Our mournful tidings to the king?’
Quoth Oliver, ’I know not, I
To fly were shame; far better die.’ 
Quoth Roland, ’I my horn will blow,
That Charles may hear and Charles may know;
And, in the defiles, from their track
The French, I swear, will hasten back.’ 
Quoth Oliver, ’’Twere grievous shame;
’Twould bring a blush to all thy name
When I said thus thou scornedst me,
And now I will not counsel thee. 
And shouldst thou blow, ’twere no great blast;
Already blood is gushing fast
From both thine arms.’  ‘That well may be,’
Quoth he, ’I struck so lustily! 
The battle is too strong:  I’ll blow
Mine Olifant, that Charles may know.’ 
Quoth Oliver, ’Had Charles been here,
This battle had not cost so dear;
But as for yon poor souls, I wis,
No blame can rest with them for this.’ 
‘Why bear me spite?’ Sir Roland said. 
‘The fault,’ said he, ’lies on thy head. 
And mark my words; this day will see
The end of our good company;
We twain shall part—­not as we met—­
Full sadly ere yon sun bath set.’ 
The good archbishop hears the stir,
And thither pricks with golden spur;
And thus he chides the wrangling lords
’Roland, and you, Sir Oliver,
Why strive ye with such bitter words
Horns cannot save you; that is past;
But still ’twere best to sound a blast;
Let the king come:  he’ll strike a blow
For vengeance, lest the Paynim foe
Back to their homes in triumph go.’

“With pain and dolor, groan and pant,
Count Roland sounds his Olifant: 
The crimson stream shoots from his lips;
The blood from bursten temple drips;
But far, O, far the echoes ring,
And, in the defiles, reach the king;
Reach Naymes, and the French array: 
‘Tis Roland’s horn,’ the king doth say;
‘He only sounds when brought to bay.’ 
How huge the rocks!  How dark and steep! 
The streams are swift!  The valleys deep! 
Out blare the trumpets, one and all,
As Charles responds to Roland’s call. 
Round wheels the king, with choler mad,
The Frenchmen follow grim and sad;
Not one but prays for Roland’s life,
Till they have joined him in the strife. 
But ah! what prayer can alter fate? 
The time is past; too late! too late! 
As Roland scans both plain and height,
And sees how many Frenchmen lie
Stretched in their mortal agony,
He mourns them like a noble knight: 
’Comrades, God give ye grace to-day,
And grant ye Paradise, I pray! 
No lieges ever fought as they. 
What a fair land, O France, art thou! 
But ah! forlorn and widowed now! 
O Oliver, at least to thee,
My brother, I must faithful be
Back, comrade mine, back let us go,
And charge once more the Paynim foe!’