The Melee, CVI–CXIV

The Count Rolland rides through the battle-field And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand, A mighty carnage of the Saracens. Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground; His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore, And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed! Still Olivier halts not in his career. Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach, And all the French strike well and massacre The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall. Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France! Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!" Aoi.

Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance, Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight, And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun, Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed, Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet; With seven hundred men of theirs he fell. The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus; But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand. Then said Rolland: "What mean you, Compagnon? In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff We need, but steel and iron, as I deem. Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time To draw it," valiant Olivier replies, "So busy is my hand in dealing blows!" Aoi.

Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed, For which Rolland entreated him so much, And showed it to his friend with knightly pride; Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferree, Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through The saddle all with studs and gold embossed, And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man And steed fall on the grass before him, dead. Rolland exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!" And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!" Aoi.

The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel, And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf, They loose the reins, and both spur on against A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield, The other strikes the hauberk;—in his heart The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down. I never heard it said nor can I know By which of them the swifter blow was struck.— Esperveris, son to Borel, was next By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin With his own hand gave death to Siglorel Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:—"Forfeit paid For crime!"—"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rolland, "My brother Olivier, such blows I love!" Aoi.

The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie In dealing blows; attacking now, and now Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn: Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons! So many valiant French mowed in their prime, Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see Again, nor those of France who in the Pass Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn. But what avails? Naught can he help them now. Ill service rendered Ganelon to them The day when he to Sarraguce repaired To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix, There to be hanged with thirty of his race Who were not spared the punishment of death. Aoi.

The battle rages. Wonders all perform; Rolland and Olivier strike hard; Turpin Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows; The twelve Peers dally not upon the field, While all the French together fight as if One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly Whether they will or no, all lose their lives. And yet the French have lost their strongest arms, Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.

Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails: Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts Conflict confusedly, and naught more true, The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril As far as to the Saints, from Besancon Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed Beholders cry:—"The world's last day has come, The destined end of all things is at hand!" Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain.... 'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rolland! Aoi.

The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force. In multitudes—by thousands die their foes; Not two out of one hundred thousand now Survive. [Turpin] says:—"Brave are all our men;— None braver under Heaven—In the Geste Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings." Seeking their friends, they overrun the field. Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears For their dear kindred they so fondly loved.... Now King Marsile with his great host appears.... Aoi.

Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep, Surrounded by the mighty host he brought, In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed. Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems, And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge With seven hundred clarions sending forth Loud blasts throughout the land—Thus said Rolland: "Companion Olivier, my brother, friend, The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death.... His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep. A long and cruel battle we shall have, Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike With Halteclere—Those noble swords we bore Throughout so many lands; such combats won By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds." Aoi.

When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm The country o'er, they call on Olivier, Rolland and the twelve Peers to guard their lives. Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind: "Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves! Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death, And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er. But for one thing ye can believe my word: For you God's Paradise stands open wide, And seats await you 'mid the blessed Saints." These words of comfort reassure the French; All in one voice cry out:—"Montjoie! Montjoie!" Aoi.