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The good archbishop could not brook On pagan such as he to look; He saw and fain would strike him dead, And calmly to himself he said, 'Yon pagan, as it seems to me, A grievous heretic must be; 'There best to slay him, though I died; Cowards I never could abide.' "He mounts his steed, won, so they tell, From Denmark's monarch, hight Grosselle; He slew the king and took the steed The beast is light and built for speed; His hoofs are neat, his legs are clean, His thigh is short, his flanks are lean, His rump is large, his back full height, His mane is yellow, his tail is white; With little ears and tawny head, No steed like him was ever bred.
The good archbishop spurs a-field, And smites Abyme upon the shield, His emir's shield, so thickly sown With many a gem and precious stone, Amethyst and topaz, crystals bright, And red carbuncles flashing light: The shield is shivered by the blow; No longer worth a doit, I trow; Stark dead the emir lies below.
'Ha! bravely struck!' the Frenchmen yell: 'Our bishop guards the Cross right well!' "To Oliver Sir Roland cried, 'Sir comrade, can it be denied Our bishop is a gallant knight?
None better ever saw the light! How he doth strike With lance and pike!' Quoth Oliver, 'Then in the fight Haste we to aid him with our might!' And so the battle is renewed: The blows are hard, the melley rude; The Christians suffer sore Four times they charge and all is well, But at the fifth--dread tale to tell-- The knights of France are doomed to fall,-- All, all her knights; for of them all God spareth but threescore.
But O, their lives they dearly sell! Sir Roland marks what loss is there, And turns him to Sir Oliver 'Dear comrade, whom pray God to bless, In God's own name see what distress-- Such heaps of vassals lying low-- Fair France hath suffered at a blow Well may we weep for her, who's left A widow, of such lords bereft! And why, O, why art thou not near, Our king, our friend, to aid us here?
Say, Oliver, how might we bring Our mournful tidings to the king ?' Quoth Oliver, 'I know not, I To fly were shame; far better die.' Quoth Roland, 'I my horn will blow, That Charles may hear and Charles may know; And, in the defiles, from their track The French, I swear, will hasten back.' Quoth Oliver, ''Twere grievous shame; 'Twould bring a blush to all thy name When I said thus thou scornedst me, And now I will not counsel thee.
And shouldst thou blow, 'twere no great blast; Already blood is gushing fast From both thine arms.' 'That well may be,' Quoth he, 'I struck so lustily! The battle is too strong: I'll blow Mine Olifant, that Charles may know.' Quoth Oliver, 'Had Charles been here, This battle had not cost so dear; But as for yon poor souls, I wis, No blame can rest with them for this.' 'Why bear me spite ?' Sir Roland said.
'The fault,' said he, 'lies on thy head.
And mark my words; this day will see The end of our good company; We twain shall part--not as we met-- Full sadly ere yon sun bath set.' The good archbishop hears the stir, And thither pricks with golden spur; And thus he chides the wrangling lords 'Roland, and you, Sir Oliver, Why strive ye with such bitter words Horns cannot save you; that is past; But still 'twere best to sound a blast; Let the king come: he'll strike a blow For vengeance, lest the Paynim foe Back to their homes in triumph go.' "With pain and dolor, groan and pant, Count Roland sounds his Olifant: The crimson stream shoots from his lips; The blood from bursten temple drips; But far, O, far the echoes ring, And, in the defiles, reach the king; Reach Naymes, and the French array: 'Tis Roland's horn,' the king doth say; 'He only sounds when brought to bay.' How huge the rocks! How dark and steep! The streams are swift! The valleys deep! Out blare the trumpets, one and all, As Charles responds to Roland's call.
Round wheels the king, with choler mad, The Frenchmen follow grim and sad; Not one but prays for Roland's life, Till they have joined him in the strife.
But ah! what prayer can alter fate?
The time is past; too late! too late! As Roland scans both plain and height, And sees how many Frenchmen lie Stretched in their mortal agony, He mourns them like a noble knight: 'Comrades, God give ye grace to-day, And grant ye Paradise, I pray! No lieges ever fought as they.
What a fair land, O France, art thou! But ah! forlorn and widowed now! O Oliver, at least to thee, My brother, I must faithful be Back, comrade mine, back let us go, And charge once more the Paynim foe!' "When Roland spies the cursed race, More black than ink, without a trace, Save teeth, of whiteness in the face, 'Full certified,' quoth he, 'am I, That we this very day shall die.
Strike, Frenchmen, strike; that's all my mind!' 'A curse on him who lags behind!' Quoth gallant Oliver; and so Down dash the Frenchmen on the foe.

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Sir Oliver with failing breath, Knowing his wound is to the death, Doth call to him his friend, his peer, His Roland: 'Comrade, come thou here; To be apart what pain it were!' When Roland marks his friend's distress, His face all pale and colorless, 'My God!' quoth he, 'what's now to do?
O my sweet France, what dole for you, Widowed of all your warriors true! You needs must perish!' At such plaint, Upon his steed he falls a-faint.
"See Roland riding in a swound: And Oliver with mortal wound; With loss of blood so dazed is he He neither near nor far can see What manner of man a man may be: And, meeting with Sir Roland so, He dealeth him a fearful blow That splits the gilded helm in two Down to the very nasal, though, By luck, the skull it cleaves not through.
With blank amaze doth Roland gaze, And gently, very gently, says, 'Dear comrade, smit'st thou with intent?
Methinks no challenge hath been sent I'm Roland, who doth love thee so.' Quoth Oliver, 'Thy voice I know, But see thee not; God save thee, friend: I struck thee; prithee pardon me.
No hurt have I; and there's an end.' Quoth Roland, 'And I pardon thee 'Fore man and God right willingly.' They bow the head, each to his brother, And so, in love, leave one another." (Oliver dies: Roland and Archbishop Turpin continue the fight.) "Then Roland takes his horn once more; His blast is feebler than before, But still it reaches the emperor He hears it, and he halts to shout, 'Let clarions, one and all, ring out!' Then sixty thousand clarions ring, And rocks and dales set echoing.
And they, too, hear--the pagan pack; They force the rising laughter back; 'Charles, Charles,' they cry, 'is on our track!' They fly; and Roland stands alone-- Alone, afoot; his steed is gone-- Brave Veillantif is gone, and so, He, willy-nilly, afoot must go.
Archbishop Turpin needs his aid: The golden helm is soon unlaced, The light, white hauberk soon unbraced; And gently, gently down he laid On the green turf the bishop's head; And then beseechingly he said,-- "'Ah! noble sir, your leave I crave The men we love, our comrades brave, All, all are dead; they must not lie Here thus neglected; wherefore I Will seek for them, each where he lies, And lay them out before your eyes.' 'Go,' said the bishop, 'and speed be thine Thank God! the field is thine and mine.' "Sir Roland searched the plain, and found His comrade's body on the ground; Unto his heart he strained it tight, And bore it off, as best he might.
Upon a shield he lays his friend Beside the rest, and, for an end, The bishop gives them, all and one, Absolvement and a benison.
As Roland marks them lying there, His peers all dead--and Oliver, His mighty grief he cannot stay, And, willy-nilly, swoons away.
"The bishop feeleth grief profound To see Sir Roland in a swound.
Through Roncesvalles, well he knows, A stream of running water flows, And fain would he a journey make To fetch thereof for Roland's sake, He totters forth; he makes essay; But all! his feeble limbs give way; Breaks his great heart; he falls and lies, Face downward, in death's agonies! So Charles's soldier-priest is dead He who with mighty lance and sword And preacher's craft incessant warred Against the scorners of the Lord: God's benediction on his head! Count Roland laid him to his rest Between his shoulders, on his breast, He crossed the hands so fine and fair, And, as his country's customs were, He made oration o'er him there 'Ah! noble knight, of noble race, I do commend thee to God's grace Sure never man of mortal birth Served Him so heartily on earth.
Thou hadst no peer in any clime To stoutly guard the Christian cause And turn bad men to Christian laws, Since erst the great Apostles' time.
Now rest thy soul from dolor free, And Paradise be oped to thee!'" (A last encounter takes place: a Saracen left wounded on the battle-field, seeing Roland in a swoon, gets up, and approaches him, saying, "Vanquished, he is vanquished, the nephew of Charles! There is his sword, which I will carry off to Arabia!") "And as he makes to draw the steel, A something doth Sir Roland feel; He opes his eyes, says nought but this, 'Thou art not one of us, I wis,' Raises the horn he would not quit, And cracks the pagan's skull with it.

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