attack,</span> +<span class="i0">And Count Rollánd cannot escape them both,</span> +<span class="i0">Then will you deeds of chivalry achieve,</span> +<span class="i0">And free your life from war for evermore."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_46" id="St_46">XLVI.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who could contrive that there Rollánd should die,</span> +<span class="i0">Would strike off Carle's right arm. Then on the field</span> +<span class="i0">That wond'rous host in death shall lie. No more</span> +<span class="i0">Thereafter could King Carle such forces raise,</span> +<span class="i0">And the Great Land at last would rest in peace."</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile, this hearing, kissed him on the neck,</span> +<span class="i0">And then began his treasures to display.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_47" id="St_47">XLVII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Exclaimed Marsile:—"What further [shall I say?]</span> +<span class="i0">No good adviser he of faith unsure.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[33]</span><span class="i0">Swear if Rollánd be there that he shall die!"</span> +<span class="i0">Thus answered Ganelon:—"Your will be done."</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the relics of his sword Murgleis</span> +<span class="i0">The treason swore; thus forfeited himself.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_48" id="St_48">XLVIII.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An ivory-faldstool there was set. Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">The order gives to bring a book before it,</span> +<span class="i0">Mohammed's law and that of Tervagant,</span> +<span class="i0">The Spanish Saracen thus took his oath:</span> +<span class="i0">"If in the rear-guard Count Rollánd be found,</span> +<span class="i0">He will attack him there with all his men;</span> +<span class="i0">And, if it may be, there Rollánd shall die."</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon answers:—"May [our treaty thrive!]"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_49" id="St_49">XLIX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behold a Pagan, Valdabrun, who armed</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile a Knight; with cheerful smile he said</span> +<span class="i0">To Ganelon:—"Take this my sword; no man</span> +<span class="i0">E'er drew its peer; the hilt alone is worth</span> +<span class="i0">More than a thousand marks.—For love I give it,</span> +<span class="i0">But lend us help against the Count Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">And show us how to find him in the rear."</span> +<span class="i0">"—So shall it be," replies Count Ganelon;</span> +<span class="i0">Whereon they kissed each other's chin and face.</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[34]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_50" id="St_50">L.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Another Pagan came. 'Twas Climorin</span> +<span class="i0">Who gayly smiling, said to Ganelon:</span> +<span class="i0">"My helmet take—None better have I seen,</span> +<span class="i0">But help us now against <i>Marchis</i> Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">That we may throw dishonor on his name."</span> +<span class="i0">"—Well shall it be," responded Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">And then they kissed each other's lips and cheek.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span> +</div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_51" id="St_51">LI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">And now behold, comes Bramimunde the Queen;</span> +<span class="i0">"Sire Ganelon," said she, "I love you much,</span> +<span class="i0">You, by my sire and all our men esteemed.</span> +<span class="i0">Two necklaces unto your wife I send,</span> +<span class="i0">With jacinths and with amethysts and gold</span> +<span class="i0">Adorned, worth more than all the wealth of Rome;</span> +<span class="i0">Jewels so rich your Emp'ror never had."</span> +<span class="i0">The Count receives and puts them in his hose.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_52" id="St_52">LII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The King calls up Malduit, his treasurer:</span> +<span class="i0">"Hast thou prepared my gifts for Carle the King?"</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[35]</span><span class="i0">Malduit responds:—"Yea sire, the whole are there:</span> +<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels with their loads of gold</span> +<span class="i0">And silver; then of hostages a score,</span> +<span class="i0">The noblest ever lived beneath the stars."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_53" id="St_53">LIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Marsile took by the shoulder Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">And told him:—"Thou hast wisdom and art brave.</span> +<span class="i0">By that great law ye hold the best, beware</span> +<span class="i0">Thy heart fails not. Rich treasures will I give</span> +<span class="i0">To thee: ten mules laden with purest gold</span> +<span class="i0">From Araby; each year shall bring the like.</span> +<span class="i0">Meantime of this great city take the keys,</span> +<span class="i0">And in my name present this wealth to Carle.</span> +<span class="i0">But let Rollánd be ordered to the rear.</span> +<span class="i0">If in the pass or mount I find the knight,</span> +<span class="i0">I swear to give him combat to the death."</span> +<span class="i0">Says Ganelon:—"Methinks too long I stay."—</span> +<span class="i0">He mounts his horse and goes upon his way.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_54" id="St_54">LIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor nears his realm, and reaching now</span> +<span class="i0">The city of Valterne sacked by Rollànd</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[36]</span><span class="i0">And left in ruins, which thereafter lay</span> +<span class="i0">A hundred years a desert; there he waits</span> +<span class="i0">For news of Ganelon, and tribute due</span> +<span class="i0">By the great land of Spain. One morning when</span> +<span class="i0">The early dawn was brightening into day,</span> +<span class="i0">Count Ganelon drew nigh unto the camp.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_55" id="St_55">LV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">In early morn the Emperor arose.</span> +<span class="i0">Having attended mass and matins both,</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass, before his tent</span> +<span class="i0">He stood, surrounded by the Count Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">The valorous Olivier, and the Duke Naimes,</span> +<span class="i0">With many more besides. There also came</span> +<span class="i0">The perjurer, the treacherous Ganelon,</span> +<span class="i0">Who, stepping forth, with most perfidious tongue</span> +<span class="i0">Began to speak:—"Hail! God save Carle the King!—</span> +<span class="i0">I bring you here the keys of Sarraguce:</span> +<span class="i0">Great treasures follow through my care conveyed</span> +<span class="i0">With hostages a score. So, guard them well.</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile the brave bears not the blame</span> +<span class="i0">If I bring not the Kalif unto you.</span> +<span class="i0">Myself three hundred thousand men in arms</span> +<span class="i0">Beheld, with hauberks clad, and helmets clasped,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[37]</span><span class="i0">Swords by their sides, hilts bright with gold inlaid,</span> +<span class="i0">Who with him crossed the sea, not to submit</span> +<span class="i0">To Christ's law which they will not hold nor keep.</span> +<span class="i0">But scarce five leagues had they sailed on the main,</span> +<span class="i0">When wind and tempest rising, down they sank.</span> +<span class="i0">All perished!... Never shall you see them more.</span> +<span class="i0">Had but the Kalif lived, I would have brought</span> +<span class="i0">Him hither. For the Pagan King, know well,</span> +<span class="i0">Ere you shall see this first month pass away,</span> +<span class="i0">Your vassal will he be, with joinèd hands,</span> +<span class="i0">And hold the realm of Spain a fief from you."</span> +<span class="i0">Thus said the King:—"Thanks be to God for this!</span> +<span class="i0">Well have you done, and great your recompense</span> +<span class="i0">Shall be."—He bids a thousand trumpets sound...</span> +<span class="i0">The camp is struck:—the Franks then load their mules</span> +<span class="i0">And set forth on their journey to Sweet France.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[38]</span></p> + +<h3>THE REAR GUARD.</h3> +<hr class="two" /> + +<h4>ROLLÁND DOOMED TO DEATH.</h4> +<hr class="two" /> + +<h4><a name="St_56" id="St_56">LVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,</span> +<span class="i0">The cities violated, the castles seized.</span> +<span class="i0">Now saith the King his war is at an end,</span> +<span class="i0">And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs</span> +<span class="i0">His steed.... The Count Rollánd the pennon white</span> +<span class="i0">Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.</span> +<span class="i0">In all the country round the Franks their tents</span> +<span class="i0">Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along</span> +<span class="i0">The mighty vales. In hauberk clad—their backs</span> +<span class="i0">In armor cased; with helmets clasped—sword girt</span> +<span class="i0">On thigh—shields on their necks—each lance in rest,</span> +<span class="i0">Within a thicket on the mount they halt.</span> +<span class="i0">Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.</span> +<span class="i0">The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[39]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_57" id="St_57">LVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Passes the day; the shades of night have fallen.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle the great Emp'ror sleeps; and in a dream</span> +<span class="i0">He marches through the deep defiles of Sizre.</span> +<span class="i0">In his right hand his ashen spear he holds,</span> +<span class="i0">Which suddenly Count Ganelon has snatched</span> +<span class="i0">From him, and shook and brandished in such wise</span> +<span class="i0">That, breaking, high tow'rd Heav'n the splinters flew.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle sleeps—naught from his slumber can arouse him.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_58" id="St_58">LVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Another vision followed hereupon:</span> +<span class="i0">He is in France, in his <i>Chapelle</i>, at Aix.</span> +<span class="i0">A bear his right arm caught with such sharp fangs</span> +<span class="i0">[That from the bone the flesh is torn away.]</span> +<span class="i0">From toward Ardennes he saw a leopard come,</span> +<span class="i0">Which in his dream, made on him fierce attack;</span> +<span class="i0">But then a greyhound dashes from the hall</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[40]</span><span class="i0">Unto Carle's rescue, swift of leap and bound;</span> +<span class="i0">First from the treach'rous bear the hound tears off</span> +<span class="i0">An ear, then with the leopard combat makes.</span> +<span class="i0">"See!" cry the French, "what battle fierce is here."</span> +<span class="i0">But they know not which of the two will win</span> +<span class="i0">The field—Carle still asleep naught can awake.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_59" id="St_59">LIX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vanished the night, and the clear dawn appeared.</span> +<span class="i0">With noble mien the Emperor mounts his steed,</span> +<span class="i0">And 'mid the host one thousand trumpets sound:</span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Barons</i>," said Carle:—"You see those deep defiles</span> +<span class="i0">And narrow passes—judge who in the rear</span> +<span class="i0">Will take command." Said Ganelon:—"Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">My step-son, whom among your valiant knights</span> +<span class="i0">You prize the most." Carle hearing this, upon</span> +<span class="i0">Him sternly looked:—"Thou art the devil's self,"</span> +<span class="i0">Said he, "or else a mortal rage has stung</span> +<span class="i0">Thy heart! Say, who before me in the van</span> +<span class="i0">Will march? 'Twill be Ogier de Dannemarche!</span> +<span class="i0">You have no better Baron for the post."</span> + +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[41]</span></p> + +<h4><a name="St_60" id="St_60">LX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When hears the Count Rollánd the lot has fallen</span> +<span class="i0">Upon himself, as loyal knight he speaks:—</span> +<span class="i0">"You, sire step-father, dear and well beloved</span> +<span class="i0">Must be, since you have named me for the rear;</span> +<span class="i0">Nor shall Carl'magne, the King of France, lose aught,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor palfrey, nor fleet steed, if knowledge true</span> +<span class="i0">I have, nor male nor female mule that man</span> +<span class="i0">Can ride, nor beast of burden, horse or ass,</span> +<span class="i0">Unreckoned for with these good swords of ours."</span> +<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:—"The truth you speak, I know."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_61" id="St_61">LXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When hears Rollánd the rear shall be his lot,</span> +<span class="i0">To his step-father thus in wrath he speaks:—</span> +<span class="i0">"Ah! traitor, evil man of race impure,</span> +<span class="i0">Thou thought'st to see me here let fall the glove</span> +<span class="i0">As thou erst dropped the staff before the King!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_62" id="St_62">LXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd [addressing thus Carl'magne:]</span> +<span class="i0">"Give me the bow that now your hand doth hold,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[42]</span><span class="i0">For, to my knowledge, none will e'er throw blame</span> +<span class="i0">On me for dropping it, as fell on earth</span> +<span class="i0">Your right hand glove, when he received the staff."</span> +<span class="i0">With head declined the Emperor remains:</span> +<span class="i0">Oft plucks and twists the beard on lip and cheek,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor can his eyes restrain their falling tears.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_63" id="St_63">LXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Naimes after came—no better ever was</span> +<span class="i0">A vassal in the court. He said to Carle:</span> +<span class="i0">"You hear him; greatly wroth is Count Rollánd;</span> +<span class="i0">The rear guard is assigned to his command;</span> +<span class="i0">No baron have you that with him would make</span> +<span class="i0">Exchange. Give him the bow and your hand has bent,</span> +<span class="i0">And look for those who best may lend him help."</span> +<span class="i0">Carle gives the bow which Count Rollánd receives.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_64" id="St_64">LXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor calls to Rollánd and says:—</span> +<span class="i0">"Fair sire, my nephew, truly you must know</span> +<span class="i0">Half of my army will I leave with you;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[43]</span><span class="i0">Keep them; in their good help your safety lies."</span> +<span class="i0">Then said the Count:—"Of this will I do naught!</span> +<span class="i0">May God confound me, ere my race I shame;</span> +<span class="i0">But twenty thousand valiant knights I keep!</span> +<span class="i0">Through the defiles you can in safety pass</span> +<span class="i0">And fear no harm from man while yet I live."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_65" id="St_65">LXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd sits on his steed, and nigh him rides</span> +<span class="i0">His comrade Olivier. There came Gerin,</span> +<span class="i0">Gerier the brave, Othon and Berengier;</span> +<span class="i0">There came Sansun, Anseïs the fierce; there came</span> +<span class="i0">Also Gerard de Roussillon the old,</span> +<span class="i0">Together with the <i>Gascuin</i> Engelier.</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop said:—"I, by my head, will go!"</span> +<span class="i0">"—And I with you," exclaimed the Count Gualtier;</span> +<span class="i0">"Rollánd's own man am I, and follow him!"</span> +<span class="i0">From all are chosen twenty thousand knights.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_66" id="St_66">LXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd calls up Gualtier de l'Hum:</span> +<span class="i0">"One thousand Franks of France, our land, array,</span> +<span class="i0">And with them cover heights and passes, that</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[44]</span><span class="i0">The Emperor may lose none of his host."</span> +<span class="i0">Responds Gualtier:—"This am I bound to do</span> +<span class="i0">For you."—Forthwith one thousand Franks of France</span> +<span class="i0">O'errun each height and pass.—None shall descend</span> +<span class="i0">Despite ill news, ere seven hundred swords</span> +<span class="i0">Unsheathe. That very day King Almaris</span> +<span class="i0">Who rules Belferne, met them with battle fierce.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_67" id="St_67">LXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark—</span> +<span class="i0">The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.</span> +<span class="i0">The French toiled through them painfully; their march</span> +<span class="i0">Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land</span> +<span class="i0">Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,</span> +<span class="i0">And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,</span> +<span class="i0">Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:</span> +<span class="i0">Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;</span> +<span class="i0">But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns</span> +<span class="i0">His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....</span> +<span class="i0">By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[45]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_68" id="St_68">LXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score</span> +<span class="i0">Of Franks are under their command, to whom</span> +<span class="i0">Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death.</span> +<span class="i0">Carl'magne to France returns—within his cloak</span> +<span class="i0">He hides his face—Naimes, riding near, inquired:</span> +<span class="i0">"What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"—</span> +<span class="i0">"Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I</span> +<span class="i0">I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep</span> +<span class="i0">Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance</span> +<span class="i0">Broken up within my hand by him who named</span> +<span class="i0">My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left</span> +<span class="i0">Him in a foreign land;—O mighty God,</span> +<span class="i0">Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_69" id="St_69">LXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carle the great King, no more restrains his tears:</span> +<span class="i0">One hundred thousand Franks great sympathy</span> +<span class="i0">Give him, with strangest fear for Count Rollánd.</span> +<span class="i0">Vile Ganelon, the wretch, this treason wrought!</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[46]</span><span class="i0">He, from the Pagan King received rich gifts</span> +<span class="i0">Of gold and silver, silk and ciclatons,</span> +<span class="i0">Lions and camels, horses, mules. Behold,</span> +<span class="i0">King Marsile summons all his Counts from Spain,</span> +<span class="i0">His Viscounts, Dukes and Almazours; with these</span> +<span class="i0">The Emirs, and the sons of noble Counts;</span> +<span class="i0">Four hundred thousand gathered in three days,</span> +<span class="i0">In Sarraguce are beaten all the drums;</span> +<span class="i0">Mohammed's image to the loftiest tower</span> +<span class="i0">Is raised on high.—No Pagan but adores</span> +<span class="i0">And prays before him.—They then madly ride</span> +<span class="i0">Throughout the land, o'er mountain and o'er vale.</span> +<span class="i0">At last they see the gonfalons of France;</span> +<span class="i0">It is the rear-guard of the twelve compeers:</span> +<span class="i0">Nor will they fail to give them battle now.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_70" id="St_70">LXX.</a></h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hastes to the front the nephew of Marsile,</span> +<span class="i0">Goading the mule that bears him, with a staff.</span> +<span class="i0">Says to his uncle, gayly laughing loud:</span> +<span class="i0">"Fair King, till now I served you well; for you</span> +<span class="i0">Endured hard pain and grief.—The only fee</span> +<span class="i0">I ask is this:—To strike Rollánd! I swear</span> +<span class="i0">To give him death with my good trenchant sword,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[47]</span><span class="i0">And if his help Mohammed will bestow,</span> +<span class="i0">On me, forever shall all Spain be free,</span> +<span class="i0">From the defiles of Aspre to Durestant.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle then will yield,—the Franks, surrender all;</span> +<span class="i0">No more in all your life will you have war."</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile bestows on him the glove.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_71" id="St_71">LXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The nephew of Marsile holds in his grasp</span> +<span class="i0">The glove, and to the King with haughty pride</span> +<span class="i0">Speaks:—"Fair Sire King, your gift I dearly prize;</span> +<span class="i0">Choose you for me eleven of your Knights,</span> +<span class="i0">And I will go and combat the twelve Peers."</span> +<span class="i0">The first response was that of Falsaun:</span> +<span class="i0">He was the brother of the King Marsile.—</span> +<span class="i0">"Fair nephew, we shall go, both you and I;</span> +<span class="i0">In battle side by side, we shall engage.</span> +<span class="i0">The rear of Carle's great host is doomed to die!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_72" id="St_72">LXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">King Corsalis stands on the other side;</span> +<span class="i0">He comes from Barbary; a soul of guile.</span> +<span class="i0">Still speaks he there not unlike vassal true</span> +<span class="i0">Who would not for the gold of heav'n be base:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[48]</span><span class="i0">"If there I find Rollànd, we meet in fight.</span> +<span class="i0">I am the third; now choose ye out the fourth."</span> +<span class="i0">See you the spurring Malprimis de Brigal,</span> +<span class="i0">Faster on foot than runs the fastest steed?</span> +<span class="i0">Before Marsile in a loud voice he cries:</span> +<span class="i0">"I shall my body take to Ronceval;</span> +<span class="i0">If there I find Rollànd, by me he dies."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_73" id="St_73">LXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">An Emir now is there, from Balaguer.</span> +<span class="i0">Of handsome form, with proud and cheerful face,</span> +<span class="i0">When on his steed he vaults, well doth he show</span> +<span class="i0">With what great pride his armor's mail is borne.</span> +<span class="i0">For truest vassalage he is renowned;</span> +<span class="i0">Were he but Christian, 'twere a baron true.</span> +<span class="i0">Before Marsile he stands and loudly cries:</span> +<span class="i0">"My body I will take to Ronceval;</span> +<span class="i0">If there I face Rollànd his doom is sure,</span> +<span class="i0">Eke Olivier and the twelve peers, all die.</span> +<span class="i0">The Franks shall perish in despair and shame.</span> +<span class="i0">Carl'magne is old and dotes. O'erwhelmed, at last</span> +<span class="i0">He will give up this waging war, and Spain</span> +<span class="i0">Forever shall be kept beneath our sway."</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile on him bestows great thanks.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[49]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_74" id="St_74">LXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Then from the Moorish land an Almazour</span> +<span class="i0">Steps forth. All Spain can show no greater wretch.</span> +<span class="i0">Before Marsile he makes a boastful vaunt:</span> +<span class="i0">"To Ronceval will I my people lead—</span> +<span class="i0">Full twenty thousand men with lance and shield.</span> +<span class="i0">If I Rollànd find there, I pledge his death;</span> +<span class="i0">No after-day shall dawn but Carle shall weep."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_75" id="St_75">LXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">From elsewhere comes Turgis de Turteluse.</span> +<span class="i0">He is a count, and o'er this city wields</span> +<span class="i0">His sway; hate unto Christians has he vowed,</span> +<span class="i0">And stands with all the rest before Marsile.</span> +<span class="i0">He thus addressed the king: "Ne'er be dismayed!</span> +<span class="i0">More worth Mohammed than Saint Pierre of Rome;</span> +<span class="i0">But serve him well, the honor of the field</span> +<span class="i0">[Is ours]. I'll meet Rollánd at Ronceval</span> +<span class="i0">Where none can guard him. Mark this sword of mine;</span> +<span class="i0">Its blade, so good and long, in desperate fight</span> +<span class="i0">Will cross with Durendal; and you will hear</span> +<span class="i0">Which of the two shall win the victory.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[50]</span><span class="i0">Abandoned unto us the French must die.</span> +<span class="i0">The old King Carle will have both grief and shame,</span> +<span class="i0">And never more on earth will wear a crown."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_76" id="St_76">LXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Comes up besides Escremiz de Valterne,</span> +<span class="i0">A Saracen, and of that country lord.</span> +<span class="i0">Before Marsile among the throng he cries:</span> +<span class="i0">"To Ronceval I go, to crush the proud;</span> +<span class="i0">Nor shall Rollánd, if there, bear off his head,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor Olivier, chief of the other knights;</span> +<span class="i0">The twelve peers, all are doomed to perish there.</span> +<span class="i0">The French shall die, and France become a waste.</span> +<span class="i0">Of such good vassals Carle will see the loss."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_77" id="St_77">LXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">And came with Esturgant, Estramaris,</span> +<span class="i0">His friend; both wretches, traitors, villains are....</span> +<span class="i0">Thus spake Marsile: "Come forth, Seigneurs; ye both</span> +<span class="i0">To Ronceval's defiles shall go and help</span> +<span class="i0">Me there to lead my host." Both answer: "King,</span> +<span class="i0">At your command, Rollánd and Olivier</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[51]</span><span class="i0">Will we assault. No power can the twelve peers</span> +<span class="i0">From death defend against our trenchant swords</span> +<span class="i0">Whose blades shall redden with hot blood. The French</span> +<span class="i0">Are doomed to death and Carle to doleful life.</span> +<span class="i0">France, the Great Land, shall through our arms become</span> +<span class="i0">Your realm. Come, King, to see this verified;</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor's self a captive we'll present."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_78" id="St_78">LXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">There hastens Margariz de Sibilie</span> +<span class="i0">Who holds the country toward the distant sea.</span> +<span class="i0">His beauty such, all ladies are his friends;</span> +<span class="i0">Not one looks on him but to smile, nor can</span> +<span class="i0">Restrain her laughing joy. No Pagan else</span> +<span class="i0">More glorious deeds of chivalry achieved;</span> +<span class="i0">Pressed through the crowd, he cries above the rest</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the king: "Be not dismayed, for I</span> +<span class="i0">To Ronceval will go to kill Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier shall not escape alive;</span> +<span class="i0">To martyrdom the twelve Peers are condemned.</span> +<span class="i0">See my good sword with gold-embossèd hilt,</span> +<span class="i0">Given me by the <i>Amiralz</i> of Prime;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[52]</span> +<span class="i0">I pledge my faith it will be dyed in blood.</span> +<span class="i0">The French shall perish, France be steeped in shame,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle the old, with beard all blossom-white,</span> +<span class="i0">Shall see no day uncursed by grief and wrath.</span> +<span class="i0">Before one year we shall have conquered France</span> +<span class="i0">And slept beneath the roofs of Saint-Denis."</span> +<span class="i0">At this, the Pagan king bowed low his head.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_79" id="St_79">LXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire].</span> +<span class="i0">His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he</span> +<span class="i0">Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear</span> +<span class="i0">Four hundred loaded mules.—In his [far-land]</span> +<span class="i0">They say—the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow,</span> +<span class="i0">The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil;</span> +<span class="i0">No stone there but is black, and it is said</span> +<span class="i0">By some that in that land the demons dwell.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus said Chernubles:—"My sword hangs at my belt;</span> +<span class="i0">At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should</span> +<span class="i0">I find Rollánd the brave upon my path,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[53]</span><span class="i0">This my good sword shall conquer Durendal,</span> +<span class="i0">The French shall die, and France must be destroyed."</span> +<span class="i0">At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers,</span> +<span class="i0">And lead one hundred thousand Saracens</span> +<span class="i0">Who for the battle hasten and prepare,</span> +<span class="i0">Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_80" id="St_80">LXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on;</span> +<span class="i0">The greater part are triply lined; they lace</span> +<span class="i0">Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs</span> +<span class="i0">Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields;</span> +<span class="i0">Their lances from Valence; their banners white</span> +<span class="i0">And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts</span> +<span class="i0">Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds,</span> +<span class="i0">And forward press in closely serried lines.</span> +<span class="i0">Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun;</span> +<span class="i0">No armor but reflected back the light.</span> +<span class="i0">A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts</span> +<span class="i0">So loud, the French can hear—. Says Olivier:</span> +<span class="i0">"Rollànd, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[54]</span><span class="i0">We shall have battle with the Saracens!"</span> +<span class="i0">To which Rollánd: "God grant it may be so.</span> +<span class="i0">Here must we do our duty to our King;</span> +<span class="i0">A man should for his Lord and for his cause</span> +<span class="i0">Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold,</span> +<span class="i0">Lose all, even to his very hair and skin!</span> +<span class="i0">'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows,</span> +<span class="i0">That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung.</span> +<span class="i0">The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right.</span> +<span class="i0">No ill example e'er shall come from me."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[55]</span></p> + +<h4>PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_81" id="St_81">LXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier from the summit of a hill</span> +<span class="i0">On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,</span> +<span class="i0">And views the Pagans' onward marching hordes;</span> +<span class="i0">Then straight he called his faithful friend Rollánd:</span> +<span class="i0">"From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,</span> +<span class="i0">So many hauberks white and flashing helms</span> +<span class="i0">I see!—This will inflame our French men's hearts.</span> +<span class="i0">The treason is the work of Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Who named us for this post before the King."</span> +<span class="i0">"Hush! Olivier!"—the Count Rollánd replies,</span> +<span class="i0">"'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_82" id="St_82">LXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Count Olivier is posted on a hill</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[56]</span><span class="i0">From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all</span> +<span class="i0">The swarming host of Saracens; their helms</span> +<span class="i0">So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,</span> +<span class="i0">Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,</span> +<span class="i0">He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds</span> +<span class="i0">They come, his sight reached not unto their end.</span> +<span class="i0">Then all bewildered he descends the hill,</span> +<span class="i0">Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_83" id="St_83">LXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more</span> +<span class="i0">Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least</span> +<span class="i0">One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,</span> +<span class="i0">In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,</span> +<span class="i0">Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.</span> +<span class="i0">Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.</span> +<span class="i0">French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!</span> +<span class="i0">Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."</span> +<span class="i0">The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!</span> +<span class="i0">Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[57]</span></p> + + +<h4>ROLAND'S PRIDE.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_84" id="St_84">LXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;</span> +<span class="i0">Our French, methinks, in number are too few;</span> +<span class="i0">Companion Rollánd, sound your horn, that Carle</span> +<span class="i0">May hear and send his army back to help."</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd replies:—"Great folly would be mine,</span> +<span class="i0">And all my glory in sweet France be lost.</span> +<span class="i0">No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;</span> +<span class="i0">To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.</span> +<span class="i0">In evil hour the felon Pagans came</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_85" id="St_85">LXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Rollànd, companion, sound your olifant,</span> +<span class="i0">That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.</span> +<span class="i0">With all his Baronage the king will give</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[58]</span><span class="i0">Us held!"—Replied Rollánd:—"May God fore-fend</span> +<span class="i0">That for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,</span> +<span class="i0">Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.</span> +<span class="i0">Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,</span> +<span class="i0">This my good sword now girt unto my side</span> +<span class="i0">Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.</span> +<span class="i0">Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate</span> +<span class="i0">Together met—yea, death awaits them all."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_86" id="St_86">LXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Companion Rollánd, sound your olifant!</span> +<span class="i0">If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,</span> +<span class="i0">To you I pledge my word, the French return."</span> +<span class="i0">Answered Rollánd:—"May God forbid!—Ne'er be</span> +<span class="i0">It said by living man that Pagans could</span> +<span class="i0">Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace</span> +<span class="i0">Upon my kin!—When on the battle field,</span> +<span class="i0">I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,</span> +<span class="i0">And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.</span> +<span class="i0">[The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]</span> +<span class="i0">Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[59]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_87" id="St_87">LXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier said:—"To me there seems no shame;</span> +<span class="i0">I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarm</span> +<span class="i0">O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;</span> +<span class="i0">Great is this stranger host; our number small."</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd replies:—"The more my ardor grows.</span> +<span class="i0">God and his [blessed] angels grant that France</span> +<span class="i0">Lose naught of her renown through my default.</span> +<span class="i0">Better to die than in dishonor [live.]</span> +<span class="i0">The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_88" id="St_88">LXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd is brave and Olivier is wise;</span> +<span class="i0">Both knights of wond'rous courage—and in arms</span> +<span class="i0">And mounted on their steeds, they both will die</span> +<span class="i0">Ere they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts</span> +<span class="i0">And proud their words.—The Pagan felons ride</span> +<span class="i0">In fury on!—"Rollánd," said Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">"One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Afar from us—you have not deigned to blow</span> +<span class="i0">Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.</span> +<span class="i0">Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[60]</span><span class="i0">There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those</span> +<span class="i0">Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]</span> +<span class="i0">Rollànd retorts:—"Speak not such shameful words.</span> +<span class="i0">Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart</span> +<span class="i0">Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;</span> +<span class="i0">The combat and the blows from us shall come."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_89" id="St_89">LXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Now when Rollánd the battle sees at hand,</span> +<span class="i0">More than a leopard's or a lion's pride</span> +<span class="i0">He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:</span> +<span class="i0">"Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor who left his French in trust</span> +<span class="i0">To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.</span> +<span class="i0">Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.</span> +<span class="i0">A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,</span> +<span class="i0">Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give</span> +<span class="i0">Even to his flesh and blood—Strike with your lance,</span> +<span class="i0">And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,</span> +<span class="i0">Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins</span> +<span class="i0">It, say:—'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[61]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_90" id="St_90">XC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Turpin the Archbishop from another side,</span> +<span class="i0">Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls</span> +<span class="i0">The French around. This sermon to them speaks:</span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, Carle left us here: for him,</span> +<span class="i0">Our King, our duty is to die, to aid</span> +<span class="i0">In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ</span> +<span class="i0">Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there</span> +<span class="i0">Before your eyes behold the Saracens.</span> +<span class="i0">Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!</span> +<span class="i0">For your soul's cure I absolution give....</span> +<span class="i0">If you should die, as holy martyrs ye</span> +<span class="i0">Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"</span> +<span class="i0">The French alight and fall upon their knees;</span> +<span class="i0">The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,</span> +<span class="i0">Giving for penance his command to strike.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_91" id="St_91">XCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit</span> +<span class="i0">Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.</span> +<span class="i0">On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie</span> +<span class="i0">As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Rollánd</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[62]</span> +<span class="i0">Calls Olivier:—"Companion, sire, full well</span> +<span class="i0">You know, it is Count Ganelon who has</span> +<span class="i0">Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received</span> +<span class="i0">In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should</span> +<span class="i0">Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made</span> +<span class="i0">Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_92" id="St_92">XCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift</span> +<span class="i0">And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.</span> +<span class="i0">On goes the brave Rollánd, his lance borne up</span> +<span class="i0">Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,</span> +<span class="i0">Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.</span> +<span class="i0">Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.</span> +<span class="i0">Behind him follows Olivier his friend;</span> +<span class="i0">The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.</span> +<span class="i0">He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,</span> +<span class="i0">But casts a sweet and humble look upon</span> +<span class="i0">His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:</span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, march steadily and close.</span> +<span class="i0">These Pagans hither came to find a grave;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[63]</span><span class="i0">We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day</span> +<span class="i0">As never yet was gained by Kings of France."</span> +<span class="i0">Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_93" id="St_93">XCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Said Olivier:—"No care have I to speak,</span> +<span class="i0">Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,</span> +<span class="i0">All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.</span> +<span class="i0">He knows no word of this; the fault lies not</span> +<span class="i0">In him, nor are yon Knights to blame—ride on</span> +<span class="i0">And gallop to the charge as best you can.</span> +<span class="i0"><i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, recoil not from the foe,</span> +<span class="i0">In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,</span> +<span class="i0">Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure</span> +<span class="i0">Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"</span> +<span class="i0">At this word all the French together shout.</span> +<span class="i0">Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had known</span> +<span class="i0">What courage is. Then all together rush</span> +<span class="i0">Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!</span> +<span class="i0">Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;</span> +<span class="i0">They burn to fight. What else can they desire?</span> +<span class="i0">The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....</span> +<span class="i0">Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[64]</span></p> + +<h4>THE MELEE.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_94" id="St_94">XCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The nephew of Marsile—his name Aëlroth,</span> +<span class="i0">Forward the first of all spurs on his horse</span> +<span class="i0">Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:</span> +<span class="i0">"To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;</span> +<span class="i0">Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad</span> +<span class="i0">Must be the King who left you in the pass.</span> +<span class="i0">So now the honor of sweet France is lost,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."</span> +<span class="i0">Rollànd heard.—God! what pain to him! He drives</span> +<span class="i0">His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,</span> +<span class="i0">And rushes at full speed against Aëlroth;</span> +<span class="i0">His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;</span> +<span class="i0">Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,</span> +<span class="i0">And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance</span> +<span class="i0">Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[65]</span><span class="i0">The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd still taunts him:—"Go thou, wretch, and know</span> +<span class="i0">Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,</span> +<span class="i0">And he did well to leave us in the pass.</span> +<span class="i0">To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!</span> +<span class="i0">Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;</span> +<span class="i0">We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_95" id="St_95">XCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;</span> +<span class="i0">He is the brother of the King Marsile.</span> +<span class="i0">The lands of Dathan and of Abirun</span> +<span class="i0">He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.</span> +<span class="i0">Vast is his forehead, and the space between</span> +<span class="i0">His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.</span> +<span class="i0">Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds</span> +<span class="i0">Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.</span> +<span class="i0">"To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose</span> +<span class="i0">Her fame!"—When Olivier heard this, in wrath</span> +<span class="i0">He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,</span> +<span class="i0">And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[66]</span><span class="i0">Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears</span> +<span class="i0">Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast</span> +<span class="i0">As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,</span> +<span class="i0">A mangled corpse;—here lies he on the ground.</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the prostrate body Olivier</span> +<span class="i0">Says proudly:—"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!</span> +<span class="i0">Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!</span> +<span class="i0">Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_96" id="St_96">XCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,</span> +<span class="i0">A distant land, is there.—The Pagan host</span> +<span class="i0">He calls;—"The field is ours with ease: the French</span> +<span class="i0">So few in numbers we may well disdain,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.</span> +<span class="i0">To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth</span> +<span class="i0">He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks</span> +<span class="i0">His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,</span> +<span class="i0">And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[67]</span><span class="i0">The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke</span> +<span class="i0">Of the long lance into his body driven,</span> +<span class="i0">Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;</span> +<span class="i0">Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:</span> +<span class="i0">"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl</span> +<span class="i0">My lord, was ever and will ever be</span> +<span class="i0">Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.</span> +<span class="i0">As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;</span> +<span class="i0">I tell you, each this day shall die.—Strike, Franks,</span> +<span class="i0">Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,</span> +<span class="i0">Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_97" id="St_97">XCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal</span> +<span class="i0">Whose good shield now was not a denier worth:</span> +<span class="i0">The crystal boss all broken, and one half</span> +<span class="i0">Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin</span> +<span class="i0">His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart</span> +<span class="i0">The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;</span> +<span class="i0">And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[68]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_98" id="St_98">XCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,</span> +<span class="i0">Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,</span> +<span class="i0">Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such</span> +<span class="i0">Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;</span> +<span class="i0">And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.—</span> +<span class="i0">Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_99" id="St_99">XCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;</span> +<span class="i0">He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold</span> +<span class="i0">Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,</span> +<span class="i0">As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.</span> +<span class="i0">For him may mourn who will—death-struck he falls:</span> +<span class="i0">"That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_100" id="St_100">C.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Anseïs gives his steed the rein, and charges</span> +<span class="i0">Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath</span> +<span class="i0">The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[69]</span><span class="i0">Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true</span> +<span class="i0">The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.</span> +<span class="i0">With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_101" id="St_101">CI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,</span> +<span class="i0">Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,</span> +<span class="i0">Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;</span> +<span class="i0">Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat</span> +<span class="i0">And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast</span> +<span class="i0">The lance strikes deep and passes in between</span> +<span class="i0">The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck</span> +<span class="i0">He falls.—And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_102" id="St_102">CII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,</span> +<span class="i0">His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,</span> +<span class="i0">Effacing its bright colors red and white,</span> +<span class="i0">Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep</span> +<span class="i0">Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,</span> +<span class="i0">From off the flying steed striking him dead.</span> +<span class="i0">This done, he says:—"No hope for you remains!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[70]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_103" id="St_103">CIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">And Berengier smites now Estramaris,</span> +<span class="i0">Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail</span> +<span class="i0">In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.</span> +<span class="i0">Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.</span> +<span class="i0">Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:</span> +<span class="i0">Chernuble—Margariz, the Count, survive.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_104" id="St_104">CIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all</span> +<span class="i0">Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs</span> +<span class="i0">His horse and charges Olivier; beneath</span> +<span class="i0">The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,</span> +<span class="i0">Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;</span> +<span class="i0">But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached</span> +<span class="i0">The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.</span> +<span class="i0">Then Margariz unhindered rides away</span> +<span class="i0">And sounds his horn to rally his own men.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_105" id="St_105">CV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The battle rages fierce. All men engage.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd, the dauntless, combats with his lance</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[71]</span> +<span class="i0">As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows</span> +<span class="i0">It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,</span> +<span class="i0">Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed</span> +<span class="i0">'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned</span> +<span class="i0">With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,</span> +<span class="i0">Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,</span> +<span class="i0">And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;</span> +<span class="i0">Down to the body's fork, the saddle all</span> +<span class="i0">Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,</span> +<span class="i0">Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight</span> +<span class="i0">And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired</span> +<span class="i0">To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....</span> +<span class="i0">Wretches like you this battle shall not win."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_106" id="St_106">CVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollànd rides through the battle-field</span> +<span class="i0">And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,</span> +<span class="i0">A mighty carnage of the Saracens.</span> +<span class="i0">Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[72]</span><span class="i0">Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;</span> +<span class="i0">His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,</span> +<span class="i0">And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!</span> +<span class="i0">Still Olivier halts not in his career.</span> +<span class="i0">Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,</span> +<span class="i0">And all the French strike well and massacre</span> +<span class="i0">The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.</span> +<span class="i0">Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!</span> +<span class="i0">Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_107" id="St_107">CVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,</span> +<span class="i0">Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,</span> +<span class="i0">And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,</span> +<span class="i0">Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,</span> +<span class="i0">Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out</span> +<span class="i0">Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;</span> +<span class="i0">With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.</span> +<span class="i0">The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;</span> +<span class="i0">But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.</span> +<span class="i0">Then said Rollánd: "What mean you, <i>Compagnon</i>?</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[73]</span> +<span class="i0">In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff</span> +<span class="i0">We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.</span> +<span class="i0">Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt</span> +<span class="i0">Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time</span> +<span class="i0">To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,</span> +<span class="i0">"So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_108" id="St_108">CVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,</span> +<span class="i0">For which Rollánd entreated him so much,</span> +<span class="i0">And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;</span> +<span class="i0">Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferrée,</span> +<span class="i0">Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through</span> +<span class="i0">Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through</span> +<span class="i0">The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,</span> +<span class="i0">And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man</span> +<span class="i0">And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed</span> +<span class="i0">My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"</span> +<span class="i0">And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[74]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_109" id="St_109">CIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,</span> +<span class="i0">And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,</span> +<span class="i0">They loose the reins, and both spur on against</span> +<span class="i0">A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,</span> +<span class="i0">The other strikes the hauberk;—in his heart</span> +<span class="i0">The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.</span> +<span class="i0">I never heard it said nor can I know</span> +<span class="i0">By which of them the swifter blow was struck.—</span> +<span class="i0">Esperveris, son to Borel, was next</span> +<span class="i0">By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin</span> +<span class="i0">With his own hand gave death to Siglorel</span> +<span class="i0">Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there</span> +<span class="i0">By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:—"Forfeit paid</span> +<span class="i0">For crime!"—"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">"My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_110" id="St_110">CX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie</span> +<span class="i0">In dealing blows; attacking now, and now</span> +<span class="i0">Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[75]</span><span class="i0">So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:</span> +<span class="i0">Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!</span> +<span class="i0">So many valiant French mowed in their prime,</span> +<span class="i0">Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see</span> +<span class="i0">Again, nor those of France who in the Pass</span> +<span class="i0">Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.</span> +<span class="i0">But what avails? Naught can he help them now.</span> +<span class="i0">Ill service rendered Ganelon to them</span> +<span class="i0">The day when he to Sarraguce repaired</span> +<span class="i0">To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost</span> +<span class="i0">Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,</span> +<span class="i0">There to be hanged with thirty of his race</span> +<span class="i0">Who were not spared the punishment of death.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_111" id="St_111">CXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The battle rages. Wonders all perform;</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd and Olivier strike hard; Turpin</span> +<span class="i0">Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;</span> +<span class="i0">The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,</span> +<span class="i0">While all the French together fight as if</span> +<span class="i0">One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[76]</span><span class="i0">The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly</span> +<span class="i0">Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.</span> +<span class="i0">And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,</span> +<span class="i0">Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see</span> +<span class="i0">Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.</span> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<span class="i0">Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:</span> +<span class="i0">Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts</span> +<span class="i0">Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,</span> +<span class="i0">The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril</span> +<span class="i0">As far as to the Saints, from Besançon</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house</span> +<span class="i0">Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon</span> +<span class="i0">Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above</span> +<span class="i0">Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed</span> +<span class="i0">Beholders cry:—"The world's last day has come,</span> +<span class="i0">The destined end of all things is at hand!"</span> +<span class="i0">Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....</span> +<span class="i0">'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rollánd!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_112" id="St_112">CXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.</span> +<span class="i0">In multitudes—by thousands die their foes;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[77]</span><span class="i0">Not two out of one hundred thousand now</span> +<span class="i0">Survive. [Turpin] says:—"Brave are all our men;—</span> +<span class="i0">None braver under Heaven—In the Geste</span> +<span class="i0">Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."</span> +<span class="i0">Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.</span> +<span class="i0">Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears</span> +<span class="i0">For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....</span> +<span class="i0">Now King Marsile with his great host appears....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_113" id="St_113">CXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,</span> +<span class="i0">Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,</span> +<span class="i0">In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.</span> +<span class="i0">Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,</span> +<span class="i0">And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge</span> +<span class="i0">With seven hundred clarions sending forth</span> +<span class="i0">Loud blasts throughout the land—Thus said Rollánd:</span> +<span class="i0">"Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,</span> +<span class="i0">The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....</span> +<span class="i0">His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[78]</span><span class="i0">For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.</span> +<span class="i0">A long and cruel battle we shall have,</span> +<span class="i0">Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight</span> +<span class="i0">With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike</span> +<span class="i0">With Halteclere—Those noble swords we bore</span> +<span class="i0">Throughout so many lands; such combats won</span> +<span class="i0">By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_114" id="St_114">CXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm</span> +<span class="i0">The country o'er, they call on Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.</span> +<span class="i0">Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!</span> +<span class="i0">Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men</span> +<span class="i0">Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die</span> +<span class="i0">In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,</span> +<span class="i0">And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.</span> +<span class="i0">But for one thing ye can believe my word:</span> +<span class="i0">For you God's Paradise stands open wide,</span> +<span class="i0">And seats await you 'mid the blessèd Saints."</span> +<span class="i0">These words of comfort reassure the French;</span> +<span class="i0">All in one voice cry out:—"Montjoie! Montjoie!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[79]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_115" id="St_115">CXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">There was a Saracen from Sarraguce</span> +<span class="i0">Lord of one half the city—Climorin,</span> +<span class="i0">Unlike a Baron; he received the faith</span> +<span class="i0">Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond</span> +<span class="i0">By pressing on his lip a kiss—Besides</span> +<span class="i0">Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.</span> +<span class="i0">"I will," said he, "put your great France to shame</span> +<span class="i0">And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"</span> +<span class="i0">Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies</span> +<span class="i0">Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs</span> +<span class="i0">His courser hard, and dropping on its neck</span> +<span class="i0">The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;</span> +<span class="i0">Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:</span> +<span class="i0">Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear</span> +<span class="i0">So mightily, its point comes out behind,</span> +<span class="i0">And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field</span> +<span class="i0">A corse;—he cries. "Fit for destruction these!</span> +<span class="i0">Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"</span> +<span class="i0">The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_116" id="St_116">CXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "You know,</span> +<span class="i0">Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[80]</span><span class="i0">No better Knight had we"—The Count replies:</span> +<span class="i0">"God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives</span> +<span class="i0">His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;</span> +<span class="i0">And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....</span> +<span class="i0">O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell</span> +<span class="i0">Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke</span> +<span class="i0">Alphaïen, beheads Escababi,</span> +<span class="i0">Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill</span> +<span class="i0">They rise no more to fight. Then said Rollánd:</span> +<span class="i0">"Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves</span> +<span class="i0">Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.</span> +<span class="i0">Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"—he cries aloud.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_117" id="St_117">CXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.</span> +<span class="i0">There is no sailor but swears by his name;</span> +<span class="i0">'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,</span> +<span class="i0">Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,</span> +<span class="i0">And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;</span> +<span class="i0">'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath</span> +<span class="i0">And gave him with his sword a thousand marks;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[81]</span><span class="i0">Faster than falcon in its flight his steed</span> +<span class="i0">Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks</span> +<span class="i0">And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,</span> +<span class="i0">Breaks down his shield—the hauberk rends, and thrusts</span> +<span class="i0">Within his breast the pennon of the flag;</span> +<span class="i0">The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead.</span> +<span class="i0">"Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"</span> +<span class="i0">The French say:—"God! what Baron true we lose!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_118" id="St_118">CXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall,</span> +<span class="i0">You may well know what grief was his. He spurs</span> +<span class="i0">His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal</span> +<span class="i0">More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike</span> +<span class="i0">With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,</span> +<span class="i0">Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through</span> +<span class="i0">The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,</span> +<span class="i0">Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve</span> +<span class="i0">Who may. The Pagans say:—"Hard is this blow!"</span> +<span class="i0">Retorts Rollánd:—"For yours no pity can</span> +<span class="i0">I feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[82]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_119" id="St_119">CXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">An African fresh from the desert land</span> +<span class="i0">Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;</span> +<span class="i0">His armor highly wrought in beaten gold</span> +<span class="i0">Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.</span> +<span class="i0">Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,</span> +<span class="i0">He aims a blow at Anseïs' shield, and cuts</span> +<span class="i0">The azure and vermillion all away.</span> +<span class="i0">His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,</span> +<span class="i0">And through his body pass both point and shaft.</span> +<span class="i0">The Count is dead.—His last breath spent and flown.</span> +<span class="i0">The French say:—"Baron, such great woe for you!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_120" id="St_120">CXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;</span> +<span class="i0">No shaven priest sang ever mass so well</span> +<span class="i0">As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.</span> +<span class="i0">He to the Pagan:—"May God send all ills</span> +<span class="i0">To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"</span> +<span class="i0">Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;</span> +<span class="i0">One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:</span> +<span class="i0">The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[83]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_121" id="St_121">CXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son</span> +<span class="i0">Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits</span> +<span class="i0">A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird</span> +<span class="i0">More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,</span> +<span class="i0">To smite Gerin with all his force he rides;</span> +<span class="i0">Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls</span> +<span class="i0">The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives</span> +<span class="i0">The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gerin</span> +<span class="i0">Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend,</span> +<span class="i0">And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;</span> +<span class="i0">Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire</span> +<span class="i0">Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,</span> +<span class="i0">He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol</span> +<span class="i0">Their triumph, but how many fall of ours!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_122" id="St_122">CXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.</span> +<span class="i0">His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,</span> +<span class="i0">Cries to the foe:—"May God all evils send</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[84]</span><span class="i0">On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt</span> +<span class="i0">Most dearly pay!—" He spurs his flying steed....</span> +<span class="i0">Conquer who may—these two fight hand to hand.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_123" id="St_123">CXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,</span> +<span class="i0">Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way</span> +<span class="i0">Encountering Count Rollánd, though never seen</span> +<span class="i0">Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well</span> +<span class="i0">By his proud mien and noble beauty, as</span> +<span class="i0">By his fair countenance and lofty look.</span> +<span class="i0">Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries</span> +<span class="i0">To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.</span> +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd smites him so skillfully,</span> +<span class="i0">He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,</span> +<span class="i0">And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then</span> +<span class="i0">Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;</span> +<span class="i0">With a still deeper stroke the courser's back</span> +<span class="i0">Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy.</span> +<span class="i0">The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;</span> +<span class="i0">But say the French:—"Well our defender strikes."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[85]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_124" id="St_124">CXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;</span> +<span class="i0">The French of strength and fury full, raise high</span> +<span class="i0">Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh</span> +<span class="i0">Cut through rent garments to the quick; along</span> +<span class="i0">The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans cry:—"We cannot more endure!</span> +<span class="i0">Great land, Mohammed curse thee!—More than all</span> +<span class="i0">This people bold."—Not one who does not cry</span> +<span class="i0">"Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_125" id="St_125">CXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">A battle fierce and wonderful!—Hard strike</span> +<span class="i0">The French with glittering lance, and there you might</span> +<span class="i0">Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed</span> +<span class="i0">And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out</span> +<span class="i0">Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth—</span> +<span class="i0">The Saracens give way, willing or not;</span> +<span class="i0">By the French lances forced, they fly the field.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[86]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_126" id="St_126">CXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,</span> +<span class="i0">And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,</span> +<span class="i0">Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.</span> +<span class="i0">In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,</span> +<span class="i0">The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep</span> +<span class="i0">In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,</span> +<span class="i0">Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch</span> +<span class="i0">His face; more fond of blood and treason foul</span> +<span class="i0">Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw</span> +<span class="i0">Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds</span> +<span class="i0">He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag</span> +<span class="i0">He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel</span> +<span class="i0">For him, and at his sight he craves to try</span> +<span class="i0">His arm, all softly saying to himself:</span> +<span class="i0">"This Saracen is but a heretic;</span> +<span class="i0">Far better die than not to give him death.</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_127" id="St_127">CXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;</span> +<span class="i0">He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[87]</span><span class="i0">A King he slew among the Danes: a horse</span> +<span class="i0">Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;</span> +<span class="i0">Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks</span> +<span class="i0">Are long, and very high his spine; pure white</span> +<span class="i0">His tail, and yellow is his mane—his ears</span> +<span class="i0">Are small—light brown his head. This paragon</span> +<span class="i0">Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer.</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,</span> +<span class="i0">Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;</span> +<span class="i0">He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield</span> +<span class="i0">Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,</span> +<span class="i0">Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir Galafés—a demon's gift</span> +<span class="i0">To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites</span> +<span class="i0">Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails</span> +<span class="i0">The shield but little; sheer from side to side</span> +<span class="i0">Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls.</span> +<span class="i0">At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:</span> +<span class="i0">"The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_128" id="St_128">CXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "With me,</span> +<span class="i0">Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[88]</span><span class="i0">The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n</span> +<span class="i0">Has not his peer in casting spear or lance."</span> +<span class="i0">Olivier answers:—"To his rescue on!"</span> +<span class="i0">At this the French once more resume the fight.</span> +<span class="i0">Hard are the blows, rough is the strife—Meantime</span> +<span class="i0">The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_129" id="St_129">CXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Whoever could this fight describe? Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill</span> +<span class="i0">And glorious deeds—The slain can counted be;</span> +<span class="i0">In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:</span> +<span class="i0">More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.</span> +<span class="i0">Four times the French arms were victorious,</span> +<span class="i0">But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;</span> +<span class="i0">The knights of France found there a grave, except</span> +<span class="i0">Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,</span> +<span class="i0">Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[89]</span></p> +<h4>THE HORN.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_130" id="St_130">CXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd unto his comrade Olivier</span> +<span class="i0">Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God</span> +<span class="i0">Whose blessing rest on you, those vassals true</span> +<span class="i0">And brave lie corses on the battle-field:</span> +<span class="i0">Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,</span> +<span class="i0">From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!</span> +<span class="i0">What can we do, say, brother Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"</span> +<span class="i0">Olivier answers:—"I know not; but this</span> +<span class="i0">I know; for us is better death than shame."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_131" id="St_131">CXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd says;—"I will blow mine olifant,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[90]</span><span class="i0">My word the French at once retrace their steps."</span> +<span class="i0">Said Olivier:—"This a great shame would be,</span> +<span class="i0">One which to all your kindred would bequeathe</span> +<span class="i0">A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,</span> +<span class="i0">You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now</span> +<span class="i0">With my consent you shall not;—if you blow</span> +<span class="i0">Your horn, of valor true you show no proof.</span> +<span class="i0">Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."</span> +<span class="i0">Responds the Count:—"These arms have nobly struck."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_132" id="St_132">CXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"The strife is rude," Rollánd says—"I will blow</span> +<span class="i0">My horn, that Carle may hear."—Said Olivier:—</span> +<span class="i0">"This would not courage be. What I desired,</span> +<span class="i0">Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,</span> +<span class="i0">Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not</span> +<span class="i0">To blame"—"By this my beard," said Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">"I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,</span> +<span class="i0">My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_133" id="St_133">CXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd asked Olivier—"Why show to me</span> +<span class="i0">Your anger, friend!"—"Companion, yours the fault;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[91]</span> +<span class="i0">True courage means not folly. Better far</span> +<span class="i0">Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French</span> +<span class="i0">Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.</span> +<span class="i0">And now our arms can never more give Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Their service good. Had you believed your friend,</span> +<span class="i0">Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollànd, your valor brought ill fortune, nor</span> +<span class="i0">Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,</span> +<span class="i0">A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.</span> +<span class="i0">Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...</span> +<span class="i0">This day our loyal friendship ends—ere falls</span> +<span class="i0">The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_134" id="St_134">CXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives</span> +<span class="i0">Into his horse his spurs of purest gold,</span> +<span class="i0">And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,</span> +<span class="i0">Says:—"Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">In God's name be no feud between you two;</span> +<span class="i0">No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twere</span> +<span class="i0">Far better Carle should come and soon avenge</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[92]</span><span class="i0">Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes</span> +<span class="i0">Would not return. But as our Franks alight,</span> +<span class="i0">Find us or slain or mangled on the field,</span> +<span class="i0">They will our bodies on their chargers' backs</span> +<span class="i0">Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all</span> +<span class="i0">In tears, and bury us in holy ground:</span> +<span class="i0">And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed</span> +<span class="i0">On us—" Replies Rollánd:—"Well have you said."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_135" id="St_135">CXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant,</span> +<span class="i0">Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.</span> +<span class="i0">High are the mountains, and from peak to peak</span> +<span class="i0">The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away</span> +<span class="i0">'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.</span> +<span class="i0">Cried the king:—"Our men make battle!—" Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Retorts in haste:—"If thus another dared</span> +<span class="i0">To speak, we should denounce it as a lie."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_136" id="St_136">CXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blows</span> +<span class="i0">His olifant so mightily, with such</span> +<span class="i0">Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[93]</span><span class="i0">The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.</span> +<span class="i0">Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;</span> +<span class="i0">Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,</span> +<span class="i0">The French all listen with attentive ear.</span> +<span class="i0">"That is Rollánd's horn!—" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet</span> +<span class="i0">Was, save in battle, blown!—" But Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Replies:—"No fight is there!—you, sire, are old,</span> +<span class="i0">Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,</span> +<span class="i0">And as a child your speech. Well do you know</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears</span> +<span class="i0">With him so long. Already took he Noble</span> +<span class="i0">Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls</span> +<span class="i0">And fought Rollánd, your brave Knight, in the field;</span> +<span class="i0">With his good blade he slew them all, and then</span> +<span class="i0">Washed all the plain with water, that no trace</span> +<span class="i0">Of blood was left—yea, oftentimes he runs</span> +<span class="i0">After a hare all day and blows his horn.</span> +<span class="i0">Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;</span> +<span class="i0">And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?</span> +<span class="i0">None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;</span> +<span class="i0">Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[94]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_137" id="St_137">CXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,</span> +<span class="i0">Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;</span> +<span class="i0">Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:</span> +<span class="i0">"That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:</span> +<span class="i0">"Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress,</span> +<span class="i0">Upon my faith, a battle rages there!</span> +<span class="i0">A traitor he who would deceive you now.</span> +<span class="i0">To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!</span> +<span class="i0">Plainly enough you hear his call for help."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_138" id="St_138">CXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound</span> +<span class="i0">The march. The French alight. They arm themselves</span> +<span class="i0">With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,</span> +<span class="i0">Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white</span> +<span class="i0">And red and blue. The barons of the host</span> +<span class="i0">Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[95]</span><span class="i0">The pass they march, each to the other says:</span> +<span class="i0">"Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies,</span> +<span class="i0">What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"</span> +<span class="i0">But what avails?—Too late they will arrive.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_139" id="St_139">CXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams</span> +<span class="i0">Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears,</span> +<span class="i0">Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,</span> +<span class="i0">Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.</span> +<span class="i0">Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;</span> +<span class="i0">The French with sad and angered looks. None there</span> +<span class="i0">But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd.</span> + +<hr class="two" /> + +<span class="i0">The King commands Count Ganelon be seized</span> +<span class="i0">And given to the scullions of his house.</span> +<span class="i0">Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard well</span> +<span class="i0">This man as one who all my kin betrayed."</span> +<span class="i0">Him Bègue received, and set upon the Count</span> +<span class="i0">One hundred of his kitchen comrades—best</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[96]</span><span class="i0">And worst;—they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;</span> +<span class="i0">Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls</span> +<span class="i0">On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck</span> +<span class="i0">As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown</span> +<span class="i0">For more dishonor on a sumpter mule,</span> +<span class="i0">There guarded so until to Carle brought back.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_140" id="St_140">CXL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,</span> +<span class="i0">The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.</span> +<span class="i0">In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,</span> +<span class="i0">Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look</span> +<span class="i0">Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,</span> +<span class="i0">Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,</span> +<span class="i0">Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until</span> +<span class="i0">They reach the battle-field. With him what blows</span> +<span class="i0">Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?</span> +<span class="i0">Too late they are and can not come in time.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_141" id="St_141">CXLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carle in great anger rides—his snow-white beard</span> +<span class="i0">O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[97]</span> +<span class="i0">For never one but inwardly doth rage</span> +<span class="i0">That he is far from their great chief, Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:</span> +<span class="i0">If wounded he, will one of his survive?</span> +<span class="i0">O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!</span> +<span class="i0">Nor King nor captain better ever had....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[98]</span></p> +<h4>THE ROUT.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_142" id="St_142">CXLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and vales</span> +<span class="i0">A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;</span> +<span class="i0">He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.</span> +<span class="i0">At such a sight the noble hero weeps:</span> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!</span> +<span class="i0">To all your souls may He grant Paradise,</span> +<span class="i0">And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers</span> +<span class="i0">Repose!—No better vassals lived! so long</span> +<span class="i0">Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Ye won!—The Emperor for this ill fate</span> +<span class="i0">Has nurtured you!—O land of France, most sweet</span> +<span class="i0">Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.</span> +<span class="i0">Barons of France, to-day I see you die</span> +<span class="i0">For me; nor can I save or e'en defend</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[99]</span><span class="i0">Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!</span> +<span class="i0">Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!</span> +<span class="i0">If other death comes not, of grief I die.</span> +<span class="i0">Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_143" id="St_143">CXLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Soon to the field returns the Count Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">With Durendal in hand; as a true knight</span> +<span class="i0">He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half</span> +<span class="i0">With twenty-four among the bravest foes.</span> +<span class="i0">Never was man so bent upon revenge.</span> +<span class="i0">As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,</span> +<span class="i0">Before Rollánd the Pagans flee.—"Well done!"</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight</span> +<span class="i0">Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!</span> +<span class="i0">Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk</span> +<span class="i0">In cloister should he be, and spend his life</span> +<span class="i0">In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rollànd,</span> +<span class="i0">"No quarter!"—At the word the French renew</span> +<span class="i0">The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[100]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_144" id="St_144">CXLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When soldiers on the battle-field expect</span> +<span class="i0">No quarter—desperate they fight; and thus</span> +<span class="i0">The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.</span> +<span class="i0">Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on</span> +<span class="i0">Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,</span> +<span class="i0">His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow</span> +<span class="i0">Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.</span> +<span class="i0">Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire</span> +<span class="i0">And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.—</span> +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud:</span> +<span class="i0">"God give damnation unto thee who thus</span> +<span class="i0">So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,</span> +<span class="i0">Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day</span> +<span class="i0">Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."—He strikes</span> +<span class="i0">The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand</span> +<span class="i0">Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,</span> +<span class="i0">Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:</span> +<span class="i0">"Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,</span> +<span class="i0">On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,</span> +<span class="i0">As rather than depart will die."—And each</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[101]</span><span class="i0">To each cries: "Let us fly!"—Upon the word,</span> +<span class="i0">A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.</span> +<span class="i0">Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_145" id="St_145">CXLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,</span> +<span class="i0">His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.</span> +<span class="i0">'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,</span> +<span class="i0">And Ethiopia, a land accursed;</span> +<span class="i0">Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.</span> +<span class="i0">Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,</span> +<span class="i0">Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan war-cry.—"Here," said Count Rollànd,</span> +<span class="i0">"Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know</span> +<span class="i0">Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him</span> +<span class="i0">Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,</span> +<span class="i0">Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price</span> +<span class="i0">On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall</span> +<span class="i0">On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come</span> +<span class="i0">Upon this field, and see such slaughter here</span> +<span class="i0">Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,</span> +<span class="i0">Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[102]</span></p> + +<h4>OLIVIER'S DEATH.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_146" id="St_146">CXLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When sees Rollánd this tribe accursed, more black</span> +<span class="i0">Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam</span> +<span class="i0">Of white, he said:—"Truly I know to-day</span> +<span class="i0">We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.</span> +<span class="i0">These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_147" id="St_147">CXLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,</span> +<span class="i0">Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say</span> +<span class="i0">One to the other:—"Their King Carle is wrong!"—</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;</span> +<span class="i0">Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,</span> +<span class="i0">Encounters Olivier—strikes him behind,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[103]</span><span class="i0">Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,</span> +<span class="i0">And through in front came forth the pointed lance.</span> +<span class="i0">The Kalif cries:—"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,</span> +<span class="i0">For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!</span> +<span class="i0">That he has wronged us, little may he boast.</span> +<span class="i0">Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_148" id="St_148">CXLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand</span> +<span class="i0">He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow</span> +<span class="i0">Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;</span> +<span class="i0">He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.</span> +<span class="i0">His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,</span> +<span class="i0">And dead the Kalif falls.—"Pagan accursed,"</span> +<span class="i0">He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;</span> +<span class="i0">To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast</span> +<span class="i0">In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle</span> +<span class="i0">One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!"</span> +<span class="i0">And then he called Rollànd unto his aid.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[104]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_149" id="St_149">CXLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.</span> +<span class="i0">No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like</span> +<span class="i0">He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed</span> +<span class="i0">And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists</span> +<span class="i0">And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus</span> +<span class="i0">Dismember Saracens, corse over corse</span> +<span class="i0">Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true</span> +<span class="i0">Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget</span> +<span class="i0">The rallying cry of Carle:—"Montjoie!" he cries</span> +<span class="i0">Loudly and clear; then calls Rollánd, his friend</span> +<span class="i0">And compeer:—"Sire companion, stand by me!</span> +<span class="i0">This day our breaking hearts forever part!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_150" id="St_150">CL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd looks Olivier full in the face;</span> +<span class="i0">Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood</span> +<span class="i0">Drips from his body, and streams on the earth.</span> +<span class="i0">"God!" cried Rollánd, "I know not what to do,</span> +<span class="i0">Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed</span> +<span class="i0">To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[105]</span> +<span class="i0">In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,</span> +<span class="i0">As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave,</span> +<span class="i0">Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_151" id="St_151">CLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed,</span> +<span class="i0">While Olivier stands wounded to the death.</span> +<span class="i0">So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes</span> +<span class="i0">See naught afar or near, nor mortal man</span> +<span class="i0">Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his golden-studded helm he struck</span> +<span class="i0">A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,</span> +<span class="i0">And split the crest in twain, but left the head</span> +<span class="i0">Untouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks,</span> +<span class="i0">And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sire <i>compagnon</i>!</span> +<span class="i0">Was that blow meant for me? I am Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">By whom you are beloved so well; to me</span> +<span class="i0">Could you by any chance, defiance give?"</span> +<span class="i0">Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but see</span> +<span class="i0">You now no more. May God behold you, friend!</span> +<span class="i0">I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[106]</span><span class="i0">Rollánd responds:—"I am not wounded—here</span> +<span class="i0">And before God I pardon you." At this,</span> +<span class="i0">Each to the other bends in courtesy.</span> +<span class="i0">With such great tenderness and love they part.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_152" id="St_152">CLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Olivier feels the agony of death;</span> +<span class="i0">His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,</span> +<span class="i0">And all his hearing and his sight are lost.</span> +<span class="i0">Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites</span> +<span class="i0">His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;</span> +<span class="i0">With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up</span> +<span class="i0">He prays to God to give him Paradise,</span> +<span class="i0">To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond</span> +<span class="i0">All other men, Rollánd, his <i>compagnon</i>.</span> +<span class="i0">His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—prone</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the earth he lies—'tis over now....</span> +<span class="i0">The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns</span> +<span class="i0">And weeps as never mortal mourned before.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_153" id="St_153">CLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life</span> +<span class="i0">Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[107]</span><span class="i0">His face low in the dust, his tears gush out</span> +<span class="i0">With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:</span> +<span class="i0">"Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!</span> +<span class="i0">Year after year, day after day, a life</span> +<span class="i0">Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,</span> +<span class="i0">My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,</span> +<span class="i0">The <i>Marchis</i> faints on Veillantif, his steed.</span> +<span class="i0">But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:</span> +<span class="i0">Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_154" id="St_154">CLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,</span> +<span class="i0">When all the great disaster meets his sight;</span> +<span class="i0">The French lie on the field; all lost to him</span> +<span class="i0">Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,</span> +<span class="i0">Who had descended from the mountain height</span> +<span class="i0">Where he the men of Spain all day withstood</span> +<span class="i0">Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.</span> +<span class="i0">Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,</span> +<span class="i0">And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid;</span> +<span class="i0">"Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[108]</span><span class="i0">Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who am</span> +<span class="i0">Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day</span> +<span class="i0">My courage won thy love. So well I fought</span> +<span class="i0">Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,</span> +<span class="i0">My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,</span> +<span class="i0">And in my body eight steel darts I bear.</span> +<span class="i0">Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"</span> +<span class="i0">The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard,</span> +<span class="i0">Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_155" id="St_155">CLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">With grief and rage Rollánd's great heart is full;</span> +<span class="i0">Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe</span> +<span class="i0">He rides. He fights—and twenty Pagans fall</span> +<span class="i0">Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five</span> +<span class="i0">By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:</span> +<span class="i0">"Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!</span> +<span class="i0">Eternal shame to them who dare not make</span> +<span class="i0">Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight</span> +<span class="i0">Avail."—Renewing then their hues and cries,</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[109]</span></p> +<h4>CHARLEMAGNE APPROACHES.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_156" id="St_156">CLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd was ever great in war;</span> +<span class="i0">Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves</span> +<span class="i0">The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng</span> +<span class="i0">Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot</span> +<span class="i0">And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet</span> +<span class="i0">Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar</span> +<span class="i0">Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,</span> +<span class="i0">Their lances and winged arrows. First of all</span> +<span class="i0">Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield</span> +<span class="i0">Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head</span> +<span class="i0">Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;</span> +<span class="i0">Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed</span> +<span class="i0">Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[110]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_157" id="St_157">CLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,</span> +<span class="i0">By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight</span> +<span class="i0">Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look</span> +<span class="i0">Sought for Rollánd to whom he ran in haste.</span> +<span class="i0">One word he said:—"Unconquered yet am I!</span> +<span class="i0">While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"</span> +<span class="i0">He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,</span> +<span class="i0">And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows</span> +<span class="i0">And more he deals.—Carle said in after days,</span> +<span class="i0">Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field</span> +<span class="i0">He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,</span> +<span class="i0">Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,</span> +<span class="i0">And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille</span> +<span class="i0">For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister</span> +<span class="i0">Of Loüm wrote the record of these deeds.</span> +<span class="i0">Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_158" id="St_158">CLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">As hero fights the Count Rollánd; but all</span> +<span class="i0">His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[111]</span><span class="i0">His head is torn by pain; his temple burst</span> +<span class="i0">By that strong blast he gave the olifant.</span> +<span class="i0">Still would he know if Carle returns; once more</span> +<span class="i0">He blows his horn—Alas, with feeble blast.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:</span> +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;</span> +<span class="i0">I hear his dying blast upon his horn.</span> +<span class="i0">If we would find him yet alive, we need</span> +<span class="i0">Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"</span> +<span class="i0">Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;</span> +<span class="i0">The hills reëcho, and the vales respond.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans hear—and stay their gabbling mirth.</span> +<span class="i0">One to the other says:—"'Tis Carle who comes!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_159" id="St_159">CLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans say:—"The Emperor returns;</span> +<span class="i0">These are the clarions of the French we hear.</span> +<span class="i0">If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd, the war begins anew, and Spain</span> +<span class="i0">Our land is lost to us for evermore."</span> +<span class="i0">Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,</span> +<span class="i0">The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks</span> +<span class="i0">And dashed in fierce attack against Rollánd.</span> +<span class="i0">Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[112]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_160" id="St_160">CLX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">As they draw near, Rollánd calls up his pride</span> +<span class="i0">And summons all his strength to meet the charge.</span> +<span class="i0">No foot of ground he yields while life remains.</span> +<span class="i0">Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits</span> +<span class="i0">And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.</span> +<span class="i0">Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all</span> +<span class="i0">Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!</span> +<span class="i0">The horns of those of France we now have heard,</span> +<span class="i0">Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_161" id="St_161">CLXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Ne'er could the Count Rollánd a coward love,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.</span> +<span class="i0">He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,</span> +<span class="i0">And I on horseback, sire! For love of you</span> +<span class="i0">I by your side will stand; together we</span> +<span class="i0">Will share or good or ill; I leave you not</span> +<span class="i0">For aught of human mold. This day we shall</span> +<span class="i0">Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[113]</span><span class="i0">Shall deal his mightiest blows!"—To this replies</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!</span> +<span class="i0">King Carle returns—Great shall his vengeance be!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_162" id="St_162">CLXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!</span> +<span class="i0">What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!</span> +<span class="i0">Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host</span> +<span class="i0">King Carle returns, the mighty Baron—Hark!</span> +<span class="i0">His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh</span> +<span class="i0">Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best</span> +<span class="i0">We pierced him from afar, and left him lying</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the field!"——'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,</span> +<span class="i0">Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,</span> +<span class="i0">That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent</span> +<span class="i0">And torn apart—his body yet unharmed.</span> +<span class="i0">Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead</span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the Count.—The affrighted Pagans fly.</span> +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[114]</span></p> +<h4>THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_163" id="St_163">CLXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward</span> +<span class="i0">The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.</span> +<span class="i0">On foot he stands whether he will or not.</span> +<span class="i0">To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,</span> +<span class="i0">His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white</span> +<span class="i0">And light, then ripped the sides of his <i>blialt</i></span> +<span class="i0">To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly</span> +<span class="i0">Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward</span> +<span class="i0">He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:</span> +<span class="i0">"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;</span> +<span class="i0">Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed</span> +<span class="i0">Their last—we should not leave them on the field;</span> +<span class="i0">I will their bodies seek and gather here,</span> +<span class="i0">To lay them out before you."—"Go, and soon</span> +<span class="i0">Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours</span> +<span class="i0">And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[115]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_164" id="St_164">CLXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his steps</span> +<span class="i0">Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found</span> +<span class="i0">Gerin and his companion Gerier, then</span> +<span class="i0">Berengier and Otun; here Anseïs,</span> +<span class="i0">There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old</span> +<span class="i0">De Roussillon he found—one after one</span> +<span class="i0">He bore each knight within his arms, and placed</span> +<span class="i0">Them gently, side by side, before the knees</span> +<span class="i0">Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;</span> +<span class="i0">With lifted hands he blesses them and says:</span> +<span class="i0">"Most hapless Knights!—May God the Glorious</span> +<span class="i0">Receive your souls, and in his Paradise</span> +<span class="i0">'Mid holy flowers place them!—In this hour</span> +<span class="i0">Of death, my deepest grief is that no more</span> +<span class="i0">The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_165" id="St_165">CLXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd turns back, and searching through the field,</span> +<span class="i0">Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....</span> +<span class="i0">He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,</span> +<span class="i0">And, as he could, returning to Turpin,</span> +<span class="i0">Stretched on a shield he lays him down among</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[116]</span><span class="i0">The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils</span> +<span class="i0">And signs him with the holy cross. The grief</span> +<span class="i0">And pity were more sore than heart can bear....</span> +<span class="i0">Then said Rollánd:—"Fair comrade Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">Son of the good Count Renier, he who held</span> +<span class="i0">The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;</span> +<span class="i0">To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave</span> +<span class="i0">To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,</span> +<span class="i0">No land e'er saw a better <i>chevalier</i>."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_166" id="St_166">CLXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead,</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, that friend so tenderly</span> +<span class="i0">Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;</span> +<span class="i0">Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance</span> +<span class="i0">Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.</span> +<span class="i0">Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_167" id="St_167">CLXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon,</span> +<span class="i0">Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[117]</span><span class="i0">Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.—</span> +<span class="i0">Ronceval there is a running stream;</span> +<span class="i0">Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd.</span> +<span class="i0">Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,</span> +<span class="i0">But loss of blood has made him all too weak:</span> +<span class="i0">Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart</span> +<span class="i0">Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_168" id="St_168">CLXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Meantime the Count Rollánd revives.—Erect</span> +<span class="i0">He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks</span> +<span class="i0">And upward. Then he sees the noble lord</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop, holy minister of God,</span> +<span class="i0">Beyond his comrades lying on the sward</span> +<span class="i0">Stretched out.—He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls</span> +<span class="i0">His sins, and raising both his joinèd hands,</span> +<span class="i0">He prays Our God to grant him paradise.—</span> +<span class="i0">Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,</span> +<span class="i0">With doughty blows and sermons erudite,</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord</span> +<span class="i0">Grant him His holy blessing evermore!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[118]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_169" id="St_169">CLXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the field</span> +<span class="i0">The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds</span> +<span class="i0">His entrails in the dust, and through his skull</span> +<span class="i0">The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.—In form</span> +<span class="i0">Of holy Cross upon his breast Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Disposes both his hands so fair and white,</span> +<span class="i0">And mourned him in the fashion of his land:</span> +<span class="i0">"O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!</span> +<span class="i0">To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;</span> +<span class="i0">For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,</span> +<span class="i0">To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.</span> +<span class="i0">From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide</span> +<span class="i0">Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[119]</span></p> + +<h4>ROLAND'S DEATH.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_170" id="St_170">CLXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:</span> +<span class="i0">From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.</span> +<span class="i0">For all his peers he prays that God may call</span> +<span class="i0">Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel</span> +<span class="i0">He recommends his spirit. In one hand</span> +<span class="i0">He takes the olifant, that no reproach</span> +<span class="i0">May rest upon him; in the other grasps</span> +<span class="i0">Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,</span> +<span class="i0">Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across</span> +<span class="i0">A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,</span> +<span class="i0">Four terraces of marble spread:—he falls</span> +<span class="i0">Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_171" id="St_171">CLXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.</span> +<span class="i0">Four terraces are there, of marble bright:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[120]</span><span class="i0">There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass.</span> +<span class="i0">Him at this moment spies a Saracen</span> +<span class="i0">Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,</span> +<span class="i0">His face and body all besmeared with blood.</span> +<span class="i0">Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the Baron.—Handsome, brave and strong</span> +<span class="i0">He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.</span> +<span class="i0">He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped</span> +<span class="i0">His arms, exclaiming thus:—"Here vanquished Carle's</span> +<span class="i0">Great nephew lies!"—"This sword to Araby</span> +<span class="i0">I'll bear."—He drew it;—this aroused the Count.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_172" id="St_172">CLXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob</span> +<span class="i0">Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word</span> +<span class="i0">He spoke:—"I trow, not one of us art thou!"</span> +<span class="i0">Then with his olifant from which he parts</span> +<span class="i0">Never, he smites the golden studded helm,</span> +<span class="i0">Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes</span> +<span class="i0">Are from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrown</span> +<span class="i0">Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:—"O wretch,"</span> +<span class="i0">He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[121]</span> +<span class="i0">Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this</span> +<span class="i0">Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,</span> +<span class="i0">Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_173" id="St_173">CLXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand</span> +<span class="i0">And struggles up with all his force; his face</span> +<span class="i0">Grows livid;—[Durendal, his naked sword]</span> +<span class="i0">He holds;—beside him rises a gray rock</span> +<span class="i0">On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief</span> +<span class="i0">And rage—The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor</span> +<span class="i0">Is notched; then cries the Count:—"Saint Mary, help!</span> +<span class="i0">O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!</span> +<span class="i0">Though we two part, I care not less for thee.</span> +<span class="i0">What victories together thou and I,</span> +<span class="i0">Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds</span> +<span class="i0">White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp</span> +<span class="i0">Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,</span> +<span class="i0">Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[122]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_174" id="St_174">CLXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;</span> +<span class="i0">The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;</span> +<span class="i0">Then seeing that he can not break his sword,</span> +<span class="i0">Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:</span> +<span class="i0">"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against</span> +<span class="i0">The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!</span> +<span class="i0">When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,</span> +<span class="i0">The God of Heaven by his Angel sent</span> +<span class="i0">Command that he should give thee to a Count,</span> +<span class="i0">A valiant captain; it was then the great</span> +<span class="i0">And gentle King did gird thee to my side.—</span> +<span class="i0">With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;</span> +<span class="i0">For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine</span> +<span class="i0">And Normandie the free; I won Provence</span> +<span class="i0">And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all</span> +<span class="i0">The Romanie; I won for him Bavière,</span> +<span class="i0">All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie,</span> +<span class="i0">Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,</span> +<span class="i0">And Saxonie submitted to his power;</span> +<span class="i0">For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande</span> +<span class="i0">And Engleterre he made his royal seat;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[123]</span><span class="i0">With thee I conquered all the lands and realms</span> +<span class="i0">Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.</span> +<span class="i0">Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die</span> +<span class="i0">Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!</span> +<span class="i0">May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_175" id="St_175">CLXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,</span> +<span class="i0">Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword</span> +<span class="i0">But grinds.—It breaks not—nor receives a notch,</span> +<span class="i0">And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.</span> +<span class="i0">When sees the Count Rollánd his sword can never break,</span> +<span class="i0">Softly within himself its fate he mourns:</span> +<span class="i0">"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!</span> +<span class="i0">In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth</span> +<span class="i0">Of great saint Pierre—some blood of Saint Basile,</span> +<span class="i0">A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,</span> +<span class="i0">A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.</span> +<span class="i0">It is not right that Pagans should own thee;</span> +<span class="i0">By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[124]</span> +<span class="i0">I shall have conquered once that now are ruled</span> +<span class="i0">By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,</span> +<span class="i0">And by them made great emperor and Lord.</span> +<span class="i0">May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_176" id="St_176">CLXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp</span> +<span class="i0">Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart</span> +<span class="i0">A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine</span> +<span class="i0">He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.</span> +<span class="i0">Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,</span> +<span class="i0">And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,</span> +<span class="i0">That Carle and all his knightly host may say:</span> +<span class="i0">"The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."</span> +<span class="i0">Then asking pardon for his sins, or great</span> +<span class="i0">Or small, he offers up his glove to God.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_177" id="St_177">CLXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Count Rollánd feels now his end approach.</span> +<span class="i0">Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[125]</span><span class="i0">He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:</span> +<span class="i0">"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,</span> +<span class="i0">Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,</span> +<span class="i0">Until this hour committed since my birth!"</span> +<span class="i0">Then his right glove he offers up to God,</span> +<span class="i0">And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_178" id="St_178">CLXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks</span> +<span class="i0">Toward Spain—He broods on many things of yore:</span> +<span class="i0">On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,</span> +<span class="i0">On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord</span> +<span class="i0">Who nurtured him;—he sighs—nor can restrain</span> +<span class="i0">His tears, but can not yet himself forget;</span> +<span class="i0">Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God</span> +<span class="i0">He prays:—"Our Father, never yet untrue,</span> +<span class="i0">Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved</span> +<span class="i0">Thy Daniel from the lions' claws—Oh, free</span> +<span class="i0">My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"</span> +<span class="i0">His right hand glove he offered up to God;</span> +<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel took the glove.—With head reclined</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[126]</span><span class="i0">Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined</span> +<span class="i0">He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,</span> +<span class="i0">Saint-Raphaël, <i>Saint Michiel del Peril</i>.</span> +<span class="i0">Together with them Gabriel came.—All bring</span> +<span class="i0">The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[127]</span></p> + +<h4>THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS.</h4> + +<hr class="two" /> +<h4><a name="St_179" id="St_179">CLXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Rollánd is dead: God has his soul in heaven.</span> +<span class="i0">To Ronceval the Emperor has come.</span> +<span class="i0">There, neither road nor any path is seen,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land</span> +<span class="i0">That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,</span> +<span class="i0">Pagans or French.—The Emperor exclaims:</span> +<span class="i0">"Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, alas, where are they all?</span> +<span class="i0">Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where</span> +<span class="i0">Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier,</span> +<span class="i0">Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?</span> +<span class="i0">The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,</span> +<span class="i0">Anseïs the rash, Gerard de Roussillon</span> +<span class="i0">The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[128]</span><span class="i0">What fate is theirs?"—What boots it? None replies."—</span> +<span class="i0">"—God,"cries the King, "what grief is mine to think</span> +<span class="i0">"I stood not here the battle to begin."</span> +<span class="i0">He tears his beard with anger; all his knights</span> +<span class="i0">And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe</span> +<span class="i0">And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_180" id="St_180">CLXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">No baron is there now, no chevalier</span> +<span class="i0">Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,</span> +<span class="i0">For brothers—nephews—friends—and for liege-lords.</span> +<span class="i0">Many have fallen swooning on the earth,</span> +<span class="i0">But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:</span> +<span class="i0">He foremost said to Carle:—"Behold two leagues</span> +<span class="i0">Away!—The roads are dark with clouds of dust.</span> +<span class="i0">There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,</span> +<span class="i0">Avenge this bitter woe."—"O God," said Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">"Are they already flown so far?—our rights</span> +<span class="i0">And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[129]</span><span class="i0">The flower of my Sweet France!"—The King commands</span> +<span class="i0">Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count</span> +<span class="i0">Milun:—"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;</span> +<span class="i0">The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast</span> +<span class="i0">Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge</span> +<span class="i0">You, let no man upon them lay his hand</span> +<span class="i0">Until, with God's assistance, we return."</span> +<span class="i0">They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:</span> +<span class="i0">"Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_181" id="St_181">CLXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,</span> +<span class="i0">Then forward at the head of his great host</span> +<span class="i0">He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain</span> +<span class="i0">He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick</span> +<span class="i0">Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King</span> +<span class="i0">The eve decline, he on the verdant grass</span> +<span class="i0">Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord</span> +<span class="i0">The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back</span> +<span class="i0">And longer make the day. To him appears</span> +<span class="i0">A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;</span> +<span class="i0">"Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[130]</span><span class="i0">God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;</span> +<span class="i0">But vengeance canst have now upon that horde</span> +<span class="i0">Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.</span> +<span class="i0">The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_182" id="St_182">CLXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;</span> +<span class="i0">The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,</span> +<span class="i0">And fast the French pursuing, overtake</span> +<span class="i0">Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on</span> +<span class="i0">Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall</span> +<span class="i0">The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.</span> +<span class="i0">No issue, no escape, by road or pass!</span> +<span class="i0">In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:</span> +<span class="i0">No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help</span> +<span class="i0">On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.</span> +<span class="i0">Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,</span> +<span class="i0">Sink in a moment; others are swept down,</span> +<span class="i0">And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.</span> +<span class="i0">All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:</span> +<span class="i0">"For your own woe wished ye to see Rollánd!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[131]</span></p> + +<h4><a name="St_183" id="St_183">CLXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Carle sees all the Pagans dead—some slain,</span> +<span class="i0">The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched</span> +<span class="i0">With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth</span> +<span class="i0">Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.</span> +<span class="i0">When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"</span> +<span class="i0">He said, "to think of camping now. Too late</span> +<span class="i0">It is for our advance to Ronceval.</span> +<span class="i0">Our horses are all weary and foredone:</span> +<span class="i0">Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;</span> +<span class="i0">And let them roam at large about these meads."</span> +<span class="i0">The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_184" id="St_184">CLXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor makes here his harborage.</span> +<span class="i0">The French dismount, take off the golden curbs</span> +<span class="i0">And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose</span> +<span class="i0">In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:</span> +<span class="i0">No other care they need. Upon the ground</span> +<span class="i0">The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.</span> +<span class="i0">No watch was set in all the host that night.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[132]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_185" id="St_185">CLXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor reposes on the field,</span> +<span class="i0">His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted,</span> +<span class="i0">For he, on such a night will not disarm.</span> +<span class="i0">His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears,</span> +<span class="i0">His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced,</span> +<span class="i0">Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer,</span> +<span class="i0">Who thirty times a day can change his hue.</span> +<span class="i0">Many a time you all heard of the lance</span> +<span class="i0">Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross,</span> +<span class="i0">The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God,</span> +<span class="i0">Closed in the golden pommel of his sword.</span> +<span class="i0">For this great glory and exceeding worth</span> +<span class="i0">The brand was called <i>Joyeuse</i>. This all French Knights</span> +<span class="i0">Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took</span> +<span class="i0">Their war-cry of <i>Montjoie</i>, and for this cause</span> +<span class="i0">No other people can resist their arms.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_186" id="St_186">CLXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest</span> +<span class="i0">Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier is heavy on his heart;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[133]</span><span class="i0">The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,</span> +<span class="i0">Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.</span> +<span class="i0">He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray</span> +<span class="i0">That mighty God be keeper of their souls.</span> +<span class="i0">Tired is the King, his toils being very great;</span> +<span class="i0">Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.</span> +<span class="i0">Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;</span> +<span class="i0">If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.</span> +<span class="i0">Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_187" id="St_187">CLXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends</span> +<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.</span> +<span class="i0">All night beside his head the Angel stands,</span> +<span class="i0">And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French</span> +<span class="i0">A battle is prepared, and its portent</span> +<span class="i0">Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms</span> +<span class="i0">And wond'rous tempests—smould'ring fire and flames</span> +<span class="i0">Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[134]</span><span class="i0">His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts</span> +<span class="i0">Of apple-tree or ash—those shields ablaze</span> +<span class="i0">Unto their golden rings—shafts from their points</span> +<span class="i0">Break off—Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.</span> +<span class="i0">He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime</span> +<span class="i0">Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes</span> +<span class="i0">And vipers—dragons, fiends—and with them more</span> +<span class="i0">Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French</span> +<span class="i0">None can escape this hideous horde.—"Carlemagne,</span> +<span class="i0">Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,</span> +<span class="i0">Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:</span> +<span class="i0">Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.</span> +<span class="i0">The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,</span> +<span class="i0">And, springing, seeks his very body out.</span> +<span class="i0">Each wrestles with the other in his arms;</span> +<span class="i0">But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.</span> +<span class="i0">Never a jot the Emperor awakes.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_188" id="St_188">CLXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Another vision follows this: in France</span> +<span class="i0">At Aix he is:—Upon a marble step</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[135]</span><span class="i0">He stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.</span> +<span class="i0">From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a pack</span> +<span class="i0">Of thirty other bears which speak as men.</span> +<span class="i0">They say:—"To us restore him, Sire! Not right</span> +<span class="i0">It were that you should keep him longer; help</span> +<span class="i0">Our kin we must."—Then from his palace runs</span> +<span class="i0">A greyhound fair which on the verdant grass</span> +<span class="i0">Assails the fiercer of the other beasts</span> +<span class="i0">Before them all. The King a wond'rous fight</span> +<span class="i0">Beholds: but who shall win or lose, none knows.</span> +<span class="i0">This is a dream God's Angel showed to Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">Who sleeps until the morrow's morn appeared.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_189" id="St_189">CLXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.—</span> +<span class="i0">Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,</span> +<span class="i0">He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,</span> +<span class="i0">And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.</span> +<span class="i0">His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood</span> +<span class="i0">Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.</span> +<span class="i0">Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,</span> +<span class="i0">Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.</span> +<span class="i0">Around stand more than twenty thousand men</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[136]</span><span class="i0">Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;</span> +<span class="i0">Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,</span> +<span class="i0">Profane, insulting words, their God revile:</span> +<span class="i0">"What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,</span> +<span class="i0">And to confusion bring our Lord the King?</span> +<span class="i0">Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"</span> +<span class="i0">Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands</span> +<span class="i0">They hang him on a column—neath their feet</span> +<span class="i0">They roll him down.—They with great clubs deface</span> +<span class="i0">And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch</span> +<span class="i0">His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch</span> +<span class="i0">Throw down—there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_190" id="St_190">CXC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Recov'ring from his swoon, the King Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">Commands they lead him to his vaulted room</span> +<span class="i0">All bright with color and inscribed with verse.</span> +<span class="i0">There weeping bitterly, Queen Bramimunde</span> +<span class="i0">Tearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:</span> +<span class="i0">"O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereft</span> +<span class="i0">Of the most gentle King that was thy Lord!</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[137]</span><span class="i0">Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this morn</span> +<span class="i0">In battle failed us;—the Emir coward were</span> +<span class="i0">Would he not fight these people bold who are</span> +<span class="i0">So proud they care not for their lives. Carl'magne,</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor, whose beard is strewn with gray,</span> +<span class="i0">Among his men has dauntless Knights; if e'er</span> +<span class="i0">He fight, no step he yields. Great woe it is</span> +<span class="i0">That there is no man who can give him death."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_191" id="St_191">CXCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">By his great power the Emperor in Spain</span> +<span class="i0">Full seven years remained; he castles took</span> +<span class="i0">And many cities, bringing sore distress</span> +<span class="i0">To King Marsile. The year had scarce begun</span> +<span class="i0">Before his word went forth to seal the briefs</span> +<span class="i0">Which summoned Baligant from Babylone,</span> +<span class="i0">(The aged Emir, he whose life outlived</span> +<span class="i0">Homer and Virgil). Now the King Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">Had begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i0">Should he not come, gods, idols, once adored</span> +<span class="i0">He will renounce, the holy Faith of Christ</span> +<span class="i0">Embrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.</span> +<span class="i0">Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;</span> +<span class="i0">From forty realms his people had he called</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[138]</span><span class="i0">And ordered to prepare his <i>dromonds</i> vast,</span> +<span class="i0">Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the port</span> +<span class="i0">Of Alexandria the fleet had met;</span> +<span class="i0">In May it was, the first of summer-days,</span> +<span class="i0">A mighty host he launched upon the deep.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_192" id="St_192">CXCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Great are the forces of their hostile horde;</span> +<span class="i0">They swiftly skim the waves, and steer, and sail;</span> +<span class="i0">Their masts and yards so blazing with the light</span> +<span class="i0">Of carbuncles and lanterns, night gives up</span> +<span class="i0">Its darkness and still fairer shows the sea.</span> +<span class="i0">As they approached the shores of Spain, the land</span> +<span class="i0">Was all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_193" id="St_193">CXCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leave</span> +<span class="i0">The deep, and in fresh water steer; Marbreise</span> +<span class="i0">And then Marbruse is passed; along the shores</span> +<span class="i0">Of winding Ebro glides the armament,</span> +<span class="i0">Setting the night aflame with carbuncles</span> +<span class="i0">And lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[139]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_194" id="St_194">CXCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Clear is the day and bright the sun; descends</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir from his ship. Espaneliz</span> +<span class="i0">Walks forth upon his right; a train of Kings</span> +<span class="i0">In number seventeen, with Dukes and Counts</span> +<span class="i0">Innumerable, follow. 'Mid the plain</span> +<span class="i0">Grows a great laurel, and beneath its shade</span> +<span class="i0">They spread a <i>pallie</i> of white silk upon</span> +<span class="i0">The verdant grass, and place a faldstool there</span> +<span class="i0">Of ivory. In this sits Baligant</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan. All the others stand. First spake</span> +<span class="i0">The chief:—"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!</span> +<span class="i0">King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,</span> +<span class="i0">Shall eat not, save by my command. Throughout</span> +<span class="i0">All Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:</span> +<span class="i0">Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, while</span> +<span class="i0">My life lasts, cease until he dies the death,</span> +<span class="i0">Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spake</span> +<span class="i0">And struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_195" id="St_195">CXCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">His word once spoken was to him a law:</span> +<span class="i0">Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[140]</span><span class="i0">Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wont</span> +<span class="i0">To hold his court. Some praise him, even give</span> +<span class="i0">Him counsel. Two from out his host of Knights</span> +<span class="i0">He summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:</span> +<span class="i0">"Ye are the sons of King Maltraïen,</span> +<span class="i0">A willing message bearer: 'tis my will</span> +<span class="i0">Ye go to Sarraguce; there in my name</span> +<span class="i0">Give ye this message to the King Marsile:</span> +<span class="i0">I have come to succor him against the French,</span> +<span class="i0">And if I find them, great the fight will be.</span> +<span class="i0">Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place it</span> +<span class="i0">On his right hand; give him this staff of gold;</span> +<span class="i0">And when he comes to pay me homage, as</span> +<span class="i0">A vassal to his lord, I then will lead</span> +<span class="i0">My force to France to fight with Carlemagne.</span> +<span class="i0">If he fall not before my feet to pray</span> +<span class="i0">For mercy, and abjure the Christian law,</span> +<span class="i0">I from his head will tear away the crown."</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans answer all:—"Well spoken, Sire."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_196" id="St_196">CXCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thou</span> +<span class="i0">The glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:</span> +<span class="i0">"Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rode</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[141]</span><span class="i0">They soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gates</span> +<span class="i0">They pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streets</span> +<span class="i0">Where stand the burghers. But on drawing near</span> +<span class="i0">The lofty citadel, they heard great noise</span> +<span class="i0">About the palace, where were thronging crowds</span> +<span class="i0">Of Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,</span> +<span class="i0">Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,</span> +<span class="i0">Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.</span> +<span class="i0">Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall now</span> +<span class="i0">Befall us, miserable? for we have lost</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile whose hand Rollánd struck off;</span> +<span class="i0">For aye we are bereft of Turfaleu</span> +<span class="i0">The Fair, his son. This day the land of Spain</span> +<span class="i0">Into the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"</span> +<span class="i0">The message-bearers reach the royal gates.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_197" id="St_197">CXCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon</span> +<span class="i0">Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.</span> +<span class="i0">The messengers, each holding by the cloak</span> +<span class="i0">The other, hasten to the highest tower.</span> +<span class="i0">Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,</span> +<span class="i0">An evil greeting offer with good will:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[142]</span><span class="i0">"May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds</span> +<span class="i0">Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum,</span> +<span class="i0">Preserve our king and guard the queen!"</span> +<span class="i0">Whereat cried Bramimunde:—"What folly this!</span> +<span class="i0">Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval</span> +<span class="i0">They showed their evil power, and let our knights</span> +<span class="i0">Be slain—amid the battle-field forsook</span> +<span class="i0">My lord the king with his right hand struck off</span> +<span class="i0">By mighty Count Rollánd. The realm of Spain</span> +<span class="i0">Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.</span> +<span class="i0">What shall become of me, most miserable?</span> +<span class="i0">Alas! is there no man to give me death!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_198" id="St_198">CXCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Said Clarien:—"Lady, speak not thus—Behold,</span> +<span class="i0">Messengers we, from Baligant, who swears</span> +<span class="i0">To free Marsile, and to him sends his glove</span> +<span class="i0">And staff as tokens—on the Ebro float</span> +<span class="i0">Four thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;</span> +<span class="i0">More sails than can be numbered! Rich and great</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir.—Carle, pursued to France, shall be</span> +<span class="i0">Per force, or still, or dead, or penitent."</span> +<span class="i0">Said Bramimunde:—"Yea, greater ills will come.</span> +<span class="i0">To meet the Franks you need not go so far;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[143]</span> +<span class="i0">Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. Brave</span> +<span class="i0">Is he in battle, and a Baron true;</span> +<span class="i0">Ready to die ere he will quit the field;</span> +<span class="i0">No king on earth but is to him a child.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle's spirit yields before no living man."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_199" id="St_199">CXCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Let all that be!" cried to the messengers</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile—"Seigneurs, speak but to me,</span> +<span class="i0">You see me now crushed unto death. No son</span> +<span class="i0">Nor daughter have I left, nor other heir;</span> +<span class="i0">One son I had, who yestereve was slain.</span> +<span class="i0">Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.</span> +<span class="i0">Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to him</span> +<span class="i0">I grant the realm in full, if he accept.</span> +<span class="i0">Let him defend this land against the French,</span> +<span class="i0">To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,</span> +<span class="i0">And victor he will be before this day</span> +<span class="i0">A month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;</span> +<span class="i0">Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will be</span> +<span class="i0">Expelled." They answer:—"Sire, you speak the truth."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[144]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_200" id="St_200">CC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slain</span> +<span class="i0">My men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormed</span> +<span class="i0">My cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,</span> +<span class="i0">But seven counted leagues away. Bid ye</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir march up all his force. Bear him</span> +<span class="i0">My order for the fight." With this he gives</span> +<span class="i0">Into their hands the keys of Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon these words the messengers bent low</span> +<span class="i0">In last salute, took leave, and went their way.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_201" id="St_201">CCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The messengers upon their horses mount</span> +<span class="i0">And gallop from the city in hot haste.</span> +<span class="i0">With terror struck, both to the Emir come,</span> +<span class="i0">Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i0">Said Baligant:—"What found ye there? Where is</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"</span> +<span class="i0">Clarien makes answer:—"He is hurt to death;</span> +<span class="i0">The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the pass</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his homeward way into sweet France.</span> +<span class="i0">For greater honor, in the rear, Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">His nephew, had a post with Olivier,</span> +<span class="i0">All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.</span> +<span class="i0">The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, fought</span> +<span class="i0">And fierce encounter had with Count Rollánd,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[145]</span><span class="i0">Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,</span> +<span class="i0">The king's right hand was severed from his arm.</span> +<span class="i0">Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,</span> +<span class="i0">With all the Barons he had brought with him;</span> +<span class="i0">Unable to resist, he took to flight,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.</span> +<span class="i0">Now give your help to King Marsile, who craves</span> +<span class="i0">Your aid, and as your guerdon all the realm</span> +<span class="i0">Of Spain receive." But Baligant remains</span> +<span class="i0">Deep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_202" id="St_202">CCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterday</span> +<span class="i0">A battle raged in Ronceval; Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier are dead, and the twelve Peers</span> +<span class="i0">To Carle so dear, with twenty thousand Franks</span> +<span class="i0">Have perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,</span> +<span class="i0">And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.</span> +<span class="i0">In all the land no Knight remains but slain</span> +<span class="i0">Or in the waters of the Ebro drowned.</span> +<span class="i0">Upon its banks the French encamp—So nigh—</span> +<span class="i0">Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."</span> +<span class="i0">Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;</span> +<span class="i0">And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[146]</span><span class="i0">Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loud</span> +<span class="i0">He cries:—"Delay not—disembark! To horse!</span> +<span class="i0">And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the old</span> +<span class="i0">By flight escape, the King Marsile shall be</span> +<span class="i0">Avenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_203" id="St_203">CCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,</span> +<span class="i0">And mounting mules and horses, march; what else</span> +<span class="i0">But this for them to do? When forward moves</span> +<span class="i0">The host in serried lines, the Emir calls</span> +<span class="i0">On Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To thee</span> +<span class="i0">Command of all my armies I confide."—</span> +<span class="i0">He said—and straight on his bay destrier mounts;</span> +<span class="i0">Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,</span> +<span class="i0">Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i0">Before a marble terrace he dismounts,</span> +<span class="i0">Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the steps</span> +<span class="i0">Which led up to the palace he ascends.</span> +<span class="i0">To him runs Bramimunde:—"What cruel dole</span> +<span class="i0">Is mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,</span> +<span class="i0">"Have I now lost my lord!"—And at his feet</span> +<span class="i0">Prostrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,</span> +<span class="i0">And, grieving, both into the chamber went.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[147]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_204" id="St_204">CCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,</span> +<span class="i0">Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and bade</span> +<span class="i0">His body to be raised that he might sit.</span> +<span class="i0">With his left hand he took a glove, and thus</span> +<span class="i0">He spoke:—"Sir King and Emir, all my lands</span> +<span class="i0">And kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefs</span> +<span class="i0">But wreck and ruin—Subjects, wealth—all lost."</span> +<span class="i0">Answered the Emir:—"I, so much the more,</span> +<span class="i0">Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speech</span> +<span class="i0">I can not stay; for Carle, I know, will not</span> +<span class="i0">Be still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."</span> +<span class="i0">O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;</span> +<span class="i0">The palace steps descending, mounts his horse</span> +<span class="i0">And spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,</span> +<span class="i0">That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;</span> +<span class="i0">And cries aloud, going from man to man:</span> +<span class="i0">"Haste, Pagans! On!—Already flee the Franks."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_205" id="St_205">CCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,</span> +<span class="i0">From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;</span> +<span class="i0">Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[148]</span><span class="i0">With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.</span> +<span class="i0">The King arises, takes his armor off,</span> +<span class="i0">And all the host disarm.—The mounted knights</span> +<span class="i0">Then ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,</span> +<span class="i0">The weary roads, to view the woeful loss</span> +<span class="i0">Once more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_206" id="St_206">CCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,</span> +<span class="i0">Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and said</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the French:—"Seigneurs, move slowly here;</span> +<span class="i0">For I alone, will forward go in search</span> +<span class="i0">Of my fair nephew lost among the dead.</span> +<span class="i0">Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,</span> +<span class="i0">My valiant bachelors, in warlike deeds</span> +<span class="i0">Their exploits vaunting, I could hear Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">Say, should he ever die on foreign soil,</span> +<span class="i0">Before his peers and men he should be found</span> +<span class="i0">Facing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."</span> +<span class="i0">A few steps further than a staff's throw, Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Far in advance of all, ascends a hill.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_207" id="St_207">CCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When sought the Emperor his nephew there,</span> +<span class="i0">Amid the field, and found so many plants</span> +<span class="i0">With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[149]</span><span class="i0">By pity moved he can not choose but weep.</span> +<span class="i0">Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew</span> +<span class="i0">The blow upon the three rocks Rollánd struck,</span> +<span class="i0">And saw his nephew lying on the sward,</span> +<span class="i0">A mangled corse—No wonder Carle is wroth;</span> +<span class="i0">Alights in haste and lifting in his arms</span> +<span class="i0">The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_208" id="St_208">CCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'Anjou</span> +<span class="i0">His brother Tierri raise the King, and place</span> +<span class="i0">Him resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earth</span> +<span class="i0">He sees his nephew lying dead, and mourns</span> +<span class="i0">O'er him with gentle words and tender looks,</span> +<span class="i0">"Sweet friend, Rollánd, God's mercy unto thee!</span> +<span class="i0">Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,</span> +<span class="i0">For noble combats ordered and achieved!</span> +<span class="i0">Mine honor turns to its decline!—" Once more</span> +<span class="i0">Carle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_209" id="St_209">CCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....</span> +<span class="i0">Four of his Barons, with their hands support</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[150]</span><span class="i0">His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth</span> +<span class="i0">His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,</span> +<span class="i0">Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes</span> +<span class="i0">Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments.</span> +<span class="i0">"Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soul</span> +<span class="i0">Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers</span> +<span class="i0">Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,</span> +<span class="i0">Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn</span> +<span class="i0">For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n</span> +<span class="i0">My strength and power! Who now will e'er support</span> +<span class="i0">My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n</span> +<span class="i0">The one true friend! though other kindred mine,</span> +<span class="i0">Was none so brave and wise."—He tore his hair</span> +<span class="i0">In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief</span> +<span class="i0">Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none</span> +<span class="i0">There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_210" id="St_210">CCX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Beloved Rollánd, to France I now return.</span> +<span class="i0">When in my chamber I shall be at Loün,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[151]</span><span class="i0">And foreign men come from afar to ask</span> +<span class="i0">Where lives Rollánd the Captain, I shall say</span> +<span class="i0">'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforth</span> +<span class="i0">Shall hold my realm in bitter pain. No day</span> +<span class="i0">Shall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_211" id="St_211">CCXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,</span> +<span class="i0">When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,</span> +<span class="i0">And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,</span> +<span class="i0">What strange and cruel news I then shall have</span> +<span class="i0">To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me</span> +<span class="i0">Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now</span> +<span class="i0">Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres</span> +<span class="i0">With other foes—the men of Rome, of Pouille,</span> +<span class="i0">And all those of Palerne; and those who hold</span> +<span class="i0">Affrike and Califerne. Day after day</span> +<span class="i0">My pain will grow—Who then shall lead my host</span> +<span class="i0">With such an arm of might, since he is dead,</span> +<span class="i0">Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[152]</span><span class="i0">Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief</span> +<span class="i0">I would not live!"—he plucks out his white beard</span> +<span class="i0">And tears his hair with both hands from his head.</span> +<span class="i0">Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks—</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_212" id="St_212">CCXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Sweet friend," he cried, "Rollánd, thou art no more:</span> +<span class="i0">Oh! may thy soul have place in Paradise!</span> +<span class="i0">Who gave thee death brought grievous shame to France.</span> +<span class="i0">Such is my grief, I would not longer live.</span> +<span class="i0">My kinsmen died for me! I pray Our Lord,</span> +<span class="i0">The Blessed Mary's son, before I reach</span> +<span class="i0">Cizra's defiles, from mortal life to take</span> +<span class="i0">My soul away, and let it rest with theirs.</span> +<span class="i0">I would my body lay beside their own!"</span> +<span class="i0">And, weeping sore, he tears his hoary beard....</span> +<span class="i0">Then said Duke Naimes:—"What cruel pain is Carle's!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_213" id="St_213">CCXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Sire Emperor," spoke forth Geffrei d'Anjou,</span> +<span class="i0">"Yield not so much to sorrow—Orders give</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[153]</span><span class="i0">To seek our men throughout the battle-field,</span> +<span class="i0">In combat killed by those of Spain, and lay</span> +<span class="i0">Them in one grave"—Carle said: "Then sound your horn."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_214" id="St_214">CCXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Geffrei d'Anjou obeyed and blew his horn;</span> +<span class="i0">The French dismount, such was the king's command,</span> +<span class="i0">And all their friends found slain upon the field</span> +<span class="i0">Together in one charnel wide inter:</span> +<span class="i0">A crowd of bishops, abbots, canons, monks</span> +<span class="i0">And tonsured priests there gathered, in the name</span> +<span class="i0">Of God assoil and bless; incense and myrrh</span> +<span class="i0">Are burned in reverence and love before</span> +<span class="i0">The dead who, buried there with honors great,</span> +<span class="i0">Are left alone—what more was there to do?</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_215" id="St_215">CCXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emp'ror Carle gives order that a watch</span> +<span class="i0">Be kept around Rollánd, Count Olivier</span> +<span class="i0">And the Archbishop Turpin; bade their breasts</span> +<span class="i0">Be oped before him, and their hearts enwrapped</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[154]</span> +<span class="i0">In silken cloths—in tombs of marble white</span> +<span class="i0">Inurned; the bodies of the Barons then</span> +<span class="i0">Perfumed with wine and fragrant herbs; the three</span> +<span class="i0">Seigneurs in wrappings of stag's hide were cased;</span> +<span class="i0">By Carle's decree Tedbald and Gebuin,</span> +<span class="i0"><i>Marchis</i> Othon and Count Milon escort</span> +<span class="i0">Them on their way, upon three chariots borne,</span> +<span class="i0">And covered well with palls of glazèd silk.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_216" id="St_216">CCXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">King Carle about to start, sees suddenly</span> +<span class="i0">Emerge the Pagan van. From Baligant,</span> +<span class="i0">The battle to declare, two messengers</span> +<span class="i0">Advance:—"Proud king, from here thou must not go;</span> +<span class="i0">Behold, the Emir to thine encounter comes</span> +<span class="i0">And brings a mighty host from Araby.</span> +<span class="i0">This day will prove if truly valiant knight</span> +<span class="i0">Thou art." Carl'magne, the king, plucks his gray beard;</span> +<span class="i0">So cruel is the memory of all</span> +<span class="i0">His grief and wrong, proudly he casts a look</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his knightly host, and with loud voice</span> +<span class="i0">Exclaims:—"Seigneurs Barons! To horse! To arms!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[155]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_217" id="St_217">CCXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">First of them all the Emperor is armed.</span> +<span class="i0">Quick donned his hauberk,—laced his helm—Joyeuse,</span> +<span class="i0">Whose brightness vies with the sun's dazzling rays,</span> +<span class="i0">Is girded on—a shield of Girunde hangs</span> +<span class="i0">Upon his neck,—his lance, forged in Blandune</span> +<span class="i0">He wields, and mounts his good steed Tencendur</span> +<span class="i0">Which nigh the ford below Marsune he won,</span> +<span class="i0">When he struck dead Malpalin de Nerbune.</span> +<span class="i0">Quick to a gallop spurred, rein loosed, the steed</span> +<span class="i0">Sped on, before one hundred thousand men.</span> +<span class="i0">Carle calls on Rome's Apostle and on God.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_218" id="St_218">CCXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Spread o'er the field the men of France dismount.</span> +<span class="i0">More than one hundred thousand arm themselves</span> +<span class="i0">Together—Brilliant their array! Their steeds</span> +<span class="i0">Are fleet, arms gleaming; bright the pennons float</span> +<span class="i0">Above their helms: The foe once found, they give</span> +<span class="i0">Them certain battle. Mounted thus, how brave</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[156]</span><span class="i0">Their show! When Carle beholds their faces bright,</span> +<span class="i0">Joseran de Provence he calls, the brave</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes, also Anselme de Maience:</span> +<span class="i0">"In knights so good behooves men to have faith,</span> +<span class="i0">And mad indeed who doubts of the event.</span> +<span class="i0">Should not the Arabs their approach repent,</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd's death I to them will dearly sell."</span> +<span class="i0">Responds Duke Naimes:—"May God vouchsafe your prayer."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_219" id="St_219">CCXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carl calls Rabel and Guineman:—"Seigneurs,</span> +<span class="i0">I will that ye should take the place of Counts</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd and Olivier—One bear the sword;</span> +<span class="i0">The olifant, the other—Be the chiefs</span> +<span class="i0">Of fifteen thousand bachelors of France,</span> +<span class="i0">In youth and valor famous among all—</span> +<span class="i0">As many more will follow after these,</span> +<span class="i0">Conducted by Gebuin and by Laurant."</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count with speed</span> +<span class="i0">And care these hosts in full array dispose.</span> +<span class="i0">Let them encounter, great will be the fight.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_220" id="St_220">CCXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">These first two cohorts were from out the French</span> +<span class="i0">Composed; and after those a third was formed:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[157]</span><span class="i0">The vassals of Baviere—Their numbers mount</span> +<span class="i0">To thirty thousand knights who ne'er would blench</span> +<span class="i0">Before the foe. Beneath the sky live not</span> +<span class="i0">A people dearer to the heart of Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">Save those of France, the conquerors of realms.</span> +<span class="i0">The Count Ogier de Danemarche, the brave,</span> +<span class="i0">Will lead—What beauty sits upon their brows!</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_221" id="St_221">CCXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Now has the Emp'ror Carle three squadrons; Naimes</span> +<span class="i0">The Duke, then forms the fourth with truly brave</span> +<span class="i0">Barons from Allemagne, who left La Marche.</span> +<span class="i0">These, twenty thousand count, so all report;</span> +<span class="i0">Well furnished with good steeds and arms; for dread</span> +<span class="i0">Of death in battle they will never yield.</span> +<span class="i0">Herman the Duke of Thrace, their chief, will die</span> +<span class="i0">Before he guilty proves of cowardice.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_222" id="St_222">CCXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count, have formed</span> +<span class="i0">The fifth of Normans, twenty thousand men,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[158]</span><span class="i0">Say all the Franks. Their arms are bright, and fleet</span> +<span class="i0">Their steeds. These welcome death ere they succumb.</span> +<span class="i0">None under Heav'n more valiant in the fight.</span> +<span class="i0">Richard the old will lead them on the field,—</span> +<span class="i0">And with his trenchant lance will bravely strike.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_223" id="St_223">CCXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Composed of Bretons the sixth squadron was:</span> +<span class="i0">Full forty thousand chevaliers are they;</span> +<span class="i0">Barons in mien when mounted thus, each lance</span> +<span class="i0">In rest, its pennon rolled. Their lord is named</span> +<span class="i0">Oedun: These led by Nevelon the Count,</span> +<span class="i0">Tedbald de Reins and the Marchis Othon—</span> +<span class="i0">"My people guide," said Carle; "in ye my trust."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_224" id="St_224">CCXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">King Carle has now six squadrons on the field.</span> +<span class="i0">Barons d'Alverne and Peitevins Duke Naimes</span> +<span class="i0">Has mustered in the seventh. They may count</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[159]</span><span class="i0">Full forty thousand knights. How good their steeds,</span> +<span class="i0">How finely wrought their arms! They stand aloof</span> +<span class="i0">Within a shady vale. With his right hand</span> +<span class="i0">He gives to these his blessing. Joseran</span> +<span class="i0">And Godselmes their appointed leaders are.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_225" id="St_225">CCXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Barons of Frise and Flamengs Naimes enrolled</span> +<span class="i0">For the eighth legion. Knights in number more</span> +<span class="i0">Than fifty thousand, men who never yield</span> +<span class="i0">In battle. Thus the king: "My service these</span> +<span class="i0">Will do, Rembalt and Hamon de Galice</span> +<span class="i0">Shall lead them forward in all chivalry."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_226" id="St_226">CCXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count equip</span> +<span class="i0">The ninth battalion,—brave among the brave.</span> +<span class="i0">Those warriors from Lorraine and Burgundy:</span> +<span class="i0">In number fifty thousand knights; close helmed,</span> +<span class="i0">In hauberk mailed—a stout short-handled lance</span> +<span class="i0">Each wields. Should Arabs not from combat shrink,</span> +<span class="i0">Lorrains and Bourguignons will deal hard blows;</span> +<span class="i0">Tierri Duke of Argonne will be their chief.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[160]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_227" id="St_227">CCXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Barons of France make up the tenth. They are</span> +<span class="i0">One hundred thousand captains 'mong the best;</span> +<span class="i0">Hardy and stout, of features proud, hair flecked</span> +<span class="i0">With gray, and beard all white; in hauberk clad</span> +<span class="i0">And linèd coat of mails, girt with their swords</span> +<span class="i0">Of Spain and France; for shelter, brilliant shields</span> +<span class="i0">With various blazons decked, among them known.</span> +<span class="i0">They mount their steeds and clamor for the fight:</span> +<span class="i0">"Montjoie!" they cry.—Comes now Carlemagne the king!</span> +<span class="i0">Geffrei d'Anjou bears up the oriflamme</span> +<span class="i0">Called Roman once, but since the day Saint Pierre</span> +<span class="i0">Made it a standard, it is named Montjoie.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_228" id="St_228">CCXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle dismounts, prostrates himself</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass, invoking God</span> +<span class="i0">With eyes uplifted toward the rising sun:</span> +<span class="i0">"O father true, this day be my defense!</span> +<span class="i0">Thy hand it was saved Jonas from the whale</span> +<span class="i0">Within whose body he was swallowed up;</span> +<span class="i0">Thou sparedst too the king of Niniva;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[161]</span><span class="i0">And Daniel didst thou save from cruel pain</span> +<span class="i0">When thrown among the lions. By thy might</span> +<span class="i0">Stood the three children safe in burning flames,</span> +<span class="i0">This day grant also unto me thy love,</span> +<span class="i0">Merciful God! List to my prayer; vouchsafe</span> +<span class="i0">That I avenge my nephew, dear Rollánd!"</span> +<span class="i0">Thus having prayed, he stands erect and marks</span> +<span class="i0">His forehead with the sign of might: Then mounts</span> +<span class="i0">A fleet-hoofed courser. Naimes and Joseran</span> +<span class="i0">Carle's stirrup hold—With buckler on his arm</span> +<span class="i0">And trenchant lance in rest; strength, beauty, grace</span> +<span class="i0">Sat on his countenance and visage fair.</span> +<span class="i0">Then firmly seated on his horse he rides....</span> +<span class="i0">Clarions in rear and front reëcho 'round....</span> +<span class="i0">But above all rings out the olifant.</span> +<span class="i0">Meantime the French weep ... mourning for Rollánd.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_229" id="St_229">CCXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Most nobly on the Emp'ror Carle proceeds.</span> +<span class="i0">His long beard flowing o'er his coat of mail,</span> +<span class="i0">And so, for love of him, the knights, whereby,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[162]</span><span class="i0">Are surely known the hundred thousand Franks;</span> +<span class="i0">They march through mountains and o'ertopping peaks,</span> +<span class="i0">Deep vales, defiles of frightful look. At last</span> +<span class="i0">Leaving the narrow pass and wasted land,</span> +<span class="i0">They reach the Spanish bourne and make a halt</span> +<span class="i0">Amid a plain. Meanwhile to Baligant</span> +<span class="i0">Return his vanguard scouts; a Syrian spy</span> +<span class="i0">Heralds the news,—"We saw the proud King Carle.</span> +<span class="i0">His warriors fierce will never fail their King.</span> +<span class="i0">To arms—Within a moment look for fight!"</span> +<span class="i0">Baligant cried:—"Good news for our brave hearts!</span> +<span class="i0">Sound all your trumps and let my Pagans know!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_230" id="St_230">CCXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat,</span> +<span class="i0">With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir would th' advance delay—He wears</span> +<span class="i0">A hauberk saffron—'broidered round the sides,</span> +<span class="i0">And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid.</span> +<span class="i0">On his left side a sword whereto, in pride,</span> +<span class="i0">He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[163]</span><span class="i0">And called the blade his Precieuse. This name</span> +<span class="i0">Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout——</span> +<span class="i0">Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield</span> +<span class="i0">Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring;</span> +<span class="i0">The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery;</span> +<span class="i0">The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft</span> +<span class="i0">Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks,</span> +<span class="i0">And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule</span> +<span class="i0">Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant;</span> +<span class="i0">His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer.</span> +<span class="i0">Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle;</span> +<span class="i0">Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form</span> +<span class="i0">Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye,</span> +<span class="i0">His visage haughty, curls around his brow.</span> +<span class="i0">White as a summer blossom he appears;</span> +<span class="i0">His valor proved by many feats of war.</span> +<span class="i0">God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith!</span> +<span class="i0">He spurs his horse until the crimson blood</span> +<span class="i0">Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across</span> +<span class="i0">A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans cry:—"He can defend his marche.</span> +<span class="i0">With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance;</span> +<span class="i0">Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now.</span> +<span class="i0">Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[164]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_231" id="St_231">CCXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir, Baron-like, wears on his chin</span> +<span class="i0">A beard as white as summer flower, and gained</span> +<span class="i0">Among the wisest of his creed a fame;</span> +<span class="i0">In battle fierce and proud. His son Malprime</span> +<span class="i0">Of knightly soul, and from his noble race</span> +<span class="i0">Holding a valiant heart and strength of arm,</span> +<span class="i0">Addressed his father:—"Sire, to horse! to horse!</span> +<span class="i0">Against them! I much wonder whether Carle</span> +<span class="i0">We e'er shall meet."—"Yea," answered Baligant,</span> +<span class="i0">"Carle is a valorous knight; his glorious deeds</span> +<span class="i0">Are writt'n, but now his nephew is no more;</span> +<span class="i0">Against our strength no other man's can stand."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_232" id="St_232">CCXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Fair son, Malprime," said th' Emir Baligant,</span> +<span class="i0">"Yesterday fell in death the noble knight</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd, and Olivier the wise and brave,</span> +<span class="i0">And the twelve Peers by Carle so dearly loved,</span> +<span class="i0">With twenty thousand combatants of France;</span> +<span class="i0">Not at a glove's worth hold I all the rest.</span> +<span class="i0">Anon my Syrian messenger reports</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[165]</span><span class="i0">The emperor's approach; ten armies Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Has called in close array; the knight who bears</span> +<span class="i0">The olifant, with clear resounding blast</span> +<span class="i0">Leads his companions, riding in the front;</span> +<span class="i0">Together with them fifteen thousand men</span> +<span class="i0">Of France, all bachelors, whom Carle is wont</span> +<span class="i0">To call his children. These as many follow</span> +<span class="i0">Who for the fiercest combat seem prepared."</span> +<span class="i0">Thus said Malprime: "The first stroke I demand!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_233" id="St_233">CCXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Fair son," said Baligant, "to you I grant</span> +<span class="i0">Your full request. Against the French at once</span> +<span class="i0">Engage. Let your companions be Torleu</span> +<span class="i0">The Persian King, and Dapamort who rules</span> +<span class="i0">Leutis. If you subdue the vaunting Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">A portion of my kingdom shall you have</span> +<span class="i0">In fief from the Orient to Val-Marchis."</span> +<span class="i0">Responds Malprime: "To you, O sire, all thanks!"</span> +<span class="i0">And stepping forward, he receives the boon.</span> +<span class="i0">This land had once been swayed by King Fleuri,</span> +<span class="i0">But by Malprime was neither ruled nor seen.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_234" id="St_234">CCXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir Baligant rides through the ranks</span> +<span class="i0">Of all his host, escorted by his son</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[166]</span><span class="i0">Of giant stature, and the Kings Torleu</span> +<span class="i0">And Dapamort. In line of battle soon</span> +<span class="i0">Stand thirty legions ranked. Countless the knights,</span> +<span class="i0">And fifteen thousand strong the weakest band</span> +<span class="i0">Can number. First are those of Butentrot,</span> +<span class="i0">The next of Misnia: enormous heads</span> +<span class="i0">O'ertop the spine enrooted in their backs,</span> +<span class="i0">Their shaggy bodies bristling with coarse hair</span> +<span class="i0">Like boars; the third, of Nubles and of Blos;</span> +<span class="i0">The legion fourth of Bruns and Esclavos;</span> +<span class="i0">The fifth of Sorbres and Sorz; from the Ermines</span> +<span class="i0">And Mors is formed the sixth; from Jericho</span> +<span class="i0">The seventh, and the eighth from those of Nigre.</span> +<span class="i0">Of Gros the ninth, and from Balide-la-Fort,</span> +<span class="i0">The legion tenth, men never good for aught.</span> +<span class="i0">With strongest oaths the Emir swears aloud</span> +<span class="i0">By all Mohammed's might and body, "Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Of France rides like a madman to his doom,</span> +<span class="i0">For combat we shall have; recoils he not,</span> +<span class="i0">His brow shall never more wear golden crown."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_235" id="St_235">CCXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Ten other legions are arrayed: the first</span> +<span class="i0">Of Canelieux—ill-visaged people, come</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[167]</span><span class="i0">Athwart, from Valfuit; Turks the next; the third</span> +<span class="i0">Persians; the fourth, Persians and Pinceneis;</span> +<span class="i0">The fifth from Soltras come and from Avers;</span> +<span class="i0">Englez and Ormaleis make up the sixth;</span> +<span class="i0">The seventh scions are of Samuel's race;</span> +<span class="i0">The eighth from Braise; Esclavers form the ninth;</span> +<span class="i0">As for the tenth, a horde perverse that came</span> +<span class="i0">From Ociant's deserted land—a race</span> +<span class="i0">Not loving God the Lord; ne'er shall you hear</span> +<span class="i0">Of viler breed: their heathen skin as hard</span> +<span class="i0">As iron, whence it is they need no helms</span> +<span class="i0">Nor hauberks mailed—in battle treach'rous fiends.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_236" id="St_236">CCXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir has himself ten legions armed.</span> +<span class="i0">To form the first the giants of Malpruse</span> +<span class="i0">Were summoned; to the second came the Huns;</span> +<span class="i0">The Hungres made the third; Baldise-la-Lungue</span> +<span class="i0">The fourth, and Val-Penuse the fifth; the sixth</span> +<span class="i0">Maruse; the seventh Leuz and Astrimonies;</span> +<span class="i0">The eighth Argoilles; Clarbone the ninth; the tenth</span> +<span class="i0">Formed of the bearded men of Val-Fondé,</span> +<span class="i0">A tribe that never would love God. The songs</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[168]</span><span class="i0">Of Geste of France thus thirty legions count:</span> +<span class="i0">A mighty host where many a trumpet blasts.</span> +<span class="i0">Forward, like valiant knights, the Pagans ride.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_237" id="St_237">CCXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir, rich and mighty lord, commands</span> +<span class="i0">Before him to display his dragon-flag,</span> +<span class="i0">The standard of Mahum and Tervagant;</span> +<span class="i0">With it Apollo's image, evil god.</span> +<span class="i0">Ten Canelieus about him ride, and cry</span> +<span class="i0">This sermon with loud voice: "Who by our Gods</span> +<span class="i0">Craves to be saved, with the most contrite heart</span> +<span class="i0">Must pray!" And then the Pagans low incline</span> +<span class="i0">Their heads and chins, with brilliant helms bent down</span> +<span class="i0">To earth.—"Now, gluttons, comes your hour to die!"</span> +<span class="i0">Cry out the French; "Confusion be your lot.</span> +<span class="i0">This day, O God of ours, defend King Carle,</span> +<span class="i0">Turn Thou the scale of battle to his side!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_238" id="St_238">CCXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir, great in wisdom, called his son</span> +<span class="i0">And the two kings:—"Seigneurs Barons, in front</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[169]</span><span class="i0">Ride ye, and all my legions you shall lead;</span> +<span class="i0">Among them only three will I retain,</span> +<span class="i0">But of the best: The first shall be the Turks,</span> +<span class="i0">The second of the Ormaleis composed,</span> +<span class="i0">And third shall be the Giants of Malpruse,</span> +<span class="i0">While those of Occiant shall near me stand</span> +<span class="i0">To set them on King Carle and on his French.</span> +<span class="i0">Should then the Emperor dare measure arms</span> +<span class="i0">With me, struck from its trunk his head shall fall—</span> +<span class="i0">No right has he to other fate than this."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_239" id="St_239">CCXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Both armies are immense; their squadrons bright.</span> +<span class="i0">Between the combatants nor height, nor hill,</span> +<span class="i0">Nor vale, nor wood that shelter could afford;</span> +<span class="i0">Foe looks on foe across the open field.—</span> +<span class="i0">Said Baligant: "My Saracens, to horse!</span> +<span class="i0">Ride forward to the fight!" The battle flag</span> +<span class="i0">Is borne on high by Amboire d'Oliferne,</span> +<span class="i0">And all shout "Precieuse!" The French exclaim:</span> +<span class="i0">"May ye confounded be this day!" Aloud</span> +<span class="i0">Rises their cry "Montjoie!" The Emperor Carle</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[170]</span><span class="i0">His trumpets bid resound, and the olifant</span> +<span class="i0">Whose blast 'whelms all. The Pagans say: "Carle's host</span> +<span class="i0">Is fair! Fierce battle shall we have and dire."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_240" id="St_240">CCXL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Vast is the plain and broad the field. Behold</span> +<span class="i0">Those dazzling helms inlaid with gold and gems,</span> +<span class="i0">Those shields, those coats of mail with saffron edged,</span> +<span class="i0">Those spears and pennons rolled; hearken ye the voice</span> +<span class="i0">Of trumpets blowing clear and strong, and hark</span> +<span class="i0">The olifant's shrill blast, which sounds the charge.</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir calls his brother, Canabeu,</span> +<span class="i0">The King of Floredée, who rules the land</span> +<span class="i0">As far as Val-Sevrée, and points to Carle's</span> +<span class="i0">Ten must'ring legions: "See the pride of France</span> +<span class="i0">The praised; amid his bearded knights how proud</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor rides! O'er their hauberks stream</span> +<span class="i0">Their beards as white as snow upon the frost.</span> +<span class="i0">Forsooth! These valiant warriors will strike hard</span> +<span class="i0">With lance and sword, and such a fight be ours</span> +<span class="i0">As never man has fought." Then Baligant,</span> +<span class="i0">Urging his courser further than a man</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[171]</span> +<span class="i0">Can hurl a staff, gave reasons and their proof:</span> +<span class="i0">"Come forward, Pagans; follow where I go!"</span> +<span class="i0">Brandishing high the shaft of his own lance,</span> +<span class="i0">At Carle he levels fair its trenchant steel.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_241" id="St_241">CCXLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Carle the Emir sees, and with him borne</span> +<span class="i0">The dragon-standard, all the land o'erswarmed</span> +<span class="i0">By Arab warriors, save that space alone</span> +<span class="i0">Held by his host, he cries with loudest voice:</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons of France, in valor great, we know,</span> +<span class="i0">Upon how many fields ye battled! See</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans! Traitors vile and cowards all;</span> +<span class="i0">Yea, all their law I count no denier worth.</span> +<span class="i0">What care ye, lords, how vast their numbers are?</span> +<span class="i0">Let those who wish to combat follow me!"</span> +<span class="i0">With pointed spurs he pricks his courser's flanks</span> +<span class="i0">And Tecendur four times leaped in the air.</span> +<span class="i0">Cry out the French:—"A valiant King is this!</span> +<span class="i0">Ride forward, Sire, not one will fail you here."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_242" id="St_242">CCXLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Clear was the day and bright the sun. Both hosts</span> +<span class="i0">Resplendent, their battalions numberless;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[172]</span><span class="i0">The legions in the van already meet</span> +<span class="i0">In fight. Both Counts Rabel and Guineman</span> +<span class="i0">On their fleet coursers' necks have loosed the rein!</span> +<span class="i0">Sharply they spur, and all the Franks dash on</span> +<span class="i0">To deal with trenchant lance their valiant blows.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_243" id="St_243">CCXLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">A daring Knight is Count Rabel. With spurs</span> +<span class="i0">Of purest gold he pricks his courser's flanks,</span> +<span class="i0">Rushing to smite Torleu the Persian King.</span> +<span class="i0">No shield, no hauberk can such blow withstand.</span> +<span class="i0">The golden spear went through the Pagan's heart</span> +<span class="i0">And mid the brambles of the road has struck</span> +<span class="i0">Him dead. The French cry out: "Aid us, O God!</span> +<span class="i0">With Carle the right; ne'er shall we fail our King!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_244" id="St_244">CCXLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Guineman 'gainst the King of Leutice tilts;</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan's shield with painted flowers bedecked</span> +<span class="i0">Is shattered and his hauberk torn away.</span> +<span class="i0">Through his heart's core the pennon of the Knight</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[173]</span> +<span class="i0">Is driven, bearing death,—or laugh or weep</span> +<span class="i0">Who may. At such a blow the French exclaim:</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons, strike ever! Strike and be not slack</span> +<span class="i0">Against the Pagan hordes; to Carle belongs</span> +<span class="i0">The right. With us the justice true of God!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_245" id="St_245">CCXLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Malprime upon a steed of purest white</span> +<span class="i0">Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks</span> +<span class="i0">His men. Abating not his mighty blows,</span> +<span class="i0">Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant</span> +<span class="i0">In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long,</span> +<span class="i0">Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle</span> +<span class="i0">And with so many knights he measured arms;</span> +<span class="i0">A better vassal I shall never claim;</span> +<span class="i0">Give him the succor of your trenchant spears."</span> +<span class="i0">On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal</span> +<span class="i0">Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight!</span> +<span class="i0">The battle marvelous and stern. None such</span> +<span class="i0">Was ever seen before or since that hour.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_246" id="St_246">CCXLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The hosts are numberless, the warriors fierce—</span> +<span class="i0">The encount'ring legions fighting hand to hand</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[174]</span><span class="i0">Noblest exploits achieved. How many a lance</span> +<span class="i0">Asunder broken; God! How many shields</span> +<span class="i0">In pieces split, how many hauberks wrenched!</span> +<span class="i0">Splinters of shivered armor you might see</span> +<span class="i0">Strew all the field, and verdant tender grass</span> +<span class="i0">Vermillioned o'er by streams of human gore!</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir to his people calls anew:</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons strike down these Christian people!"—Hard</span> +<span class="i0">And long the fight embittered by revenge</span> +<span class="i0">And rage. Ne'er seen before nor will be seen</span> +<span class="i0">Again such combat.—To the death they fight.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_247" id="St_247">CCXLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir to his men:—"Strike, Pagans, ye</span> +<span class="i0">For this alone have come. Dames sweet and fair</span> +<span class="i0">Shall be your guerdon; honors, and domains</span> +<span class="i0">I promise all."—The Saracens respond:</span> +<span class="i0">"To serve you all we ought."—So hard they fight</span> +<span class="i0">That in the hot affray they lose their spears:</span> +<span class="i0">Anon a thousand flashing swords and more,</span> +<span class="i0">Are drawn, a bloody slaughter to achieve.</span> +<span class="i0">He who stood on that field, true battle saw.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[175]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_248" id="St_248">CCXLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The King exhorts his French: "Beloved Seigneurs</span> +<span class="i0">And trusty Knights, ye many battles fought</span> +<span class="i0">For me, won many a realm, defeated Kings!</span> +<span class="i0">Full well I know, rich guerdons have ye earned;</span> +<span class="i0">My wealth, lands, blood I owe you. Now to-day</span> +<span class="i0">Your sons, your brothers and your kin avenge</span> +<span class="i0">Who fell in Ronceval but yesternight!</span> +<span class="i0">Well know ye mine the right, with them the wrong."</span> +<span class="i0">The French reply:—"Yea, sire, you speak the truth."</span> +<span class="i0">The twenty thousand knights who march with Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Pledge with one soul their fealty. Dire distress,</span> +<span class="i0">E'en death, shall cause not one of these to fail</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor; not on lances they rely,</span> +<span class="i0">But with the sword in hand wage doughty strife.</span> +<span class="i0">Wondrous the raging battle. Stern the fight.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_249" id="St_249">CCXLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The brave Malprime has pressed his steed across</span> +<span class="i0">The field, and carried death among the French.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[176]</span><span class="i0">Duke Naimes glanced proudly toward him, and as knight</span> +<span class="i0">In battle fearless met him in career;</span> +<span class="i0">He strikes ... tears off his buckler's leathern top,</span> +<span class="i0">The hauberk cuts in twain, drives through the heart</span> +<span class="i0">The yellow pennon of the spear, and strikes</span> +<span class="i0">Him dead mid seven hundred other knights.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_250" id="St_250">CCL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">King Canabeus, the Emir's brother, spurs</span> +<span class="i0">His courser on; his crystal-hilted sword</span> +<span class="i0">Unsheathes, and deals Naimes' princely helm a blow</span> +<span class="i0">Which splits the crest in twain; the trenchant blade</span> +<span class="i0">Severs the five strong bands which to his head</span> +<span class="i0">Fast bound it; now not worth a denier was</span> +<span class="i0">The steel-mailed hood; down to the flesh the casque</span> +<span class="i0">Sheer cleft—a fragment falls upon the earth.</span> +<span class="i0">The blow was great; the Duke, astounded, reeled,</span> +<span class="i0">And would have fallen but for God's help. He clasps</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[177]</span><span class="i0">His courser's neck, and should the Pagan deal</span> +<span class="i0">Another stroke, the noble Duke has breathed</span> +<span class="i0">His last; but to his help comes Carle of France.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_251" id="St_251">CCLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">In the Duke Naimes' brave heart what agony!</span> +<span class="i0">Once more the Pagan raised his arm to strike,</span> +<span class="i0">But now King Carle cries:—"Coward, wretch! This blow</span> +<span class="i0">Brings thee ill luck!"—And valiantly the King</span> +<span class="i0">Rushed on, crushed 'gainst his heart the buckler, rent</span> +<span class="i0">The hauberk's top; dead-struck the heathen King</span> +<span class="i0">Falls on the ground ... empty the saddle rests.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_252" id="St_252">CCLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Deep grief the Emperor felt when there he saw</span> +<span class="i0">Duke Naimes sore-wounded and the verdant grass</span> +<span class="i0">Streamed o'er by his clear blood, and thereupon</span> +<span class="i0">This counsel spoke:—"Fair Naimes, ride close by me;</span> +<span class="i0">The wretch who brought you to this cruel fight</span> +<span class="i0">Has breathed his last, his body by my lance</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[178]</span><span class="i0">Transfixed."—The Duke:—"In you my trust, O sire!</span> +<span class="i0">If e'er I live, with knightly service shall</span> +<span class="i0">My arm requite this deed!"—Then side by side</span> +<span class="i0">In faith and love, with twenty thousand knights</span> +<span class="i0">They march. And none of these or flinch or yield.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_253" id="St_253">CCLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir rides across the field, in haste</span> +<span class="i0">To deal a blow against Count Guineman.</span> +<span class="i0">Athwart his heart he breaks the buckler white</span> +<span class="i0">And tears the hauberk's sides apart, disjoints</span> +<span class="i0">Two ribs and hurls him from his courser, dead;</span> +<span class="i0">Then takes the life of Gebain and Lorant,</span> +<span class="i0">And of Richard the old, a Norman Lord.</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans cry: "<i>Precieuse</i> deserves its name!</span> +<span class="i0">Barons! strike on, Precieuse will save us all!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_254" id="St_254">CCLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">A noble sight, those knights of Araby,</span> +<span class="i0">Of Occiant, of Argoille and of Bascle!</span> +<span class="i0">Spears intermix, death to repel or give.</span> +<span class="i0">Nathless the French recoil not from the strife.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[179]</span><span class="i0">On either side they fall heaped high. Till eve</span> +<span class="i0">The storm of battle raged. Meanwhile the knights</span> +<span class="i0">Of France upon that day bore rueful loss;</span> +<span class="i0">Nor stayed the carnage till the day was done.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<h4><a name="St_255" id="St_255">CCLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">French and Arabian warriors emulate</span> +<span class="i0">In valor each the other. Ashen shafts</span> +<span class="i0">Break from their brazen heads. Whoso then saw</span> +<span class="i0">Those shields defaced, who heard those hauberks white</span> +<span class="i0">Resound with blows, this dinning clash of shields</span> +<span class="i0">'Gainst helmets grinding, saw those knights and men</span> +<span class="i0">Fall and with dying shrieks roll on the earth,</span> +<span class="i0">Of greatest anguish could the memory keep;</span> +<span class="i0">So fierce this battle raged. The Emir calls</span> +<span class="i0">Upon Apollo, Tervagan, upon</span> +<span class="i0">Mahum: "Till now I served you well, O Gods!</span> +<span class="i0">And I will have an image made for each,</span> +<span class="i0">Molten of purest gold [if ye but help]!"</span> +<span class="i0">Before him then his favorite Gemalfin</span> +<span class="i0">Appears. He brings ill news. "Sire Baligant</span> +<span class="i0">This day brings you mishap; Malprime, your son</span> +<span class="i0">Has fall'n! Your brother Canabeus is dead.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[180]</span><span class="i0">Two Franks the glory have of their defeat,</span> +<span class="i0">One, Carle the Emperor, I deem, so vast</span> +<span class="i0">His fame, his air as <i>Marchis</i> grand, his beard</span> +<span class="i0">As white as April blossom!" At these words</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir's helm declines, his visage sinks</span> +<span class="i0">Low on his breast. Such is his grief, he thinks</span> +<span class="i0">Death nears him. Calling Jangleu d'ultremer,</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_256" id="St_256">CCLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir said:—"Jangleu, step forth; most wise</span> +<span class="i0">Art thou, thy knowledge great; thy counsel e'er</span> +<span class="i0">I followed; what the chance of victory</span> +<span class="i0">For Franks or Arabs deemest thou?" Jangleu</span> +<span class="i0">Responds:—"Death, Baligant, hangs o'er your head.</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'ermore your gods can save you; Carle is proud,</span> +<span class="i0">And valiant are his men. Ne'er lived a race</span> +<span class="i0">So strong in battle; yet call up your knights</span> +<span class="i0">Of Occiant, Enfruns and Arabs, Turks</span> +<span class="i0">And Giants. Do your duty with all speed."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_257" id="St_257">CCLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir spreads out to the breeze his beard</span> +<span class="i0">As hawthorn blossom white; betide what may,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[181]</span><span class="i0">Escape he will not seek, puts to his lips</span> +<span class="i0">A trumpet clear, whose blast the Pagans hark,</span> +<span class="i0">And fast their cohorts rally on the field.</span> +<span class="i0">They bray and neigh, the men of Occiant,</span> +<span class="i0">While those of Arguile yelp as curs, and charge</span> +<span class="i0">The Franks so rashly, they mow down and break</span> +<span class="i0">Their thickest ranks, and by this blow</span> +<span class="i0">Throw seven thousand dead upon the field.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_258" id="St_258">CCLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">To Count Ogier is dastardy unknown;</span> +<span class="i0">No better vassal buckled hauberk on.</span> +<span class="i0">When the French legions broken thus he saw,</span> +<span class="i0">He called Tierri Duke of Argonne, Geffrei</span> +<span class="i0">D'Anjou and Jozeran the Count, and spoke</span> +<span class="i0">These haughty words to Carle:—"Behold our men</span> +<span class="i0">By Pagans slaughtered! May God ne'er permit</span> +<span class="i0">Your brow to wear its crown if unrevenged</span> +<span class="i0">Your shame remains!" None dared reply a word,</span> +<span class="i0">But spurring hard their steeds, with loosened reins</span> +<span class="i0">They rush in fury 'gainst the Pagan ranks</span> +<span class="i0">And strike the foes where'er they can be met.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[182]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_259" id="St_259">CCLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Hard strikes Carlemagne the king, hard strikes Duke Naimes,</span> +<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemark, Geffrei d'Anjou,</span> +<span class="i0">Who bears the royal pennon. But o'er all</span> +<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemark puts forth his might;</span> +<span class="i0">He pricks his courser, drops the rein and falls</span> +<span class="i0">Upon the Pagan who the Dragon holds,</span> +<span class="i0">So fiercely, that both Dragon and the King's</span> +<span class="i0">Own flag is crushed before him on the spot.</span> +<span class="i0">When Baligant beholds his gonfalon fall</span> +<span class="i0">And Mahum's flag defenseless, in his heart</span> +<span class="i0">Springs quick the thought, wrong may be on his side</span> +<span class="i0">And right on Carle's. The Pagans [waver now].</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle around him calls his (Franks):</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons, in God's name, do you stand by me?"</span> +<span class="i0">Respond the French:—"To ask is an offense.</span> +<span class="i0">Accurst be he who deals not glorious strokes!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_260" id="St_260">CCLX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The day wears on and vesper draweth nigh.</span> +<span class="i0">Christians and Pagans, sword in hand, engage;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[183]</span><span class="i0">And valiant are their chiefs, nor mindless they</span> +<span class="i0">Of battle cries:—"Precieuse!" the Emir shouts,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle:—"Montjoie!" the glorious sign. Each knows</span> +<span class="i0">The other by the clear sonorous voice,</span> +<span class="i0">And 'mid the field encountering, gives and takes</span> +<span class="i0">Fierce blows. Each massy shield receives the shock,</span> +<span class="i0">And each beneath the boss is cloven in twain</span> +<span class="i0">By the strong lance; each hauberk's sides are rent,</span> +<span class="i0">But the keen steel in neither reached the flesh;</span> +<span class="i0">The horse-girths burst and let the saddles fall.</span> +<span class="i0">Dropped to the earth both kings, both to their feet</span> +<span class="i0">Quick springing, dauntlessly unsheathed their swords.</span> +<span class="i0">And now the mortal combat will not cease</span> +<span class="i0">Till Carle or Baligant has fallen in death.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_261" id="St_261">CCLXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carle of sweet France is brave, but the Emir feels</span> +<span class="i0">Before him neither fear nor dread. Both wield</span> +<span class="i0">Their naked swords and mighty thrusts exchange.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[184]</span><span class="i0">The shields, of wood and leather multifold,</span> +<span class="i0">Are rent, the nails torn out, the bosses split;</span> +<span class="i0">Each at the other's hauberk aims his blows.</span> +<span class="i0">Both combat breast to breast; the showering sparks</span> +<span class="i0">Wrap both their helms in fire: no end can be</span> +<span class="i0">Till one or other, vanquished, owns his wrong.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_262" id="St_262">CCLXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emir said: "King Carle, bethink thee yet;</span> +<span class="i0">Take better counsel with thy heart, and show</span> +<span class="i0">Remorse. Full well I know, by thee my son</span> +<span class="i0">Was slain, thou broughtest ruin through my land.</span> +<span class="i0">Become my man, I will restore [in fief]</span> +<span class="i0">This land [to thee], and to the East, but serve</span> +<span class="i0">Me well." And Carle: "Great shame were that to me!</span> +<span class="i0">To Heathens I can give no peace nor love....</span> +<span class="i0">Receive the law our God revealed; accept</span> +<span class="i0">The faith of Christ.... For e'er my love is thine,</span> +<span class="i0">If thou believe in God, the Almighty King."</span> +<span class="i0">Said Baligant: "Ill words are these of thine:</span> +<span class="i0">[Far better die by the keen edge of sword."]</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[185]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_263" id="St_263">CCLXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The mighty Emir with a giant's strength</span> +<span class="i0">Smites Carle upon the helm of burnished steel,</span> +<span class="i0">Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow,</span> +<span class="i0">Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp</span> +<span class="i0">Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more,</span> +<span class="i0">Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls,</span> +<span class="i0">But God willed not that he should die or yield.</span> +<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more</span> +<span class="i0">Descends, demanding:—"What ails thee, great King?"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_264" id="St_264">CCLXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,</span> +<span class="i0">All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,</span> +<span class="i0">And in him springs again his former strength.</span> +<span class="i0">The Emir by the royal sword of France</span> +<span class="i0">Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,</span> +<span class="i0">His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face</span> +<span class="i0">Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:</span> +<span class="i0">Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[186]</span><span class="i0">Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"</span> +<span class="i0">Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings</span> +<span class="i0">The charger Tecendur for Carle the great</span> +<span class="i0">To mount. The Pagans turn their backs—God wills</span> +<span class="i0">They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_265" id="St_265">CCLXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans fly—such is the will of God;</span> +<span class="i0">Carle leads the French in the pursuit. Thus spake</span> +<span class="i0">The King:—"Seigneurs, the time is come to give</span> +<span class="i0">Vent to just hatred, and your anguished hearts</span> +<span class="i0">Assuage. This very morn I saw your eyes</span> +<span class="i0">Streaming with tears." They cry:—"Our vengeance now!"</span> +<span class="i0">And vying with each other in exploits,</span> +<span class="i0">They deal their mighty blows. But few escape.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_266" id="St_266">CCLXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust</span> +<span class="i0">The Pagans rousèd, by their foes harassed,</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[187]</span><span class="i0">Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower</span> +<span class="i0">Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus</span> +<span class="i0">The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests</span> +<span class="i0">And canons, subjects to false law, by God</span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear.</span> +<span class="i0">She cries aloud:—"Aid us, Mahum! Oh aid!</span> +<span class="i0">O gentle King! Already vanquished are</span> +<span class="i0">Our men, the Emir slain in shameful death!"</span> +<span class="i0">On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall</span> +<span class="i0">His covered face, and amid bitter tears</span> +<span class="i0">His life departed. Soon the eager fiends</span> +<span class="i0">Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened soul.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_267" id="St_267">CCLXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight];</span> +<span class="i0">Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce</span> +<span class="i0">Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain.</span> +<span class="i0">He takes the city. All the Christian host</span> +<span class="i0">Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night.</span> +<span class="i0">The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride:</span> +<span class="i0">Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels;</span> +<span class="i0">Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small.</span> +<span class="i0">Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[188]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_268" id="St_268">CCLXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The sunny day had passed, the shades of night</span> +<span class="i0">Had fallen; bright the moonlight; all the stars</span> +<span class="i0">In heaven shone. Carle ruled in Sarraguce.</span> +<span class="i0">Unto one thousand men he gave command</span> +<span class="i0">To search throughout the city's synagogues</span> +<span class="i0">And mosques for all their idols and graved signs</span> +<span class="i0">Of gods—these to be broken up and crushed</span> +<span class="i0">By ax and iron mallet he ordains.</span> +<span class="i0">Nor sorcery nor falsehood left. King Carle</span> +<span class="i0">Believes in God and serves him faithfully.</span> +<span class="i0">Then bishops bless the fountains, leading up</span> +<span class="i0">The Heathens to the blest baptismal Font.</span> +<span class="i0">If one perchance resist the King, condemned</span> +<span class="i0">Is he to die, or hanged, or burnt, or slain.</span> +<span class="i0">More than one hundred thousand are baptized</span> +<span class="i0">True Christians; but not so Queen Bramimunde:</span> +<span class="i0">A captive shall she go unto sweet France</span> +<span class="i0">And be converted by the King through love.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_269" id="St_269">CCLXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Night passes; dawn appears. Carle fortifies</span> +<span class="i0">The towers of Sarraguce. One thousand Knights</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[189]</span><span class="i0">Of valor proved are left to guard the town</span> +<span class="i0">In the Emperor's name. With escort strong he rides,</span> +<span class="i0">Followed by Bramimunde a captive, yet</span> +<span class="i0">Commands that naught but kindness she receive.</span> +<span class="i0">In proud and joyous triumph they return;</span> +<span class="i0">Through Nerbune passes the victorious host,</span> +<span class="i0">Unto Burdele, the city great and fair.</span> +<span class="i0">There on the altar of the Baron Saint</span> +<span class="i0">Sevrin, Carle lays the olifant filled full</span> +<span class="i0">Of marks and gold, where pilgrims view it still.</span> +<span class="i0">Passing upon broad skiffs across Girunde,</span> +<span class="i0">To Blaive, he bears the bodies of Rollánd</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, his noble <i>Compagnon</i>,</span> +<span class="i0">With the Archbishop good and brave. Beneath</span> +<span class="i0">White monuments he hath the lords entombed</span> +<span class="i0">At Saint-Romain. Here those three Barons lie....</span> +<span class="i0">The French to God and to his saints, once more</span> +<span class="i0">Commend them. Carle anew through mounts and vales</span> +<span class="i0">Proceeds, nor will he stop until in Aix.</span> +<span class="i0">Fast rides he till he nears the marble steps</span> +<span class="i0">Of his great palace; and as soon as reached</span> +<span class="i0">Its tower, by messengers he summons up</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[190]</span><span class="i0">Baiviers and Saisnes, Loherencs and Frisons,</span> +<span class="i0">Allemans, Burguignons, Normans, Poitevins,</span> +<span class="i0">Bretons, of France the wisest men; for now</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon's trial shall have no delay.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[191]</span></p> + +<h4>THE PUNISHMENT OF GANELON.</h4> +<hr class="two" /> + +<h4><a name="St_270" id="St_270">CCLXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">From Spain at last the Emperor has returned</span> +<span class="i0">To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends</span> +<span class="i0">His palace, enters in the stately hall.—</span> +<span class="i0">Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude,</span> +<span class="i0">And asks the King:—"Where is Rollánd the chief</span> +<span class="i0">Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?"</span> +<span class="i0">Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes,</span> +<span class="i0">Tears his white beard.—"Ah! sister well beloved,</span> +<span class="i0">Thou askest me of one who is no more.</span> +<span class="i0">A worthier match I give thee in exchange;</span> +<span class="i0">Loewis it is. I can not better say.</span> +<span class="i0">He is my son, and will protect my realms."</span> +<span class="i0">Aude answers:—"To my ear these words are strange.</span> +<span class="i0">May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[192]</span><span class="i0">That, if Rollánd lives not, I still should live."</span> +<span class="i0">Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet</span> +<span class="i0">Of Carlemagne—dead ... God's mercy on her soul!</span> +<span class="i0">Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_271" id="St_271">CCLXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Such was the end of Aude the beautiful.</span> +<span class="i0">The King, in hope 'tis but a swoon, with tears</span> +<span class="i0">And pity taking both her hands, uplifts</span> +<span class="i0">Her form; the head upon the shoulders sinks.</span> +<span class="i0">As soon as Carle knows it is death indeed,</span> +<span class="i0">Four countesses he summons, bids them bear</span> +<span class="i0">In haste the Lady to a nunnery.——</span> +<span class="i0">All night they watched the body, and at morn</span> +<span class="i0">Beside a shrine gently she was entombed</span> +<span class="i0">With highest honors by the King's command.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_272" id="St_272">CCLXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">The Emperor is once more at Aix. There stands</span> +<span class="i0">Amid the city 'fore the palace gate,</span> +<span class="i0">In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon.</span> +<span class="i0">His hands are fastened to a stake with thongs</span> +<span class="i0">Of deer-skin by the sergeants who then beat</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[193]</span><span class="i0">His body well with staves and heavy cords.</span> +<span class="i0">Such treatment was his true desert. He waits</span> +<span class="i0">His coming doom, in agony of soul.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_273" id="St_273">CCLXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Written it is in ancient Geste of France</span> +<span class="i0">That Carle then summoned men from all his lands,</span> +<span class="i0">Who met at Aix's Chapelle. A solemn feast</span> +<span class="i0">It was; some say the Baron Saint Silvestre's.</span> +<span class="i0">This day began the plea and history</span> +<span class="i0">Of Ganelon who wove the treason's plot.</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor bade them drag him to his bar.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_274" id="St_274">CCLXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons," said to them Carle the King,</span> +<span class="i0">"Judge Ganelon according to the law.—</span> +<span class="i0">Among my host with me to Spain he came;</span> +<span class="i0">His craft lost twenty thousand of my Franks;</span> +<span class="i0">My nephew, whom ye nevermore shall see,</span> +<span class="i0">And Olivier, the brave and courteous Knight.</span> +<span class="i0">The traitor sold my brave twelve Peers for gain."</span> +<span class="i0">Then Ganelon:—"May I be cursed ere I</span> +<span class="i0">Deny. Of wealth and honors had [Rollánd]</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[194]</span><span class="i0">Deprived me, and for this, his loss and death</span> +<span class="i0">I wrought, but treason none I will confess."</span> +<span class="i0">Respond the French:—"On this we counsel take."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_275" id="St_275">CCLXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">In presence of the King stands Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">With bearing hardy, florid countenance;</span> +<span class="i0">Were he but loyal, as a Baron true</span> +<span class="i0">His mien. Upon the French and judges he</span> +<span class="i0">Has cast a glance, and on his thirty kin</span> +<span class="i0">Who 'round him stand; then with firm voice exclaims:</span> +<span class="i0">"Barons! Now hear me all, for love of God!</span> +<span class="i0">I to the Emperor's host belonged, and served</span> +<span class="i0">Him ever in all faith and love. Rollánd,</span> +<span class="i0">His nephew, hatred bore to me, and fain</span> +<span class="i0">Had doomed my days to torture and to death.</span> +<span class="i0">As message-bearer I to King Marsile</span> +<span class="i0">Was sent, wisdom alone my shield and guard;</span> +<span class="i0">I gave defiance to Rollánd the bold,</span> +<span class="i0">To Olivier and to their comrades all:</span> +<span class="i0">By Carle and all his Barons this was heard.</span> +<span class="i0">Revenge this was, but treason it was none."</span> +<span class="i0">Reply the French:—"All this we well shall weigh."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[195]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_276" id="St_276">CCLXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">On seeing the great plea was to commence,</span> +<span class="i0">Thirty good Knights were called by Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Out of his kin, and one among them makes</span> +<span class="i0">A speech all others hark: 'tis Pinabel</span> +<span class="i0">Of Castel de Sorence, of greatest skill</span> +<span class="i0">In words, and apt with reason plausible;</span> +<span class="i0">Withal, a vassal brave to guard his arms.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus to him Ganelon:—"In you my trust</span> +<span class="i0">I place; my life from death, my name from shame</span> +<span class="i0">Preserve!"—Said Pinabel:—"Thou shalt be saved.</span> +<span class="i0">Dare one French Knight condemn thee to be hanged,</span> +<span class="i0">And would the Emperor make us both to meet</span> +<span class="i0">In combat, my good sword will his rash word</span> +<span class="i0">Believe."—And at his feet falls Ganelon.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_277" id="St_277">CCLXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Baiviers, Saines, Poitevins, Normans and French</span> +<span class="i0">In council met;—Allemans, Tiedeis in great</span> +<span class="i0">Array. Those from Alverne most courteous prove</span> +<span class="i0">And show more kindness unto Pinabel.</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[196]</span><span class="i0">One to the others said:—"To leave this plea</span> +<span class="i0">Right would it be, and pray Carl'magne, this once</span> +<span class="i0">To pardon Ganelon who, from this day,</span> +<span class="i0">Will serve his lord with truer faith and love.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd lies in his grave; nor wealth, nor gold</span> +<span class="i0">Restores him to your eyes. This cruel fight</span> +<span class="i0">Is folly."—All the Knights approve, save one,</span> +<span class="i0">Tierri, a brother of the Lord Geffrei.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_278" id="St_278">CCLXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">To Carle his Barons come again, and say:</span> +<span class="i0">"We pray you, sire, acquit Count Ganelon;</span> +<span class="i0">Then will he serve you with true faith and love.</span> +<span class="i0">Grant him his life which springs from noble race.</span> +<span class="i0">Rollánd lies in his grave; ne'er shall we see</span> +<span class="i0">Him more, nor treasures e'er can bring him back."</span> +<span class="i0">Exclaimed the King: "Vile traitors are ye all!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_279" id="St_279">CLXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Now, seeing all will fail him, o'er Carle's eyes</span> +<span class="i0">And features gloom descends; by grief o'erwhelmed</span> +<span class="i0">He cries: "Unhappy that I am!" Then stood</span> +<span class="i0">[Tierri], the brother of Geffrei, the Duke</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[197]</span><span class="i0">D'Anjou, before the King. Thin, light of frame,</span> +<span class="i0">Hair raven-black, [face] somewhat brown of hue,</span> +<span class="i0">In height nor tall nor short; with courtesy</span> +<span class="i0">He spake thus to the Emp'ror: "Fair sire King,</span> +<span class="i0">Be not cast down. That I have served you well</span> +<span class="i0">Ere this, you know. 'Tis my ancestral right</span> +<span class="i0">To sit among the judges of the plea.</span> +<span class="i0">However guilty was Rollánd against</span> +<span class="i0">Count Ganelon, his duty to the King</span> +<span class="i0">Should have restrained his hate. A treason foul</span> +<span class="i0">Ganelon wrought against Rollánd; forsworn</span> +<span class="i0">In perjury tow'rd you, he lost himself.</span> +<span class="i0">For all his crimes his death I here demand,</span> +<span class="i0">Death by the cord; his body to the dogs</span> +<span class="i0">Be thrown away—the perjurer's just doom.</span> +<span class="i0">Should any of his kin deny the words</span> +<span class="i0">I speak, this sword of mine girt to my side</span> +<span class="i0">Will make them good."—All cry: "Well have you said."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_280" id="St_280">CCLXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Then toward the King advances Pinabel;</span> +<span class="i0">Tall, strong and swift, and brave. Strike he but once,</span> +<span class="i0">No second blow need follow; to the King</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[198]</span><span class="i0">He said: "Sire, unto you belongs this plea.</span> +<span class="i0">Command these clamors to be hushed. There stands</span> +<span class="i0">Tierri who now his judgment has pronounced.</span> +<span class="i0">The lie I give him and to fight defy!"</span> +<span class="i0">With this his right hand glove of deer-skin gave</span> +<span class="i0">Unto the King who said: "I must receive</span> +<span class="i0">Good pledges." Of his kin then thirty knights</span> +<span class="i0">Were given as legal sureties of his pledge.</span> +<span class="i0">"I also give my pledge," the Emperor said,</span> +<span class="i0">"And have them guarded safe till judgment pass."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_281" id="St_281">CCLXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When Tierri sees that now the fight is near,</span> +<span class="i0">He gives the Emperor his right hand glove.</span> +<span class="i0">To him the sureties Carle himself provides,</span> +<span class="i0">Bids that they bring four benches to the place</span> +<span class="i0">Whereon the combatants shall sit. The terms</span> +<span class="i0">Are judged by all the others as most fair.</span> +<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemarche was chosen to rule</span> +<span class="i0">The lists. Then for their steeds and arms both called.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[199]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_282" id="St_282">CCLXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Both knights now made them ready for the fight,</span> +<span class="i0">Were shriven, assoiled, and blessed; a mass have heard,</span> +<span class="i0">Communion have received, and richest alms</span> +<span class="i0">Bequeathed to monasteries.—Before striking</span> +<span class="i0">They both appear.—Gold spurs their heels adorn;</span> +<span class="i0">They wear white hauberks light and strong; bright helms</span> +<span class="i0">Clasp on their heads, and gold hilt swords are girt</span> +<span class="i0">Upon their thighs, and to their necks are bound</span> +<span class="i0">Strong quartered shields; they wield in each right hand</span> +<span class="i0">A trenchant sword, and on fleet steeds they mount;</span> +<span class="i0">Then melt in tears one hundred thousand knights</span> +<span class="i0">Who for Rollánd's sake wish Tierri well.</span> +<span class="i0">Yea—but God knows what way the thing will end.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_283" id="St_283">CCLXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Beyond the town of Aix a plain extends:</span> +<span class="i0">And here our Barons will the combat try.</span> +<span class="i0">Most valiant knights are both; the steeds they ride</span> +<span class="i0">Are swift and stout; with spurs in flanks, and freed</span> +<span class="i0">Of rein, they dash.—The warriors all their might</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[200]</span><span class="i0">And skill unite to strike the surest blow.</span> +<span class="i0">Bucklers beneath the shock are torn and crushed,</span> +<span class="i0">White hauberks rent in shreds, asunder bursts</span> +<span class="i0">Each courser's girth, the saddles, turning, fall.</span> +<span class="i0">One hundred thousand men look weeping on....</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_284" id="St_284">CCLXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Both knights leap on the earth, and, quick as light,</span> +<span class="i0">Stand face to face.—Strong, fiery Pinabel</span> +<span class="i0">And Tierri for each other seek. Their steeds</span> +<span class="i0">Are fled.—But their gold-hilted swords they wield;</span> +<span class="i0">And on the helms of steel they shower such blows</span> +<span class="i0">As rashed the thongs. Loudly the knights lament,</span> +<span class="i0">And Carle exclaims:—"Show thou the right, O God!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_285" id="St_285">CCLXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Cried Pinabel:—"Tierri, surrender thou!</span> +<span class="i0">Thy vassal I will be in faith and love,</span> +<span class="i0">And to thy pleasure will I yield my wealth;</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[201]</span><span class="i0">But let the King forgive Count Ganelon!"</span> +<span class="i0">Tierri replied:—"Thy offers all are vain;</span> +<span class="i0">Vile treason were it such a pact to make;</span> +<span class="i0">But God shall judge us and make plain the right."</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_286" id="St_286">CCLXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Then Tierri spake:—"I hold thee, Pinabel,</span> +<span class="i0">As Baron true, great, strong, of handsome mold;</span> +<span class="i0">Thy peers acknowledge thee as valiant knight;</span> +<span class="i0">Well, let this combat cease, between the King</span> +<span class="i0">And thee a covenant I will strive to make.</span> +<span class="i0">On Ganelon such justice shall be done</span> +<span class="i0">That future ages shall record the doom."</span> +<span class="i0">They grasp again their swords and hew</span> +<span class="i0">Each other's gold-encrusted helm with rage</span> +<span class="i0">So rash that sparkling fires spurt through the air.</span> +<span class="i0">No power will now disjoint the combatants:</span> +<span class="i0">The death of one can only close the strife.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_287" id="St_287">CCLXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">No braver man than Pinabel.—Such blows</span> +<span class="i0">He deals on Tierri's helmet of Provence,</span> +<span class="i0">That the sparks fly in showers, and, falling, set</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[202]</span><span class="i0">The grass ablaze. Then aiming at his foe</span> +<span class="i0">His keen-edged brand, down to the brow cuts through</span> +<span class="i0">His helm; the blade glides down across his face,</span> +<span class="i0">And plows his right cheek with a deep red gash;</span> +<span class="i0">Unto his stomach is the haubert rent,</span> +<span class="i0">But God protects him, and averts his death.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_288" id="St_288">CCLXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Tierri, on seeing blood gush from his brow</span> +<span class="i0">And tinge the grassy field, strikes Pinabel</span> +<span class="i0">On his steel-burnished helmet, and cuts through</span> +<span class="i0">To the nose-plate. His head is cleft in twain</span> +<span class="i0">And gushes forth the brain. This fatal blow</span> +<span class="i0">Gives Pinabel his death, and ends the fight.</span> +<span class="i0">The French exclaim:—"O wondrous work of God!</span> +<span class="i0">Full right it is that Ganelon be hanged</span> +<span class="i0">With all his kin who sureties were for him!"</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_289" id="St_289">CCLXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Tierri had won, and on the battle-field</span> +<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle arrived with an escort</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[203]</span><span class="i0">Of forty Barons,—Naimes the Duke, Ogier</span> +<span class="i0">De Dannemarche, Geffrei d'Anjou, Willalmes</span> +<span class="i0">De Blaive.—In close embrace the King has pressed</span> +<span class="i0">Tierri, and with his mantle's sables wiped</span> +<span class="i0">The warrior's face; then lays his furs aside</span> +<span class="i0">And on his shoulders others are arrayed.</span> +<span class="i0">Meanwhile the knight, by friendly hands disarmed,</span> +<span class="i0">On an Arabian mule is placed, and so</span> +<span class="i0">This valorous Baron full of joy returns</span> +<span class="i0">To Aix.—Amid the place they all dismount,</span> +<span class="i0">And now the sureties must abide their doom.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_290" id="St_290">CCXC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Carlemagne around him calls his counts and dukes:</span> +<span class="i0">"What counsel give ye touching those I kept,</span> +<span class="i0">Unto this plea who came for Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Themselves sworn hostages for Pinabel?"</span> +<span class="i0">Respond the French:—"Let none of them survive!"—</span> +<span class="i0">Carle then commands a road-keeper, Basbrun:</span> +<span class='pagenum'>[204]</span><span class="i0">"Hang them all up on yon accursed tree!</span> +<span class="i0">By this gray beard of mine, I swear, if one</span> +<span class="i0">Escape, thou diest but a villain's death!"—</span> +<span class="i0">Answered the man:—"What else but to obey?"—</span> +<span class="i0">Then by a hundred sergeants roughly seized,</span> +<span class="i0">Those thirty men are hanged.—Who man betrays</span> +<span class="i0">Destroys himself and others drags to death.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + + +<h4><a name="St_291" id="St_291">CCXCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">And now have turned away Baiviers, Allemans,</span> +<span class="i0">Poitevins, Bretons and Normans; but more</span> +<span class="i0">Than all, the French advise that Ganelon</span> +<span class="i0">Should die a death of torture. Then they tie</span> +<span class="i0">With cords his hands and feet. Four sergeants bring</span> +<span class="i0">Four wild and fiery destriers, made mad</span> +<span class="i0">By a mare 'mid the field. A fearful end</span> +<span class="i0">For Ganelon; bound between them, limb from limb</span> +<span class="i0">Is rent away, each nerve and muscle stretched</span> +<span class="i0">And torn. The clear blood streams upon the green.</span> +<span class="i0">Thus perished Ganelon by a felon's death....</span> +<span class="i0">Traitors of evil deeds must never boast.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'>[205]</span></p> +<h4><a name="St_292" id="St_292">CCXCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">When the Emperor Carle had wreaked his full revenge,</span> +<span class="i0">He called the bishops from the realms of France,</span> +<span class="i0">And from Baviere, and those of Alemaigne:</span> +<span class="i0">"Now in my [court] have I a captive, sprung</span> +<span class="i0">From noble race. Such sermons has she heard,</span> +<span class="i0">So good examples seen, she will believe</span> +<span class="i0">In the true God, and Christian faith embrace.</span> +<span class="i0">Baptize her so that He may save her soul;</span> +<span class="i0">God-mothers choose her of our noblest dames."</span> +<span class="i0">With a great company the Baths at Aix</span> +<span class="i0">Were thronged, and soon before the holy Fonts</span> +<span class="i0">The Queen received the name of Juliane:</span> +<span class="i0">Henceforth a Christian holding fast the Truth.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>[206]</span></p> + +<h4>THE END OF THE CHANSON.</h4> + + +<h4><a name="St_293" id="St_293">CCXCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">But when the Emperor had made complete</span> +<span class="i0">His justice and his heavy wrath assuaged,</span> +<span class="i0">And brought Queen Bramimunde to Christian faith,</span> +<span class="i0">The day was over and the night had fall'n.</span> +<span class="i0">The King sought rest within his vaulted room.</span> +<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel brought him word from God and said:</span> +<span class="i0">"Carle, of thy empire summon all the hosts</span> +<span class="i0">For swiftest marching to the land of Bire;</span> +<span class="i0">So shalt thou succor King Vivien in Imphe,</span> +<span class="i0">The city compassed by the Pagan foe.</span> +<span class="i0">The Christians look to thee and cry for help."—</span> +<span class="i0">Will has he none to go, the King, but moans:—</span> +<span class="i0">"O, God," quoth he, "so troublous is my life!"—</span> +<span class="i0">Whereat he weeps, and tears his hoary beard.</span> +<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Thus endeth here the Geste Turoldus sang.</span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<h4>FOOTNOTES</h4> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">1</span></a> Molted. Because in that condition, better for hunting.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">2</span></a> Pallies. A square piece of silk on which the knights used +to sit. (From Pallium).</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">3</span></a> Tables. In the romances of the Middle Ages the game of +tables means tric-trac, chess, checkers, etc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">4</span></a> Bezants. A Byzantine coin.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">5</span></a> A sort of undergarment made of gold and silk brocade +worn in time of war under the coat of mail, and in time of +peace under the mantle of fur. In the latter case it was of silk.</p></div> + +<hr style='width: 50%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'>{209]</span></p> + +<h3>GLOSSARY.</h3> + +<p>Of places and words which may present some difficulty as regards origin +and meaning on account of their ancient orthography. For more complete +information see Léon Gautier's seventh edition of the text.</p> + +<p>The numbers indicate stanzas in this edition.</p> + +<ul class="IX"> +<li> +AIX, capital of Charlemagne's empire. <a href="#St_3">3</a>. +</li><li> +ALMAZOUR, Arab origin, a title. <a href="#St_69">69</a>. +</li><li> +ALVERNE and ALFERNE, Auvergne, French Province. <a href="#St_224">224</a>.. +</li><li> +AMIRALZ, Admiral. <a href="#St_78">78</a>. +</li><li> +AMURAFLE, from Emir, admiral. <a href="#St_98">98</a>. +</li><li> +ARGONNE, city of France (Champagne). <a href="#St_227">227</a>. +</li><li> +ASPRE, defile in the Pyrenees. <a href="#St_88">88</a>. +</li><li> +ASTRIMUNIES, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_236">236</a>. +</li><li> +BALAGUER, Spanish Arabian city. <a href="#St_73">73</a>. +</li><li> +BASCLE, Basque--W. Foester, 280. <a href="#St_254">254</a>. +</li><li> +BELFERNE, Pagan kingdom. <a href="#St_66">66</a>. +</li><li> +BELNE, Beaune, French city (Burgundy). <a href="#St_144">144</a>. +</li><li> +BEVUM, man's name--Teutonic. <a href="#St_144">144</a>. +</li><li> +BIRE and IMPHE, unknown. <a href="#St_293">293</a>. +</li><li> +BLAVE, Blaye, near Bordeaux, France. <a href="#St_269">269</a>. +</li><li> +BLOS, Pagan tribe. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +BRIGAL, Saracen country. <a href="#St_97">97</a>. +</li><li> +BRUNS and ESCLAVOS, Teutonic etymology. <a href="#St_234">234</a> +</li><li> +BRUISE, Prussia. <a href="#St_235">235</a>. +</li><li> +BUGRE, Bulgarian, and<br /> +BUGUERIE, Bulgaria. <a href="#St_174">174</a>, <a href="#St_211">211</a>. +</li><li> +<span class='pagenum'>{210]</span>BURDELE, Bordeaux. <a href="#St_101">101</a>. +</li><li> +BUTENTROT, country supposed to be situated in Cappadocia. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +<ul><li> + See P. Meyer in Romania, VII., p. 335. +</li></ul> +</li><li> +CALIFERNE, unknown Pagan country. <a href="#St_211">211</a>. +</li><li> +CANELIEUS, <a href="#St_236">236</a>--said to be Chananians by P. Meyer in Romania, VI., p. 477. +</li><li> +CICLATON, Arab silk material. <a href="#St_69">69</a>. +</li><li> +COMMIBLES, supposed city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +CLARBONE, imaginary Pagan place. <a href="#St_236">236</a>. +</li><li> +DANEMARCHE, Denmark. <a href="#St_220">220</a>.--Etymology, Dania and Marcha, limit. +</li><li> +DIGUN, Dijon, city of France. <a href="#St_144">144</a>. +</li><li> +ENFRUNS, unknown Eastern Pagans. <a href="#St_256">256</a>. +</li><li> +ENGLEZ, Sclavonic tribes. <a href="#St_235">235</a>. +</li><li> +ERMINES, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +FALDSTOOL, an arm-chair. <a href="#St_32">32</a>. +</li><li> +FLORÉDÉE, doubtful Pagan country. <a href="#St_240">240</a>. +</li><li> +GARNAILLE, unknown. <a href="#St_145">145</a>. +</li><li> +GASCUIGNE, Gascony, Gascuin, Gascon. <a href="#St_65">65</a>. +</li><li> +GENNES, Genoa. <a href="#St_165">165</a>. +</li><li> +GLAZA, Galaza, and adj. Galazin, place, and stuff made of silk + and gold; from Asia. <a href="#St_215">215</a>. +</li><li> +GROS, Pagans unknown. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +GUITSAND, town near Calais, <a href="#St_111">111</a>. +</li><li> +HALTOIE, Spanish city. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +IMPHE, unknown. <a href="#St_293">293</a>. +</li><li> +LEUTIS, believed to be Poland. <a href="#St_244">244</a>. See G. Paris in Romania, II., + p. 331. +</li><li> +LOHENRENGS, from Lorraine. <a href="#St_269">269</a>. +</li><li> +MAELGUT, a Pagan's name. <a href="#St_154">154</a>. +</li><li> +MALPRUSE and MALPREISE, Pagan region. <a href="#St_236">236</a>. +</li><li> +MARBRISE and MARBRUSE, unknown places. <a href="#St_193">193</a>. +</li><li> +MARCHIS, old, for Marquis. <a href="#St_50">50</a>. +</li><li> +MISMIA, unknown. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +MONTJOIE.--Etym. Mons gaudii, name of Carle's standard; +<ul><li> +<span class='pagenum'>{211]</span> the oriflamme and French war-cry. <a href="#St_93">93</a>. See note in Gautier's + seventh edition, p. 278. +</li></ul> +</li><li> +MORS, Moors. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +NERBUNE, Narbone, city, South of France. <a href="#St_269">269</a>. +</li><li> +NIGRES, perhaps _Nigri_. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +NOPLES, supposed city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +NUBLES, a Pagan tribe, Nubians. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +OCCIANT, Pagan country. (?) <a href="#St_235">235</a>. +</li><li> +OLIFANT, Roland's ivory horn. Etym. _Elephantus_. <a href="#St_85">85</a>. +</li><li> +ORMALEIS, unknown. <a href="#St_238">238</a>. See Romania, II., and Gautier's +Glossary. +</li><li> +OYEZ, of French; hear! <a href="#St_2">2</a>. +</li><li> +PEITEVINS for Poitevins, of Poitou. <a href="#St_224">224</a>. +</li><li> +PINCENEIS, Lat. _Pincinnati_; see Romania, II., p. 331-335, + and Gautier's Glossary. +</li><li> +PINE, Piña, city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +POUILLE, Apulia. <a href="#St_29">29</a>. +</li><li> +PRIME, Arabian Province. <a href="#St_78">78</a>. +</li><li> +PUILLANIE, Poland. <a href="#St_174">174</a>. +</li><li> +REINS, Rheims, in Champagne. <a href="#St_12">12</a>. +</li><li> +ROSNE, River Rhone. <a href="#St_121">121</a>. +</li><li> +SAISNES, Saxons. <a href="#St_269">269</a>. +</li><li> +SAINT-ROMAIN, church of Blaye, near Bordeaux. <a href="#St_269">269</a>. +</li><li> +SAINTS (les), Les Saints of Cologne (Gautier); others say + Sens, a city of Western France. <a href="#St_111">111</a>. +</li><li> +SEBILE, Sevilla, Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +SEIGNEURS, French for Lords. <a href="#St_2">2</a>, &c. +</li><li> +SIZRE, now Cisa; Etym. Cæsaris, place of the defiles, near + Ronceval. <a href="#St_45">45</a>. +</li><li> +SOLTRAS and AVERS, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_235">235</a>. +</li><li> +SORBRES and SORZ, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_234">234</a>. +</li><li> +SORENCE, unknown. <a href="#St_276">276</a>. +</li><li> +TIEDEIS, Deutch, German. <a href="#St_277">277</a>. +</li><li> +TUELE, city in Navarra. <a href="#St_14">14</a>. +</li><li> +TURTELUSE, Tortosa, Spain. <a href="#St_75">75</a>. +</li><li> +VAL-TENEBRE, Spanish City. <a href="#St_54">54</a>. +</li></ul> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 23819-h.txt or 23819-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/8/1/23819">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/8/1/23819</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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