THE SONG OF ROLAND

Sir Olivier to the peak hath clomb
Looks far on the realm of Spain therefrom He sees the Saracen power arrayed Helmets gleaming with gold inlaid
Shields and hauberks in serried row Spears with pennons that from them flow He may not reckon the mighty mass
So far their numbers his thoughts surpass
All in bewilderment and dismay
Down from the mountain he takes his way Comes to the Franks this tale to say

Roland, Roland, let wind one blast!
Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed
I will not sound on my ivory horn:
It shall never be spoken to me in scorn
That for heathen felons one blast I blew
I may not dishonor my lineage true
But Iʼll strike ‘ere this fight be oʼer
A thousand strokes and seven hundred more And my Durindana shall drip with gore

Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave The Saracens flock but to find a grave” Count Roland rideth the battle through
With Durindana, to cleave and hew
Havoc fell of the foe he made Saracen corpse upon corpse was laid

Not one of the Peers can be blamed this day For Franks are fiery to smite and slay Knightly deeds has Count Roland done Respite or rest for his Franks are none

Hard they ride on the heathen rear
At trot or gallop in full career
And when the weapons their hands forsake Then unto trumpet and horn they take

Serried they charge in power and pride The Saracens cry “May ill betide
The hour we came on this fatal track!” So on their host do they turn the back The Christians cleaving them as they fled Unto Marsil stretch the line of the dead

Said Roland, “I will sound my horn” As Karl passes the gorge to warn
The Franks, I know, will return apace” Sir Oliver said “Itʼs a foul disgrace
On your nobel kindred to wreak such wrong They would bear the stain a lifetime long

Not now shall my assent be won
Nor shall I say that it is knightly done
Both your arms are streaming red
In sooth”, said Roland, “good strokes I sped

Roland looked Olivier in the face
Ghastly paleness was there to trace
From his wound did the bright red flow
And rain in showers to the earth below

“O God” said Roland, is this the end? Of all they prowess, my gentle friend? I know not wither to bear me now: On earth shall never be such as thou Gentle France, thou art overthrown Reft of thy bravest, despoiled lone The Emperorʼs loss is full indeed!
At the word he fainted upon his steed

Once more to the field doth Roland wend
Till he findeth Olivier his friend
The lifeless form to his heart he strained
And bore him back with what strength remained

On a buckler laid him, beside the rest
The Bishop assailed them all, and blessed Their dole and pity anew find vent. And Roland maketh his fond lament
My Olivier, Oh my chosen one,
You were the Duke Renierʼs first son Lord of the March unto River vale
To shiver lance and to shatter mail
The brave in council to guide and cheer To smite the miscreant foe with fear Was never one so cavalier

Death was on him he knew full well
Down from his head to his heart it fell
On the grass beneath a pine treeʼs shade
His face to earth, his form he laid

Beneath him placed he his horn and sword And turned his face to the heathen hord Thus hath he done the sooth to show
That Karl and his warriors know
That the gentle count a conqueror died “Mea Culpa” full oft he cried

Roland feeleth his hour at hand
On a knoll he lies towards the spanish land
With one hand beats he upon his breast
“In thy sight, my sins confessed"

From my hour of birth, both the great and small
Down to this day, I repent it all
His glove he raises to God on high
Angels of heaven descend him nigh.