The Chastisement of the Saracens

Rolland is dead: God has his soul in heaven. To Ronceval the Emperor has come. There, neither road nor any path is seen, Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land That mounds of mangled bodies cover not, Pagans or French.—The Emperor exclaims: "Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where? And Olivier, alas, where are they all? Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier, Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear? The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke, Anseis the rash, Gerard de Roussillon The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind, What fate is theirs?"—What boots it? None replies.— "God," cries the King, "what grief is mine to think I stood not here the battle to begin." He tears his beard with anger; all his knights And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth. Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart. Aoi.

No baron is there now, no chevalier Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons, For brothers—nephews—friends—and for liege-lords. Many have fallen swooning on the earth, But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight: He foremost said to Carle:—"Behold two leagues Away!—The roads are dark with clouds of dust. There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now, Avenge this bitter woe."—"O God," said Carle, "Are they already flown so far?—our rights And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me The flower of my Sweet France!"—The King commands Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count Milun:—"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts; The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge You, let no man upon them lay his hand Until, with God's assistance, we return." They lovingly and with sweet tone reply: "Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!" Upon the field they keep one thousand knights. Aoi.

Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow, Then forward at the head of his great host He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King The eve decline, he on the verdant grass Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back And longer make the day. To him appears A Counselor-Angel with the swift command; "Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall! God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France; But vengeance canst have now upon that horde Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake. The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed. Aoi.

To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might; The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly, And fast the French pursuing, overtake Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead. No issue, no escape, by road or pass! In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves: No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood. Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms, Sink in a moment; others are swept down, And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts. All drown most cruelly. The French cry out: "For your own woe wished ye to see Rolland!" Aoi.

When Carle sees all the Pagans dead—some slain, The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God. When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time," He said, "to think of camping now. Too late It is for our advance to Ronceval. Our horses are all weary and foredone: Unsaddle them and take the bridles off; And let them roam at large about these meads." The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well." Aoi.

The Emperor makes here his harborage. The French dismount, take off the golden curbs And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass: No other care they need. Upon the ground The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep. No watch was set in all the host that night. Aoi.

The Emperor reposes on the field, His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted, For he, on such a night will not disarm. His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears, His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced, Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer, Who thirty times a day can change his hue. Many a time you all heard of the lance Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross, The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God, Closed in the golden pommel of his sword. For this great glory and exceeding worth The brand was called Joyeuse. This all French Knights Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took Their war-cry of Montjoie, and for this cause No other people can resist their arms. Aoi.

Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rolland, And Olivier is heavy on his heart; The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France, Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval. He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray That mighty God be keeper of their souls. Tired is the King, his toils being very great; Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more. Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound, Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand; If one need grass, he bites it as he lies. Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe. Aoi.

Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard. All night beside his head the Angel stands, And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French A battle is prepared, and its portent Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms And wond'rous tempests—smould'ring fire and flames Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts Of apple-tree or ash—those shields ablaze Unto their golden rings—shafts from their points Break off—Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang. He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes And vipers—dragons, fiends—and with them more Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French None can escape this hideous horde.—"Carlemagne, Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized, Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed: Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on. The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible, And, springing, seeks his very body out. Each wrestles with the other in his arms; But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows. Never a jot the Emperor awakes. Aoi.