CLx.x.xVII

Roland revived from his swoon again; On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain; He looked on high, and he looked below, Till, a s.p.a.ce his other companions fro, He beheld the baron, stretched on sward, The archbishop, vicar of G.o.d our Lord.

_Mea Culpa_ was Turpin's cry, While he raised his hands to heaven on high, Imploring Paradise to gain.

So died the soldier of Carlemaine,-- With word or weapon, to preach or fight, A champion ever of Christian right, And a deadly foe of the infidel.

G.o.d's benediction within him dwell!

CLx.x.xVIII

When Roland saw him stark on earth (His very vitals were bursting forth, And his brain was oozing from out his head), He took the fair white hands outspread, Crossed and clasped them upon his breast, And thus his plaint to the dead addressed,-- So did his country's law ordain:-- "Ah, gentleman of n.o.ble strain, I trust thee unto G.o.d the True, Whose service never man shall do With more devoted heart and mind: To guard the faith, to win mankind, From the apostles' days till now, Such prophet never rose as thou.

Nor pain or torment thy soul await, But of Paradise the open gate."

THE DEATH OF ROLAND

CLXXIX

Roland feeleth his death is near, His brain is oozing by either ear.

For his peers he prayed--G.o.d keep them well; Invoked the angel Gabriel.

That none reproach him, his horn he clasped; His other hand Durindana grasped; Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent, Across the march of Spain he went, Where, on a mound, two trees between, Four flights of marble steps were seen; Backward he fell, on the field to lie; And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh.

CXC

High were the mountains and high the trees, Bright shone the marble terraces; On the green gra.s.s Roland hath swooned away.

A Saracen spied him where he lay: Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead, His face and body with blood bespread.

To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,-- He was fair and strong and of courage tried, In pride and wrath he was overbold,-- And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold.

"The nephew of Karl is overthrown!

To Araby bear I this sword, mine own."

He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew, Roland returned to his sense anew.

CXCI

He saw the Saracen seize his sword; His eyes he oped, and he spake one word-- "Thou art not one of our band, I trow,"

And he clutched the horn he would ne'er forego; On the golden crest he smote him full, Shattering steel and bone and skull, Forth from his head his eyes he beat, And cast him lifeless before his feet.

"Miscreant, makest thou then so free, As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me?

Who hears it will deem thee a madman born; Behold the mouth of mine ivory horn Broken for thee, and the gems and gold Around its rim to earth are rolled."

CXCII

Roland feeleth his eyesight reft, Yet he stands erect with what strength is left; From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled, But his Durindana all bare he held.

In front a dark brown rock arose-- He smote upon it ten grievous blows.

Grated the steel as it struck the flint, Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint.

"Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid!

Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade, I may no longer thy guardian be!

What fields of battle I won with thee!

What realms and regions 'twas ours to gain, Now the lordship of Carlemaine!

Never shalt thou possessor know Who would turn from face of mortal foe; A gallant va.s.sal so long thee bore, Such as France the free shall know no more."

CXCIII

He smote anew on the marble stair.

It grated, but breach nor notch was there.

When Roland found that it would not break, Thus began he his plaint to make.

"Ah, Durindana, how fair and bright Thou sparklest, flaming against the light!

When Karl in Maurienne valley lay, G.o.d sent his angel from heaven to say-- 'This sword shall a valorous captain's be,'

And he girt it, the gentle king, on me.

With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine, Provence I conquered and Aquitaine; I conquered Normandy the free, Anjou, and the marches of Brittany; Romagna I won, and Lombardy, Bavaria, Flanders from side to side, And Burgundy, and Poland wide; Constantinople affiance vowed, And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed; Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland's plain, Of England made he his own domain.

What mighty regions I won of old, For the h.o.a.ry-headed Karl to hold!

But there presses on me a grievous pain, Lest thou in heathen hands remain.

O G.o.d our Father, keep France from stain!"

CXCIV

His strokes once more on the brown rock fell, And the steel was bent past words to tell; Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain, Erect it leaped to the sky again.

When he failed at the last to break his blade, His lamentation he inly made.

"Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword, What relics lie in thy pommel stored!

Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil's blood, Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed, Fragment of holy Mary's vest.

'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest; Thee should the hand of a Christian serve One who would never in battle swerve.

What regions won I with thee of yore, The empire now of Karl the h.o.a.r!

Rich and mighty is he therefore."

CXCV

That death was on him he knew full well; Down from his head to his heart it fell.

On the gra.s.s beneath a pine-tree's shade, With face to earth, his form he laid, Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, And turned his face to the heathen horde.

Thus hath he done the sooth to show, That Karl and his warriors all may know, That the gentle count a conqueror died.

_Mea Culpa_ full oft he cried; And, for all his sins, unto G.o.d above, In sign of penance, he raised his glove.

CXCVI

Roland feeleth his hour at hand; On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land.

With one hand beats he upon his breast: "In thy sight, O G.o.d, be my sins confessed.

From my hour of birth, both the great and small, Down to this day, I repent of all."

As his glove he raises to G.o.d on high, Angels of heaven descend him nigh.

CXCVII