The Harvard Classics-Epic and Saga Part 15

CLXIV

When Roland saw the abhorred race, Than blackest ink more black in face, Who have nothing white but the teeth alone, "Now," he said, "it is truly shown, That the hour of our death is close at hand.

Fight, my Franks, 'tis my last command."

Said Olivier, "Shame is the laggard's due."

And at his word they engage anew.

CLXV

When the heathen saw that the Franks were few, Heart and strength from the sight they drew; They said, "The Emperor hath the worse."

The Algalif sat on a sorrel horse; He p.r.i.c.ked with spurs of the gold refined, Smote Olivier in the back behind.

On through his harness the lance he pressed, Till the steel came out at the baron's breast.

"Thou hast it!" the Algalif, vaunting, cried, "Ye were sent by Karl in an evil tide.

Of his wrongs against us he shall not boast; In thee alone I avenge our host."

CLXVI

Olivier felt the deadly wound, Yet he grasped Hauteclere, with its steel embrowned; He smote on the Algalif's crest of gold,-- Gem and flowers to the earth were rolled; Clave his head to the teeth below, And struck him dead with the single blow.

"All evil, caitiff, thy soul pursue.

Full well our Emperor's loss I knew; But for thee--thou goest not hence to boast To wife or dame on thy natal coast, Of one denier from the Emperor won, Or of scathe to me or to others done."

Then Roland's aid he called upon.

CLXVII

Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; The more to vengeance he hasteneth; Knightly as ever his arms he bore, Staves of lances and shields he sh.o.r.e; Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,-- Whose eyes soever the sight would greet, How the Saracens all disfigured lie, Corpse upon corpse, each other by, Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget-- "_Montjoie!_" he shouted, shrill and clear; Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, "Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; This day of dolor shall us divide."

CLXVIII

Roland looked Olivier in the face,-- Ghastly paleness was there to trace; Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow, And rain in showers to the earth below.

"O G.o.d!" said Roland, "is this the end Of all thy prowess, my gentle friend?

Nor know I whither to bear me now: On earth shall never be such as thou.

Ah, gentle France, thou art overthrown, Reft of thy bravest, despoiled and lone; The Emperor's loss is full indeed!"

At the word he fainted upon his steed.

CLXIX

See Roland there on his charger swooned, Olivier smitten with his death wound.

His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark, Nor mortal, near or far, can mark; And when his comrade beside him pressed, Fiercely he smote on his golden crest; Down to the nasal the helm he shred, But pa.s.sed no further, nor pierced his head.

Roland marvelled at such a blow, And thus bespake him soft and low: "Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?

Roland who loves thee so dear, am I, Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?"

Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak, But I see thee not. G.o.d seeth thee.

Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me."

"I am not hurt, O Olivier; And in sight of G.o.d, I forgive thee here."

Then each to other his head has laid, And in love like this was their parting made.

CLXX

Olivier feeleth his throe begin; His eyes are turning his head within, Sight and hearing alike are gone.

He alights and couches the earth upon; His _Mea Culpa_ aloud he cries, And his hands in prayer unto G.o.d arise, That he grant him Paradise to share, That he bless King Karl and France the fair, His brother Roland o'er all mankind; Then sank his heart, and his head declined, Stretched at length on the earth he lay,-- So pa.s.sed Sir Olivier away.

Roland was left to weep alone: Man so woful hath ne'er been known.

CLXXI

When Roland saw that life had fled, And with face to earth his comrade dead, He thus bewept him, soft and still: "Ah, friend, thy prowess wrought thee ill!

So many days and years gone by We lived together, thou and I: And thou hast never done me wrong, Nor I to thee, our lifetime long.

Since thou art dead, to live is pain."

He swooned on Veillantif again, Yet may not unto earth be cast, His golden stirrups held him fast.

CLXXII

When pa.s.sed away had Roland's swoon, With sense restored, he saw full soon What ruin lay beneath his view.

His Franks have perished all save two-- The archbishop and Walter of Hum alone.

From the mountain-side hath Walter flown, Where he met in battle the bands of Spain, And the heathen won and his men were slain In his own despite to the vale he came; Called unto Roland, his aid to claim.

"Ah, count! brave gentleman, gallant peer!

Where art thou? With thee I know not fear.

I am Walter, who vanquished Maelgut of yore, Nephew to Drouin, the old and h.o.a.r.

For knightly deeds I was once thy friend.

I fought the Saracen to the end; My lance is shivered, my shield is cleft, Of my broken mail are but fragments left.

I bear in my body eight thrusts of spear; I die, but I sold my life right dear."

Count Roland heard as he spake the word, p.r.i.c.ked his steed, and anear him spurred.

CLXXIII

"Walter," said Roland, "thou hadst affray With the Saracen foe on the heights to-day.

Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be: A thousand hors.e.m.e.n gave I thee; Render them back, for my need is sore."

"Alas, thou seest them never more!

Stretched they lie on the dolorous ground, Where myriad Saracen swarms we found,-- Armenians, Turks, and the giant brood Of Balisa, famous for hardihood, Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet, Such host in battle 'twas ours to meet; Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,-- Full sixty thousand on earth lie low.

With our brands of steel we avenged us well, But every Frank by the foeman fell.

My hauberk plates are riven wide, And I bear such wounds in flank and side, That from every part the bright blood flows, And feebler ever my body grows.

I am dying fast, I am well aware: Thy liegeman I, and claim thy care.

If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive, And yield me succor while thou dost live."

Roland sweated with wrath and pain, Tore the skirts of his vest in twain, Bound Walter's every bleeding vein.

CLXXIV

In Roland's sorrow his wrath arose, Hotly he struck at the heathen foes, Nor left he one of a score alive; Walter slew six, the archbishop five.

The heathens cry, "What a felon three!

Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee.