Olivier's Death

When sees Rolland this tribe accursed, more black Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam Of white, he said:—"Truly I know to-day We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command." And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries. These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray. Aoi.

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French, Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say One to the other:—"Their King Carle is wrong!"— Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice; Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold, Encounters Olivier—strikes him behind, Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart, And through in front came forth the pointed lance. The Kalif cries:—"That blow struck home! Carlmagne, For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass! That he has wronged us, little may he boast. Your death alone for us a vengeance full!" Aoi.

Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm; He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust. His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth, And dead the Kalif falls.—"Pagan accursed," He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught; To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!" And then he called Rolland unto his aid. Aoi.

Olivier feels that he is hurt to death. No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus Dismember Saracens, corse over corse Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget The rallying cry of Carle:—"Montjoie!" he cries Loudly and clear; then calls Rolland, his friend And compeer:—"Sire companion, stand by me! This day our breaking hearts forever part!" Aoi.

Rolland looks Olivier full in the face; Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood Drips from his body, and streams on the earth. "God!" cried Rolland, "I know not what to do, Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou, As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave, Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned. Aoi.

Behold Rolland, there, fainting on his steed, While Olivier stands wounded to the death. So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes See naught afar or near, nor mortal man Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rolland, Upon his golden-studded helm he struck A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft, And split the crest in twain, but left the head Untouched. Rolland at this, upon him looks, And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sire compagnon! Was that blow meant for me? I am Rolland By whom you are beloved so well; to me Could you by any chance, defiance give?" Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but see You now no more. May God behold you, friend! I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me." Rolland responds:—"I am not wounded—here And before God I pardon you." At this, Each to the other bends in courtesy. With such great tenderness and love they part. Aoi.

Olivier feels the agony of death; His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head, And all his hearing and his sight are lost. Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites His breast, aloud confessing all his sins; With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up He prays to God to give him Paradise, To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond All other men, Rolland, his compagnon. His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—prone Upon the earth he lies—'tis over now.... The Count is dead. Rolland, the Baron, mourns And weeps as never mortal mourned before. Aoi.

When sees the Count Rolland the breath of life Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth, His face low in the dust, his tears gush out With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks: "Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear! Year after year, day after day, a life Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me, Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away, My life is but a pain." While speaking thus, The Marchis faints on Veillantif, his steed. But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold: Where'er Rolland may ride, he cannot fall. Aoi.

Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon, When all the great disaster meets his sight; The French lie on the field; all lost to him Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum, Who had descended from the mountain height Where he the men of Spain all day withstood Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords. Willed he or not, he fled into the vale, And now upon Rolland he calls for aid; "Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou? Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I, Gualtier, who conquered Maelgut, who am Old gray-haired Drouen's nephew; till this day My courage won thy love. So well I fought Against the Saracens, my spear was broke, My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung, And in my body eight steel darts I bear. Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!" The words of that brave knight Rolland has heard, Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help. Aoi.

With grief and rage Rolland's great heart is full; Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe He rides. He fights—and twenty Pagans fall Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry: "Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive! Eternal shame to them who dare not make Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight Avail."—Renewing then their hues and cries, The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights. Aoi.