“When Roland spies the cursed race,
More black than ink, without a trace,
Save teeth, of whiteness in the face,
‘Full certified,’ quoth he, ’am I,
That we this very day shall die. 
Strike, Frenchmen, strike; that’s all my mind!’
‘A curse on him who lags behind!’
Quoth gallant Oliver; and so
Down dash the Frenchmen on the foe. . . . 
Sir Oliver with failing breath,
Knowing his wound is to the death,
Doth call to him his friend, his peer,
His Roland:  ’Comrade, come thou here;
To be apart what pain it were!’
When Roland marks his friend’s distress,
His face all pale and colorless,
‘My God!’ quoth he, ’what’s now to do? 
O my sweet France, what dole for you,
Widowed of all your warriors true! 
You needs must perish!’ At such plaint,
Upon his steed he falls a-faint.

“See Roland riding in a swound: 
And Oliver with mortal wound;
With loss of blood so dazed is he
He neither near nor far can see
What manner of man a man may be: 
And, meeting with Sir Roland so,
He dealeth him a fearful blow
That splits the gilded helm in two
Down to the very nasal, though,
By luck, the skull it cleaves not through. 
With blank amaze doth Roland gaze,
And gently, very gently, says,
’Dear comrade, smit’st thou with intent? 
Methinks no challenge hath been sent
I’m Roland, who doth love thee so.’ 
Quoth Oliver, ’Thy voice I know,
But see thee not; God save thee, friend: 
I struck thee; prithee pardon me. 
No hurt have I; and there’s an end.’ 
Quoth Roland, ’And I pardon thee
‘Fore man and God right willingly.’ 
They bow the head, each to his brother,
And so, in love, leave one another.”

(Oliver dies:  Roland and Archbishop Turpin continue the fight.)

“Then Roland takes his horn once more;
His blast is feebler than before,
But still it reaches the emperor
He hears it, and he halts to shout,
‘Let clarions, one and all, ring out!’
Then sixty thousand clarions ring,
And rocks and dales set echoing. 
And they, too, hear—­the pagan pack;
They force the rising laughter back;
‘Charles, Charles,’ they cry, ‘is on our track!’
They fly; and Roland stands alone—­
Alone, afoot; his steed is gone—­
Brave Veillantif is gone, and so,
He, willy-nilly, afoot must go. 
Archbishop Turpin needs his aid: 
The golden helm is soon unlaced,
The light, white hauberk soon unbraced;
And gently, gently down he laid
On the green turf the bishop’s head;
And then beseechingly he said,—­
“’Ah! noble sir, your leave I crave
The men we love, our comrades brave,
All, all are dead; they must not lie
Here thus neglected; wherefore I
Will seek for them, each where he lies,
And lay them out before your eyes.’ 
‘Go,’ said the bishop, ’and speed be thine
Thank God! the field is thine and mine.’