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