CLXXXI

     The heathens said, “We were born to shame. 
     This day for our disaster came: 
     Our lords and leaders in battle lost,
     And Karl at hand with his marshalled host;
     We hear the trumpets of France ring out,
     And the cry ‘Montjoie!’ their rallying shout. 
     Roland’s pride is of such a height,
     Not to be vanquished by mortal wight;
     Hurl we our missiles, and hold aloof.” 
     And the word they spake, they put in proof,—­
     They flung, with all their strength and craft,
     Javelin, barb, and plumed shaft. 
     Roland’s buckler was torn and frayed,
     His cuirass broken and disarrayed,
     Yet entrance none to his flesh they made. 
     From thirty wounds Veillantif bled,
     Beneath his rider they cast him, dead;
     Then from the field have the heathen flown: 
     Roland remaineth, on foot, alone.

     THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP

     CLXXXII

     The heathens fly in rage and dread;
     To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped;
     Nor can Count Roland make pursuit—­
     Slain is his steed, and he rests afoot;
     To succor Turpin he turned in haste,
     The golden helm from his head unlaced,
     Ungirt the corselet from his breast,
     In stripes divided his silken vest;
     The archbishop’s wounds hath he staunched and bound,
     His arms around him softly wound;
     On the green sward gently his body laid,
     And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed: 
     “For a little space, let me take farewell;
     Our dear companions, who round us fell,
     I go to seek; if I haply find,
     I will place them at thy feet reclined.” 
     “Go,” said Turpin; “the field is thine—­
     To God the glory, ’tis thine and mine.”

     CLXXXIII

     Alone seeks Roland the field of fight,
     He searcheth vale, he searcheth height. 
     Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low,
     And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux,
     Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier;
     Otho he found, and Berengier;
     Samson the duke, and Anseis bold,
     Gerard of Roussillon, the old. 
     Their bodies, one after one, he bore,
     And laid them Turpin’s feet before. 
     The archbishop saw them stretched arow,
     Nor can he hinder the tears that flow;
     In benediction his hands he spread: 
     “Alas! for your doom, my lords,” he said,
     “That God in mercy your souls may give,
     On the flowers of Paradise to live;
     Mine own death comes, with anguish sore
     That I see mine Emperor never more.”

     CLXXXIV