The Song of Roland Part 14

CLXVI

The count Rollanz wakes from his swoon once more, Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore; Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above; On the green gra.s.s, beyond his companions, He sees him lie, that n.o.ble old baron; 'Tis the Archbishop, whom in His name wrought G.o.d; There he proclaims his sins, and looks above; Joins his two hands, to Heaven holds them forth, And Paradise prays G.o.d to him to accord.

Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Charlon.

In battles great and very rare sermons Against pagans ever a champion.

G.o.d grant him now His Benediction!

AOI.

CLXVII

The count Rollant sees the Archbishop lie dead, Sees the bowels out of his body shed, And sees the brains that surge from his forehead; Between his two arm-pits, upon his breast, Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair.

Then mourns aloud, as was the custom there: "Thee, gentle sir, chevalier n.o.bly bred, To the Glorious Celestial I commend; Neer shall man be, that will Him serve so well; Since the Apostles was never such prophet, To hold the laws and draw the hearts of men.

Now may your soul no pain nor sorrow ken, Finding the gates of Paradise open!"

CLXVIII

Then Rollanz feels that death to him draws near, For all his brain is issued from his ears; He prays to G.o.d that He will call the peers, Bids Gabriel, the angel, t' himself appear.

Takes the olifant, that no reproach shall hear, And Durendal in the other hand he wields; Further than might a cross-bow's arrow speed Goes towards Spain into a fallow-field; Climbs on a cliff; where, under two fair trees, Four terraces, of marble wrought, he sees.

There he falls down, and lies upon the green; He swoons again, for death is very near.

CLXIX

High are the peaks, the trees are very high.

Four terraces of polished marble s.h.i.+ne; On the green gra.s.s count Rollant swoons thereby.

A Sarrazin him all the time espies, Who feigning death among the others hides; Blood hath his face and all his body dyed; He gets afoot, running towards him hies; Fair was he, strong and of a courage high; A mortal hate he's kindled in his pride.

He's seized Rollant, and the arms, were at his side, "Charles nephew," he's said, "here conquered lies.

To Araby I'll bear this sword as prize."

As he drew it, something the count descried.

CLXX

So Rollant felt his sword was taken forth, Opened his eyes, and this word to him spoke "Thou'rt never one of ours, full well I know."

Took the olifant, that he would not let go, Struck him on th' helm, that jewelled was with gold, And broke its steel, his skull and all his bones, Out of his head both the two eyes he drove; Dead at his feet he has the pagan thrown: After he's said: "Culvert, thou wert too bold, Or right or wrong, of my sword seizing hold!

They'll dub thee fool, to whom the tale is told.

But my great one, my olifant I broke; Fallen from it the crystal and the gold."

CLXXI

Then Rollanz feels that he has lost his sight, Climbs to his feet, uses what strength he might; In all his face the colour is grown white.

In front of him a great brown boulder lies; Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes; The steel cries out, but does not break outright; And the count says: "Saint Mary, be my guide Good Durendal, unlucky is your plight!

I've need of you no more; spent is my pride!

We in the field have won so many fights, Combating through so many regions wide That Charles holds, whose beard is h.o.a.ry white!

Be you not his that turns from any in flight!

A good va.s.sal has held you this long time; Never shall France the Free behold his like."

CLXXII

Rollant hath struck the sardonyx terrace; The steel cries out, but broken is no ways.

So when he sees he never can it break, Within himself begins he to complain: "Ah! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain!

Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays!

In Moriane was Charles, in the vale, When from heaven G.o.d by His angel bade Him give thee to a count and capitain; Girt thee on me that n.o.ble King and great.

I won for him with thee Anjou, Bretaigne, And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine, And Normandy the free for him I gained, Also with thee Provence and Equitaigne, And Lumbardie and all the whole Romaigne, I won Baivere, all Flanders in the plain, Also Burguigne and all the whole Puillane, Costentinnople, that homage to him pays; In Saisonie all is as he ordains; With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England also, where he his chamber makes; Won I with thee so many countries strange That Charles holds, whose beard is white with age!

For this sword's sake sorrow upon me weighs, Rather I'ld die, than it mid pagans stay.

Lord G.o.d Father, never let France be shamed!"

CLXXIII

Rollant his stroke on a dark stone repeats, And more of it breaks off than I can speak.

The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least, Back from the blow into the air it leaps.

Destroy it can he not; which when he sees, Within himself he makes a plaint most sweet.

"Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed!

Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals: Saint Peter's Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile, Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise, Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary.

It is not right that pagans should thee seize, For Christian men your use shall ever be.

Nor any man's that worketh cowardice!

Many broad lands with you have I retrieved Which Charles holds, who hath the great white beard; Wherefore that King so proud and rich is he."

CLXXIV

But Rollant felt that death had made a way Down from his head till on his heart it lay; Beneath a pine running in haste he came, On the green gra.s.s he lay there on his face; His olifant and sword beneath him placed, Turning his head towards the pagan race, Now this he did, in truth, that Charles might say (As he desired) and all the Franks his race;-- 'Ah, gentle count; conquering he was slain!'-- He owned his faults often and every way, And for his sins his glove to G.o.d upraised.

AOI.

CLXXV

But Rollant feels he's no more time to seek; Looking to Spain, he lies on a sharp peak, And with one hand upon his breast he beats: "Mea Culpa! G.o.d, by Thy Virtues clean Me from my sins, the mortal and the mean, Which from the hour that I was born have been Until this day, when life is ended here!"

Holds out his glove towards G.o.d, as he speaks Angels descend from heaven on that scene.

AOI.

CLXXVI

The count Rollanz, beneath a pine he sits; Turning his eyes towards Spain, he begins Remembering so many divers things: So many lands where he went conquering, And France the Douce, the heroes of his kin, And Charlemagne, his lord who nourished him.

Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this.

But his own self, he's not forgotten him, He owns his faults, and G.o.d's forgiveness bids: "Very Father, in Whom no falsehood is, Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst remit, And Daniel save from the lions' pit; My soul in me preserve from all perils And from the sins I did in life commit!"

His right-hand glove, to G.o.d he offers it Saint Gabriel from's hand hath taken it.

Over his arm his head bows down and slips, He joins his hands: and so is life finish'd.

G.o.d sent him down His angel cherubin, And Saint Michael, we wors.h.i.+p in peril; And by their side Saint Gabriel alit; So the count's soul they bare to Paradis.

CLXXVII

Rollant is dead; his soul to heav'n G.o.d bare.

That Emperour to Rencesvals doth fare.

There was no path nor pa.s.sage anywhere Nor of waste ground no ell nor foot to spare Without a Frank or pagan lying there.

Charles cries aloud: "Where are you, nephew fair?

Where's the Archbishop and that count Oliviers?

Where is Gerins and his comrade Gerers?

Otes the Duke, and the count Berengiers And Ivorie, and Ive, so dear they were?

What is become of Gascon Engelier, Sansun the Duke and Anseis the fierce?

Where's old Gerard of Russillun; oh, where The dozen peers I left behind me here?"

But what avail, since none can answer bear?

"G.o.d!" says the King, "Now well may I despair, I was not here the first a.s.sault to share!"

Seeming enraged, his beard the King doth tear.