Roland feeleth his death is near,
     His brain is oozing by either ear. 
     For his peers he prayed—­God keep them well;
     Invoked the angel Gabriel. 
     That none reproach him, his horn he clasped;
     His other hand Durindana grasped;
     Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent,
     Across the march of Spain he went,
     Where, on a mound, two trees between,
     Four flights of marble steps were seen;
     Backward he fell, on the field to lie;
     And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh.

     CXC

     High were the mountains and high the trees,
     Bright shone the marble terraces;
     On the green grass Roland hath swooned away. 
     A Saracen spied him where he lay: 
     Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead,
     His face and body with blood bespread. 
     To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,—­
     He was fair and strong and of courage tried,
     In pride and wrath he was overbold,—­
     And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold. 
     “The nephew of Karl is overthrown! 
     To Araby bear I this sword, mine own.” 
     He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew,
     Roland returned to his sense anew.

     CXCI

     He saw the Saracen seize his sword;
     His eyes he oped, and he spake one word—­
     “Thou art not one of our band, I trow,”
     And he clutched the horn he would ne’er forego;
     On the golden crest he smote him full,
     Shattering steel and bone and skull,
     Forth from his head his eyes he beat,
     And cast him lifeless before his feet. 
     “Miscreant, makest thou then so free,
     As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me? 
     Who hears it will deem thee a madman born;
     Behold the mouth of mine ivory horn
     Broken for thee, and the gems and gold
     Around its rim to earth are rolled.”

     CXCII

     Roland feeleth his eyesight reft,
     Yet he stands erect with what strength is left;
     From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled,
     But his Durindana all bare he held. 
     In front a dark brown rock arose—­
     He smote upon it ten grievous blows. 
     Grated the steel as it struck the flint,
     Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint. 
     “Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid! 
     Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade,
     I may no longer thy guardian be! 
     What fields of battle I won with thee! 
     What realms and regions ’twas ours to gain,
     Now the lordship of Carlemaine! 
     Never shalt thou possessor know
     Who would turn from face of mortal foe;
     A gallant vassal so long thee bore,
     Such as France the free shall know no more.”

     CXCIII