The Harvard Classics-Epic and Saga Part 19

Bears and lions to rend them wait, Wiverns, snakes and fiends of fire, More than a thousand griffins dire; Enfuried at the host they fly.

"Help us, Karl!" was the Franks' outcry, Ruth and sorrow the king beset; Fain would he aid, but was sternly let.

A lion came from the forest path, Proud and daring, and fierce in wrath; Forward sprang he the king to grasp, And each seized other with deadly clasp; But who shall conquer or who shall fall, None knoweth. Nor woke the king withal.

CCVII

Another vision came him o'er: He was in France, his land, once more; In Aix, upon his palace stair, And held in double chain a bear.

When thirty more from Arden ran, Each spake with voice of living man: "Release him, sire!" aloud they call; "Our kinsman shall not rest in thrall.

To succor him our arms are bound."

Then from the palace leaped a hound, On the mightiest of the bears he pressed, Upon the sward, before the rest.

The wondrous fight King Karl may see, But knows not who shall victor be.

These did the angel to Karl display; But the Emperor slept till dawning day.

CCVIII

At morning-tide when day-dawn broke, The Emperor from his slumber woke.

His holy guardian, Gabriel, With hand uplifted sained him well.

The king aside his armor laid, And his warriors all were disarrayed.

Then mount they, and in haste they ride, Through lengthening path and highway wide Until they see the doleful sight In Roncesvalles, the field of fight.

CCIX

Unto Roncesvalles King Karl hath sped, And his tears are falling above the dead; "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace,-- I will go before, a little s.p.a.ce, For my nephew's sake, whom I fain would find.

It was once in Aix, I recall to mind, When we met at the yearly festal-tide,-- My cavaliers in vaunting vied Of stricken fields and joustings proud,-- I heard my Roland declare aloud, In foreign land would he never fall But in front of his peers and his warriors all, He would lie with head to the foeman's sh.o.r.e, And make his end like a conqueror."

Then far as man a staff might fling, Clomb to a rising knoll the king.

CCX

As the king in quest of Roland speeds, The flowers and gra.s.s throughout the meads He sees all red with our baron's blood, And his tears of pity break forth in flood.

He upward climbs, till, beneath two trees, The dints upon the rock he sees.

Of Roland's corse he was then aware; Stretched it lay on the green gra.s.s bare.

No marvel sorrow the king oppressed; He alighted down, and in haste he pressed, Took the body his arms between, And fainted: dire his grief I ween.

CCXI

As did reviving sense begin, Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin, The n.o.ble Geoffrey of Anjou, And his brother Henry nigh him drew.

They made a pine-tree's trunk his stay; But he looked to earth where his nephew lay, And thus all gently made his dole: "My friend, my Roland, G.o.d guard thy soul!

Never on earth such knight hath been, Fields of battle to fight and win.

My pride and glory, alas, are gone!"

He endured no longer; he swooned anon.

CCXII

As Karl the king revived once more, His hands were held by barons four.

He saw his nephew, cold and wan; Stark his frame, but his hue was gone; His eyes turned inward, dark and dim; And Karl in love lamented him: "Dear Roland, G.o.d thy spirit rest In Paradise, amongst His blest!

In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: No day shall dawn but sees my pain, And me of strength and pride bereft.

No champion of mine honor left; Without a friend beneath the sky; And though my kindred still be nigh, Is none like thee their ranks among."

With both his hands his beard he wrung.

The Franks bewailed in unison; A hundred thousand wept like one.

CCXIII

"Dear Roland, I return again To Laon, to mine own domain; Where men will come from many a land, And seek Count Roland at my hand.

A bitter tale must I unfold-- 'In Spanish earth he lieth cold,'

A joyless realm henceforth I hold, And weep with daily tears untold."

CCXIV

"Dear Roland, beautiful and brave, All men of me will tidings crave, When I return to La Chapelle.

Oh, what a tale is mine to tell!

That low my glorious nephew lies.

Now will the Saxon foeman rise; Bulgar and Hun in arms will come, Apulia's power, the might of Rome, Palermitan and Afric bands, And men from fierce and distant lands.

To sorrow sorrow must succeed; My hosts to battle who shall lead, When the mighty captain is overthrown?'

Ah! France deserted now, and lone.

Come, death, before such grief I bear."

Once more his beard and h.o.a.ry hair Began he with his hands to tear; A hundred thousand fainted there.

CCXV

"Dear Roland, and was this thy fate?

May Paradise thy soul await.

Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane: I cannot live, so deep my pain.

For me my kindred lie undone; And would to Holy Mary's Son, Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight, My soul may take its parting flight: My spirit would with theirs abide; My body rest their dust beside."

With sobs his h.o.a.ry beard he tore.

"Alas!" said Naimes, "for the Emperor."

CCXVI

"Sir Emperor," Geoffrey of Anjou said, "Be not by sorrow so sore misled.

Let us seek our comrades throughout the plain, Who fell by the hands of the men of Spain; And let their bodies on biers be borne."

"Yea," said the Emperor. "Sound your horn."

CCXVII

Now doth Count Geoffrey his bugle sound, And the Franks from their steeds alight to ground As they their dead companions find, They lay them low on biers reclined; Nor prayers of bishop or abbot ceased, Of monk or canon, or tonsured priest.

The dead they blessed in G.o.d's great name, Set myrrh and frankincense aflame.

Their incense to the dead they gave, Then laid them, as beseemed the brave-- What could they more?--in honored grave.