Mount to thy shrine, Cologne,
     House unrifted was there none. 
     And a darkness spread in the noontide high—­
     No light, save gleams from the cloven sky. 
     On all who saw came a mighty fear. 
     They said, “The end of the world is near.” 
     Alas, they spake but with idle breath,—­
     ’Tis the great lament for Roland’s death.

     CXVIII

     Dread are the omens and fierce the storm,
     Over France the signs and wonders swarm: 
     From noonday on to the vesper hour,
     Night and darkness alone have power;
     Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed,
     Who sees it ranks him among the dead. 
     Well may they suffer such pain and woe,
     When Roland, captain of all, lies low. 
     Never on earth hath his fellow been,
     To slay the heathen or realms to win.

     CXIX

Stern and stubborn is the fight; Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite; Nor is there one but whose blade is red, “Montjoie!” is ever their war-cry dread.  Through the land they ride in hot pursuit, And the heathens feel ’tis a fierce dispute.

     CXX

     In wrath and anguish, the heathen race
     Turn in flight from the field their face;
     The Franks as hotly behind them strain. 
     Then might ye look on a cumbered plain: 
     Saracens stretched on the green grass bare,
     Helms and hauberks that shone full fair,
     Standards riven and arms undone: 
     So by the Franks was the battle won. 
     The foremost battle that then befell—­
     O God, what sorrow remains to tell!

     CXXI

     With heart and prowess the Franks have stood;
     Slain was the heathen multitude;
     Of a hundred thousand survive not two: 
     The archbishop crieth, “O staunch and true! 
     Written it is in the Frankish geste,
     That our Emperor’s vassals shall bear them best.” 
     To seek their dead through the field they press,
     And their eyes drop tears of tenderness: 
     Their hearts are turned to their kindred dear. 
     Marsil the while with his host is near.

     CXXII

     Distraught was Roland with wrath and pain;
     Distraught were the twelve of Carlemaine—­
     With deadly strokes the Franks have striven,
     And the Saracen horde to the slaughter given;
     Of a hundred thousand escaped but one—­
     King Margaris fled from the field alone;
     But no disgrace in his flight he bore—­
     Wounded was he by lances four. 
     To the side of Spain did he take his way,
     To tell King Marsil what chanced that day.

     CXXIII