Part 16 (1/2)
Dastard is he who confronts them not; Craven, who lets them depart this spot.”
Their cries and shoutings begin once more, And from every side on the Franks they pour.
CLXXV
Count Roland in sooth is a n.o.ble peer; Count Walter, a valorous cavalier; The archbishop, in battle proved and tried, Each struck as if knight there were none beside.
From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap, Yet forty thousand their saddles keep; I trow they dare not approach them near, But they hurl against them lance and spear, Pike and javelin, shaft and dart.
Walter is slain as the missiles part; The archbishop's s.h.i.+eld in pieces shred, Riven his helm, and pierced his head; His corselet of steel they rent and tore, Wounded his body with lances four; His steed beneath him dropped withal: What woe to see the archbishop fall!
CLXXVI
When Turpin felt him flung to ground, And four lance wounds within him found, He swiftly rose, the dauntless man, To Roland looked, and nigh him ran.
Spake but, ”I am not overthrown-- Brave warrior yields with life alone.”
He drew Almace's burnished steel, A thousand ruthless blows to deal.
In after time, the Emperor said He found four hundred round him spread,-- Some wounded, others cleft in twain; Some lying headless on the plain.
So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells, For whom High G.o.d wrought miracles.
In Laon cell the scroll he wrote; He little weets who knows it not.
CLXXVII
Count Roland combateth n.o.bly yet, His body burning and bathed in sweat; In his brow a mighty pain, since first, When his horn he sounded, his temple burst; But he yearns of Karl's approach to know, And lifts his horn once more--but oh, How faint and feeble a note to blow!
The Emperor listened, and stood full still.
”My lords,” he said, ”we are faring ill.
This day is Roland my nephew's last; Like dying man he winds that blast.
On! Who would aid, for life must press.
Sound every trump our ranks possess.”
Peal sixty thousand clarions high, The hills re-echo, the vales reply.
It is now no jest for the heathen band.
”Karl!” they cry, ”it is Karl at hand!”
CLXXVIII
They said, ”'Tis the Emperor's advance, We hear the trumpets resound of France.
If he a.s.sail us, hope in vain; If Roland live, 'tis war again, And we lose for aye the land of Spain.”
Four hundred in arms together drew, The bravest of the heathen crew; With serried power they on him press, And dire in sooth is the count's distress.
CLXXIX
When Roland saw his coming foes, All proud and stern his spirit rose; Alive he shall never be brought to yield: Veillantif spurred he across the field, With golden spurs he p.r.i.c.ked him well, To break the ranks of the infidel; Archbishop Turpin by his side.
”Let us flee, and save us,” the heathen cried; ”These are the trumpets of France we hear-- It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near.”
CLx.x.x