Charlemagne Approaches

The Count Rolland was ever great in war; Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts, Their lances and winged arrows. First of all Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked; Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls. Aoi.

Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth, By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look Sought for Rolland to whom he ran in haste. One word he said:—"Unconquered yet am I! While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!" He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel, And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows And more he deals.—Carle said in after days, Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain, Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France, And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister Of Louem wrote the record of these deeds. Who knows not this, he knows not any thing. Aoi.

As hero fights the Count Rolland; but all His body burns with heat and drips with sweat; His head is torn by pain; his temple burst By that strong blast he gave the olifant. Still would he know if Carle returns; once more He blows his horn—Alas, with feeble blast. Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits: "Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace; I hear his dying blast upon his horn. If we would find him yet alive, we need Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!" Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals; The hills reecho, and the vales respond. The Pagans hear—and stay their gabbling mirth. One to the other says:—"'Tis Carle who comes!" Aoi.

The Pagans say:—"The Emperor returns; These are the clarions of the French we hear. If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives Rolland, the war begins anew, and Spain Our land is lost to us for evermore." Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie, The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks And dashed in fierce attack against Rolland. Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve! Aoi.

As they draw near, Rolland calls up his pride And summons all his strength to meet the charge. No foot of ground he yields while life remains. Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold. Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away! The horns of those of France we now have heard, Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!" Aoi.

Ne'er could the Count Rolland a coward love, Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights. He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot, And I on horseback, sire! For love of you I by your side will stand; together we Will share or good or ill; I leave you not For aught of human mold. This day we shall Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal Shall deal his mightiest blows!"—To this replies The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well! King Carle returns—Great shall his vengeance be!" Aoi.

The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born! What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n! Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host King Carle returns, the mighty Baron—Hark! His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;' Rolland has so great pride, no man of flesh Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best We pierced him from afar, and left him lying Upon the field!"——'Twas done: darts, lances, spears, Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick, That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent And torn apart—his body yet unharmed. Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead Beneath the Count.—The affrighted Pagans fly. The Count Rolland stands on the field, alone. Aoi.