As did reviving sense begin,
     Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin,
     The noble Geoffrey of Anjou,
     And his brother Henry nigh him drew. 
     They made a pine-tree’s trunk his stay;
     But he looked to earth where his nephew lay,
     And thus all gently made his dole: 
     “My friend, my Roland, God guard thy soul! 
     Never on earth such knight hath been,
     Fields of battle to fight and win. 
     My pride and glory, alas, are gone!”
     He endured no longer; he swooned anon.

     CCXII

     As Karl the king revived once more,
     His hands were held by barons four. 
     He saw his nephew, cold and wan;
     Stark his frame, but his hue was gone;
     His eyes turned inward, dark and dim;
     And Karl in love lamented him: 
     “Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest
     In Paradise, amongst His blest! 
     In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: 
     No day shall dawn but sees my pain,
     And me of strength and pride bereft. 
     No champion of mine honor left;
     Without a friend beneath the sky;
     And though my kindred still be nigh,
     Is none like thee their ranks among.” 
     With both his hands his beard he wrung. 
     The Franks bewailed in unison;
     A hundred thousand wept like one.

     CCXIII

     “Dear Roland, I return again
     To Laon, to mine own domain;
     Where men will come from many a land,
     And seek Count Roland at my hand. 
     A bitter tale must I unfold—­
     ‘In Spanish earth he lieth cold,’
     A joyless realm henceforth I hold,
     And weep with daily tears untold.”

     CCXIV

     “Dear Roland, beautiful and brave,
     All men of me will tidings crave,
     When I return to La Chapelle. 
     Oh, what a tale is mine to tell! 
     That low my glorious nephew lies. 
     Now will the Saxon foeman rise;
     Bulgar and Hun in arms will come,
     Apulia’s power, the might of Rome,
     Palermitan and Afric bands,
     And men from fierce and distant lands. 
     To sorrow sorrow must succeed;
     My hosts to battle who shall lead,
     When the mighty captain is overthrown?’
     Ah!  France deserted now, and lone. 
     Come, death, before such grief I bear.” 
     Once more his beard and hoary hair
     Began he with his hands to tear;
     A hundred thousand fainted there.

     CCXV

     “Dear Roland, and was this thy fate? 
     May Paradise thy soul await. 
     Who slew thee wrought fair France’s bane: 
     I cannot live, so deep my pain. 
     For me my kindred lie undone;
     And would to Holy Mary’s Son,
     Ere I at Cizra’s gorge alight,
     My soul may take its parting flight: 
     My spirit would with theirs abide;
     My body rest their dust beside.” 
     With sobs his hoary beard he tore. 
     “Alas!” said Naimes, “for the Emperor.”