The Harvard Classics-Epic and Saga Part 16

Dastard is he who confronts them not; Craven, who lets them depart this spot."

Their cries and shoutings begin once more, And from every side on the Franks they pour.

CLXXV

Count Roland in sooth is a n.o.ble peer; Count Walter, a valorous cavalier; The archbishop, in battle proved and tried, Each struck as if knight there were none beside.

From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap, Yet forty thousand their saddles keep; I trow they dare not approach them near, But they hurl against them lance and spear, Pike and javelin, shaft and dart.

Walter is slain as the missiles part; The archbishop's shield in pieces shred, Riven his helm, and pierced his head; His corselet of steel they rent and tore, Wounded his body with lances four; His steed beneath him dropped withal: What woe to see the archbishop fall!

CLXXVI

When Turpin felt him flung to ground, And four lance wounds within him found, He swiftly rose, the dauntless man, To Roland looked, and nigh him ran.

Spake but, "I am not overthrown-- Brave warrior yields with life alone."

He drew Almace's burnished steel, A thousand ruthless blows to deal.

In after time, the Emperor said He found four hundred round him spread,-- Some wounded, others cleft in twain; Some lying headless on the plain.

So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells, For whom High G.o.d wrought miracles.

In Laon cell the scroll he wrote; He little weets who knows it not.

CLXXVII

Count Roland combateth n.o.bly yet, His body burning and bathed in sweat; In his brow a mighty pain, since first, When his horn he sounded, his temple burst; But he yearns of Karl's approach to know, And lifts his horn once more--but oh, How faint and feeble a note to blow!

The Emperor listened, and stood full still.

"My lords," he said, "we are faring ill.

This day is Roland my nephew's last; Like dying man he winds that blast.

On! Who would aid, for life must press.

Sound every trump our ranks possess."

Peal sixty thousand clarions high, The hills re-echo, the vales reply.

It is now no jest for the heathen band.

"Karl!" they cry, "it is Karl at hand!"

CLXXVIII

They said, "'Tis the Emperor's advance, We hear the trumpets resound of France.

If he a.s.sail us, hope in vain; If Roland live, 'tis war again, And we lose for aye the land of Spain."

Four hundred in arms together drew, The bravest of the heathen crew; With serried power they on him press, And dire in sooth is the count's distress.

CLXXIX

When Roland saw his coming foes, All proud and stern his spirit rose; Alive he shall never be brought to yield: Veillantif spurred he across the field, With golden spurs he p.r.i.c.ked him well, To break the ranks of the infidel; Archbishop Turpin by his side.

"Let us flee, and save us," the heathen cried; "These are the trumpets of France we hear-- It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near."

CLx.x.x

Count Roland never hath loved the base, Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,-- Nor knight, but if he were va.s.sal good,-- And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood; "On foot are you, on horseback I; For your love I halt, and stand you by.

Together for good and ill we hold; I will not leave you for man of mould.

We will pay the heathen their onset back, Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack."

"Base," said Turpin, "who spares to smite: When the Emperor comes, he will all requite."

CLx.x.xI

The heathens said, "We were born to shame.

This day for our disaster came: Our lords and leaders in battle lost, And Karl at hand with his marshalled host; We hear the trumpets of France ring out, And the cry '_Montjoie!_' their rallying shout.

Roland's pride is of such a height, Not to be vanquished by mortal wight; Hurl we our missiles, and hold aloof."

And the word they spake, they put in proof,-- They flung, with all their strength and craft, Javelin, barb, and plumed shaft.

Roland's buckler was torn and frayed, His cuira.s.s broken and disarrayed, Yet entrance none to his flesh they made.

From thirty wounds Veillantif bled, Beneath his rider they cast him, dead; Then from the field have the heathen flown: Roland remaineth, on foot, alone.

THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP

CLx.x.xII

The heathens fly in rage and dread; To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped; Nor can Count Roland make pursuit-- Slain is his steed, and he rests afoot; To succor Turpin he turned in haste, The golden helm from his head unlaced, Ungirt the corselet from his breast, In stripes divided his silken vest; The archbishop's wounds hath he staunched and bound, His arms around him softly wound; On the green sward gently his body laid, And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed: "For a little s.p.a.ce, let me take farewell; Our dear companions, who round us fell, I go to seek; if I haply find, I will place them at thy feet reclined."

"Go," said Turpin; "the field is thine-- To G.o.d the glory, 'tis thine and mine."

CLx.x.xIII

Alone seeks Roland the field of fight, He searcheth vale, he searcheth height.

Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low, And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux, Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho he found, and Berengier; Samson the duke, and Anseis bold, Gerard of Roussillon, the old.

Their bodies, one after one, he bore, And laid them Turpin's feet before.

The archbishop saw them stretched arow, Nor can he hinder the tears that flow; In benediction his hands he spread: "Alas! for your doom, my lords," he said, "That G.o.d in mercy your souls may give, On the flowers of Paradise to live; Mine own death comes, with anguish sore That I see mine Emperor never more."

CLx.x.xIV

Once more to the field doth Roland wend, Till he findeth Olivier his friend; The lifeless form to his heart he strained, Bore him back with what strength remained, On a buckler laid him, beside the rest, The archbishop a.s.soiled them all, and blessed.

Their dole and pity anew find vent, And Roland maketh his fond lament: "My Olivier, my chosen one, Thou wert the n.o.ble Duke Renier's son, Lord of the March unto Rivier vale.

To shiver lance and shatter mail, The brave in council to guide and cheer, To smite the miscreant foe with fear,-- Was never on earth such cavalier."

CLx.x.xV

Dead around him his peers to see, And the man he loved so tenderly, Fast the tears of Count Roland ran, His visage discolored became, and wan, He swooned for sorrow beyond control.

"Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!"

CLx.x.xVI

To look on Roland swooning there, Surpa.s.sed all sorrow he ever bare; He stretched his hand, the horn he took,-- Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,-- A draught to Roland he thought to bring; But his steps were feeble and tottering, Spent his strength, from waste of blood,-- He struggled on for scarce a rood, When sank his heart, and drooped his frame, And his mortal anguish on him came.