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CXLVIII
As Roland gazed on his slaughtered men, | |
| He bespake his gentle compeer agen: | |
| “Ah, dear companion, may God thee shield! | |
| Behold, our bravest lie dead on field! | |
| Well may we weep for France the fair, | 5 |
| Of her noble barons despoiled and bare. | |
| Had he been with us, our king and friend! | |
| Speak, my brother, thy counsel lend,— | |
| How unto Karl shall we tidings send?” | |
| Olivier answered, “I wist not how. | 10 |
| Liefer death than be recreant now.” | |
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CXLIX
“I will sound,” said Roland, “upon my horn, | |
| Karl, as he passeth the gorge, to warn. | |
| The Franks, I know, will return apace.” | |
| Said Olivier, “Nay, it were foul disgrace | 15 |
| On your noble kindred to wreak such wrong; | |
| They would bear the stain their lifetime long. | |
| Erewhile I sought it, and sued in vain; | |
| But to sound thy horn thou wouldst not deign. | |
| Not now shall mine assent be won, | 20 |
| Nor shall I say it is knightly done. | |
| Lo! both your arms are streaming red.” | |
| “In sooth,” said Roland, “good strokes I sped.” | |
| |
CL
Said Roland, “Our battle goes hard, I fear; | |
| I will sound my horn that Karl may hear.” | 25 |
| “’Twere a deed unknightly,” said Olivier; | |
| “Thou didst disdain when I sought and prayed: | |
| Saved had we been with cur Karl to aid; | |
| Unto him and his host no blame shall be: | |
| By this my beard, might I hope to see | 30 |
| My gentle sister Alda’s face, | |
| Thou shouldst never hold her in thine embrace.” | |
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CLI
“Ah, why on me doth thine anger fall?” | |
| “Roland, ’tis thou who hast wrought it all. | |
| Valor and madness are scarce allied,— | 35 |
| Better discretion than daring pride. | |
| All of thy folly our Franks lie slain, | |
| Nor shall render service to Karl again, | |
| As I implored thee, if thou hadst done, | |
| The king had come and the field were won; | 40 |
| Marsil captive, or slain, I trow. | |
| Thy daring, Roland, hath wrought our woe. | |
| No service more unto Karl we pay, | |
| That first of men till the judgment day; | |
| Thou shalt die, and France dishonored be | 45 |
| Ended our loyal company— | |
| A woful parting this eve shall see.” | |
| |
CLII
Archbishop Turpin their strife hath heard, | |
| His steed with the spurs of gold he spurred, | |
| And thus rebuked them, riding near: | 50 |
| “Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Olivier, | |
| Contend not, in God’s great name, I crave. | |
| Not now availeth the horn to save; | |
| And yet behoves you to wind its call,— | |
| Karl will come to avenge our fall, | 55 |
| Nor hence the foemen in joyance wend. | |
| The Franks will all from their steeds descend; | |
| When they find us slain and martyred here, | |
| They will raise our bodies on mule and bier, | |
| And, while in pity aloud they weep, | 60 |
| Lay us in hallowed earth they weep, | |
| Nor wolf nor boar on our limbs shall feed.” | |
| Said Roland, “Yea, ’tis a goodly rede.” | |
| |
CLIII
Then to his lips the horn he drew, | |
| And full and lustily he blew. | 65 |
| The mountain peaks soared high around; | |
| Thirty leagues was borne the sound. | |
| Karl hath heard it, and all his band. | |
| “Our men have battle,” he said, “on hand.” | |
| Ganelon rose in front and cried, | 70 |
| “If another spake, I would say he lied.” | |
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CLIV
With deadly travail, in stress and pain, | |
| Count Roland sounded the mighty strain. | |
| Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang, | |
| And his temples burst for the very pang. | 75 |
| On and onward was borne the blast, | |
| Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he passed, | |
| And Naimes and all his men of war. | |
| “It is Roland’s horn,” said the Emperor, | |
| “And, save in battle, he had not blown.” | 80 |
| “Battle,” said Ganelon, “is there none. | |
| Old are you grown—all white and hoar; | |
| Such words bespeak you a child once more. | |
| Have you, then, forgotten Roland’s pride, | |
| Which I marvel God should so long abide, | 85 |
| How he captured Noples without your hest? | |
| Forth from the city the heathen pressed, | |
| To your vassal Roland they battle gave,— | |
| He slew them all with the trenchant glaive, | |
| Then turned the waters upon the plain, | 90 |
| That trace of blood might none remain. | |
| He would sound all day for a single hare: | |
| ’Tis a jest with him and his fellows there; | |
| For who would battle against him dare? | |
| Ride onward—wherefore this chill delay? | 95 |
| Your mighty land is yet far away.” | |
| |
CLV
On Roland’s mouth is the bloody stain, | |
| Burst asunder his temple’s vein; | |
| His horn he soundeth in anguish drear; | |
| King Karl and the Franks around him hear. | 100 |
| Said Karl, “That horn is long of breath.” | |
| Said Naimes, “’Tis Roland who travaileth. | |
| There is battle yonder by mine avow. | |
| He who betrayed him deceives you now. | |
| Arm, sire; ring forth your rallying cry, | 105 |
| And stand your noble household by; | |
| For you hear your Roland in jeopardy.” | |
| |
CLVI
The king commands to sound the alarm. | |
| To the trumpet the Franks alight and arm; | |
| With casque and corselet and gilded brand, | 110 |
| Buckler and stalwart lance in hand, | |
| Pennons of crimson and white and blue, | |
| The barons leap on their steeds anew, | |
| And onward spur the passes through; | |
| Nor is there one but to other saith, | 115 |
| “Could we reach but Roland before his death, | |
| Blows would we strike for him grim and great.” | |
| Ah! what availeth!—’tis all too late. | |
| |
CLVII
The evening passed into brightening dawn. | |
| Against the sun their harness shone; | 120 |
| From helm and hauberk glanced the rays, | |
| And their painted bucklers seemed all ablaze. | |
| The Emperor rode in wrath apart. | |
| The Franks were moody and sad of heart; | |
| Was none but dropped the bitter tear, | 125 |
| For they thought of Roland with deadly fear.— | |
| Then bade the Emperor take and bind | |
| Count Gan, and had him in scorn consigned | |
| To Besgun, chief of his kitchen train. | |
| “Hold me this felon,” he said, “in chain.” | 130 |
| Then full a hundred round him pressed, | |
| Of the kitchen varlets the worst and best; | |
| His beard upon lip and chin they tore, | |
| Cuffs of the fist each dealt him four, | |
| Roundly they beat him with rods and staves; | 135 |
| Then around his neck those kitchen knaves | |
| Flung a fetterlock fast and strong, | |
| As ye lead a bear in a chain along; | |
| On a beast of burthen the count they cast, | |
| Till they yield him back to Karl at last. | 140 |
| |
CLVIII
Dark, vast, and high the summits soar, | |
| The waters down through the valleys pour, | |
| The trumpets sound in front and rear, | |
| And to Roland’s horn make answer clear. | |
| The Emperor rideth in wrathful mood, | 145 |
| The Franks in grievous solicitude; | |
| Nor one among them can stint to weep, | |
| Beseeching God that He Roland keep, | |
| Till they stand beside him upon the field, | |
| To the death together their arms to wield. | 150 |
| Ah, timeless succor, and all in vain! | |
| Too long they tarried, too late they strain. | |
| |
CLIX
Onward King Karl in his anger goes; | |
| Down on his harness his white beard flows. | |
| The barons of France spur hard behind; | 155 |
| But on all there presseth one grief of mind— | |
| That they stand not beside Count Roland then, | |
| As he fronts the power of the Saracen. | |
| Were he hurt in fight, who would then survive? | |
| Yet three score barons around him strive. | 160 |
| And what a sixty! Nor chief nor king | |
| Had ever such gallant following. | |
| |
CLX
Roland looketh to hill and plain, | |
| He sees the lines of his warriors slain, | |
| And he weeps like a noble cavalier, | 165 |
| “Barons of France, God hold you dear, | |
| And take you to Paradise’s bowers, | |
| Where your souls may lie on the holy flowers; | |
| Braver vassals on earth were none, | |
| So many kingdoms for Karl ye won; | 170 |
| Years a-many your ranks I led, | |
| And for end like this were ye nurturèd. | |
| Land of France, thou art soothly fair; | |
| To-day thou liest bereaved and bare; | |
| It was all for me your lives you gave, | 175 |
| And I was helpless to shield or save. | |
| May the great God save you who cannot lie. | |
| Olivier, brother, I stand thee by; | |
| I die of grief, if I ’scape unslain: | |
| In, brother, in to the fight again.” | 180 |
| |
CLXI
Once more pressed Roland within the fight, | |
| His Durindana he grasped with might; | |
| Faldron of Pui did he cleave in two, | |
| And twenty-four of their bravest slew. | |
| Never was man on such vengeance bound; | 185 |
| And, as flee the roe-deer before the hound, | |
| So in face of Roland the heathen flee. | |
| Saith Turpin, “Right well this liketh me. | |
| Such prowess a cavalier befits, | |
| Who harness wears, and on charger sits; | 190 |
| In battle shall he be strong and great, | |
| Or I prize him not at four deniers’ rate; | |
| Let him else be monk in a cloister cell, | |
| His daily prayers for our souls to tell.” | |
| Cries Roland, “Smite them, and do not spare.” | 195 |
| Down once more on the foe they bear, | |
| But the Christian ranks grow thinned and rare. | |
| |
CLXII
Who knoweth ransom is none for him, | |
| Maketh in battle resistance grim; | |
| The Franks like wrathful lions strike, | 200 |
| But King Marsil beareth him baron-like; | |
| He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight, | |
| And he pricketh him hard, Sir Beuve to smite, | |
| The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town, | |
| Through shield and cuirass, he struck him down: | 205 |
| Dead past succor of man he lay. | |
| Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay; | |
| Gerard of Roussillon beside. | |
| Not far was Roland, and loud he cried, | |
| “Be thou forever in God’s disgrace, | 210 |
| Who hast slain my fellows before my face, | |
| Before we part thou shalt blows essay, | |
| And learn the name of my sword to-day. | |
| Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand, | |
| And from Marsil severed his good right hand: | 215 |
| With another stroke, the head he won | |
| Of the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil’s son. | |
| “Help us, Mahound!” say the heathen train, | |
| “May our gods avenge us on Carlemaine! | |
| Such daring felons he hither sent, | 220 |
| Who will hold the field till their lives be spent.” | |
| “Let us flee and save us,” cry one and all, | |
| Unto flight a hundred thousand fall, | |
| Nor can aught the fugitives recall. | |
| |
CLXIII
But what availeth? though Marsil fly, | 225 |
| His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh; | |
| Lord of Carthagena is he, | |
| Of Alferna’s shore and Garmalie, | |
| And of Ethiopia, accursed land: | |
| The black battalions at his command, | 230 |
| With nostrils huge and flattened ears, | |
| Outnumber fifty thousand spears; | |
| And on they ride in haste and ire, | |
| Shouting their heathen war-cry dire. | |
| “At last,” said Roland, “the hour is come, | 235 |
| Here receive we our martyrdom; | |
| Yet strike with your burnished brands—accursed | |
| Who sells not his life right dearly first; | |
| In life or death be your thought the same, | |
| That gentle France be not brought to shame. | 240 |
| When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent, | |
| And he sees the Saracens’s chastisement, | |
| Fifteen of their dead against our one, | |
| He will breathe on our souls his bension.” | |
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