 Verses 139 to 176, of the Song of Rowland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Joy Chan. The Song of Rowland, Anonymous, translated by Charles Kenneth Scott Moncrief. Verses 139 to 176. In his great rage on Cantor's shallermane, over his sark his beard is flowing plain. Barons of France and haste they spur and strain. There is not one that can his wroth contain. That they are not with Rowland the captain, whereas he fights the Sarazins of Spain. If he be struck, will not one soul remain. God, sixty men are all now in his train. Never a king had better capitains. God regards the baron-mountain sides, dead men of France, he sees so many lie, and weeps for them, as fits a gentle night. Lords and barons, may God to you be kind, and all your souls redeem for paradise, and let you there mid-holy flowers lie, better vassals than you saw never eye. Ever you served me, and so long a time, by you Carlon hath conquered kingdoms wide, let Emperor reared you for evil plight, doos land of France, o'er very precious climb, lay desolate by such a sour exile. Barons of France, for me I've seen you die, and no support, no warrant could I find. God be your aid, who never yet hath lied. I must not fail now, brother, by your side. Save I be slain, for sorrow shall I die. Sir companion, let us again go strike. The Count Rolans, back to the field, then highing, holds Durandal, and like a vassal striking, Faldrin of Puy has through the middle sliced, with twenty-four of all they raided highest, was never man, for vengeance showed such liking. Even as a stag before the hounds goes flying, before Rolans the pagans scatter frightened, is the archbishop, you deal now very wisely, such valour should he show that his bread nightly, and beareth arms and a good charge of rideth. In battle should be strong and proud and sprightly, or otherwise he is not worth a shilling, should be a monk in one of those old minsters, where day by day he'd pray for us poor sinners. Answers, Rolat, strike on, no quarter give them. On these words, Franks are again beginning. Very great loss they suffer then, the Christians. The man who knows, for him there's no prison, in such a fight with keen defence lays on, wherefore the Franks are fiercer than lions, Marcel Yudsin go as a brave baron, sitting his horse, the witch he calls Gagnon. He spurs it well, going to strike Bevan, that was the land of Bourne and of Dijon. His shield he breaks, his hobok has undone, so flings him dead without condition. Next he hath Slayne, Vorary and Yvonne, also with them Gerard of Rassillon. The cult Rolans being not far him from, to the pagan says, confound thee our Lord God, so wrongfully you've slain my companions, a blow you'll take ear we apart be gone, and of my sword the name I'll bid you con. He goes to strike him as a brave baron, and his right hand the cult clean slices off, then takes the head of Gerselo the blonde, that was the son of King Marsilion. Pagans cry out, assist us now, my home, God of our race, avenge us on Calon. Into this land he sent us such felons that will not leave the fight before they drop. Says each to each, nay, let us fly. On that word there fled, and hundred thousand gone. Call them who may, they'll never more come on. But what avail, though fled be Marsilis, he's left behind his uncle the Al-Khalif, who holds Alphan, Katajin, Gamali, and Ithiope, a cursed land indeed. The blacker moors from there are in his keep, broad in the nose they are, and flat in the ear, fifty thousand and more in company. These can't afford with arrogance and heat. Then they cry out the Pagans' rallying cheer, and Orolan says, Martyrdom will receive. Not long to live, I know it well, have we. Felon he's named that sells his body cheap. Strike on, my lords, with burnish swords and keen. Contest each inch your life and death between, that near by us Douce-France and shame be steeped, when Charles my lord shall come into this field such discipline of Sarazins he'll see, for one of ours who'll find them dead fifteen, he will not fail, but bless us all in peace. When Orolan sees those misbegotten men, who are more black than inkers on the pen, with no part white, only their teeth except, then says that count. I know now very well, that here to die we're bound as I can tell. Strike on, the Franks, for so I recommend. Says Oliver, who holds back is condemned. Upon those words the Franks to strike again. Franks are but few which, when the Pagans know, among themselves comfort and pride they show, says each to each, wrong was that emperor. The alkaleaf upon a sorrel road, and pricked it well with both his spurs of gold, struck Oliver behind on the backbone, his hobo quiet into his body broke, cleaned through his breast the thrusting spear he drove. After he said, you've borne a mighty blow, Charles the Great should not have left you so, he's done us wrong, small thanks to him we owe, I've well avenged all ours on you alone. Oliver feels that he to die is bound, whole told to clear, whose steel is rough and brown. Strikes the alkaleaf on his helm's golden mount. Stoves and stones for clattering to the ground, slices his head to the small teeth in his mouth. So brandishes his blade and flings him down. After he says, Pagan accursed be thou, thou to never say that Charles forsakes me now, nor to thy wife, nor any dame thou's found, thou to never boast in lands where thou was crowned, one penny worth from me thou'st taken out, nor damage wrought on me nor any around. Oliver feels that death is drawing nigh, to avenge himself he hath no longer a time. Through the great press most gallantly he strikes, he breaks their spears, their buckled shields, doth slice, their feet, their fists, their shoulders and their sides, dismembers them, who so had seen that sigh, dead in the field one on another piled, remember well a vassal brave he might. Charles' ensign he'll not forget it quite, aloud and clear, mon joy again he cries. To call Roland's his friend and peer he tries. My companion, come hither to my side, with bitter grief we must us now divide. Then Roland looked upon Oliver's face, which was all wane and colourless and pale, while the clear blood out of his body sprayed, upon the ground gushed forth and ran away. God! said that count, what shall I do or say? My companion, gallant for such ill fate, ne'er shall man be against thee could prevail. Ah, France the deuce, henceforth art thou made waste of vassals brave, confounded and disgraced, our emperor shall suffer damage great, and with these words upon his horse he faints. You'd see in Roland a soon there in his suit, and Oliver, who want to death, doth bleed. So much he's bled his eyes are dim and weak, nor clear enough his vision, far all near, to recognise whatever man he sees. His companion, when each the other meets, above the helm droid with gold he beats, slicing it down from there to the nose-piece, but not his head, he's touched not brow nor cheek. Yet such a blow of Roland regards him keen, and asks of him in gentle tones and sweet. To do this thing, my comrade, did you mean? This is Roland's who ever held you dear, and no mistrust was ever us between. Says Oliver, now can I hear you speak? I see you not. May the Lord God you keep. I struck you now for your pardon plead. Says Roland, I am not hurt indeed, I pardon you, before God's throne and here. Upon these words each to the other leans, and in such love you had their parting seen. Oliver feels death's anguish on him now, and in his head his two eyes swimming round. Nothing he sees, he hears not any sound. Nothing then he kneels upon the ground, proclaims his sins both firmly and aloud. Clasps his two hands, heavenwards holds them out, praise God himself in paradise to allow. Blessings on Charles and on Douce-France, he vows, and his comrade Roland's to whom he's bound. Then his heart fails, his helmet nods and bows. Upon the earth he lays his whole length out, and he is dead. May stay no more that count. Roland's the brave mourns him with great profound. Nowhere on earth so sad a man you'd found. So Roland's friend is dead whom when he sees, faced to the ground, and biting it with teeth, begins to mourn in language very sweet. Unlucky friend, your courage was indeed. Together we have spent such days and years. No harmful thing tweaks thee and me has been. Now thou art dead, and all my life a grief. And with these words again he soons that chief. Upon his horse, which he calls Verlantief, stirrups of gold support him underneath. He cannot fall whichever way he lean. Soon as Roland his sense is won and due, recovering and turning from that soon. Bitter great loss appeared there in his view. And other Franks, he'd all of them to lose. Save the archbishop, and save Gaulte del Hume. He has come down out of the mountains, who, against Spanish men, made there a greater dew. Dead are his men, for those the pagans slew. Will he or nil, along the veils he flew. And called Roland to bring him succor soon. Ah, gentle count, brave soldier, where are you? For by thy side no fear I ever knew. After it is, who conquered male good, and nephew was too hoary all drew in. My vassalage thou ever thoughtest good, broken my spear and split my shield in two. Gone is the male that on my hobart grew. This body of mine, eight lances, have gone through. I'm dying, yet full price for life I took. Roland has heard these words and understood. Has spurred his horse, and on towards him drew. Life gives Roland's intolerance and pride. Through the great press he goes again to strike, to slay a score of Spaniards he contrives. Gaulte has six, the archbishop of the five. The pagans say, Men, these are felon kind, Lordings, take care they go not hence alive. Felon his name that does not break their line, Recreant, who lets them any safety find. And so once more begin the hue and cry, From every part they come to break the line. Count Roland is a noble and brave soldier, Gaulte del Hume's a right good chivalier. That archbishop hath shown good prowess there, None of them falls behind the other pair. Through the great press pagans they strike again, Come on a foot a thousand Sarazens, And on horseback some forty thousand men, And well I know to approach they never dare. Lancers and spears they poise to hurl at them, Arrows, barbs, darts and javelins in the air. With the first flight they slay now Gaultier. Turpin of Rheems has all his shield broken, And cracked his helm, he's wounded in the head. From his hobok the woven mail they tear, In his body four spear wounds doth he bear. Beneath him too his charges fall and dead. Great grief it was when that archbishop fell. None of Rheems hath felt himself undone, Since that four spears hath through his body come. Nimble and bold upon his feet he jumps, Looks for Roland and then towards him runs. Saying this word, I am not overcome, While life remains no good vessel gives up. He's drawn al-Mace, whose steel was brown and rough. Through the great press a thousand blows he struck. As Charles said, quarter he gave to none. He found him there, four hundred else among. Wounded the most, speared through the middle some. Also there were from whom the heads he'd cut, So tells the tale, he that was there says thus. The brave sent Giles, whom God made marvellous. Who Charters wrote for the minster at Lome? Nothing he's heard that does not know this much. The Count Roland has nobly fought and well, But he is hot and all his body sweats. Great pain he has and trouble in his head. His temples burst when he the horn sounded. But he would know if Charles will come to them. Takes the oliphant and feebly sounds again, That emperors stood still and listened then. "'My lords,' said he, bright evilly, we fare, This day, Roland, my nephew shall be dead. I hear his horn with scarcely any breath, Nimbly can't a whoever would be there. For trumpets sound as many as ye bear. Sixty thousand so loud together blare, The mountains ring, the valleys answer them. The pagans here, they think is not a jest, Says each to each, Calun doth us bested. The pagans say, that emperors at hand, We hear their sound, the trumpets of the francs. If Charles come, great loss we then shall stand, And wars renewed, unless we slay Roland. All Spain will lose our own clear fatherland. Four hundred men of them in helmets stand, The best of them that might be in their ranks, Make on Roland's a grim and fierce attack. Against these the Count had well enough in hand. The Count Roland, when their approach he sees, Is grown so bold and manifest and fierce, So long as he's alive he will not yield. He sits his horse, which men call valentif, Pricking him well with golden spurs beneath. Through the great press he goes, They're lying to meet, and by his side is the Archbishop Turpin. Now friend, be gone, say pagans, each to each, These Frankish men, their horns we plainly hear, Charles is at hand, that king in majesty. The Count Roland has never loved cowards, Nor arrogant, nor men of evil heart, nor Chevalier that was not good vassal. That Archbishop Turpin's he calls apart. Sir, you're afoot, and I my charger have, For love of you here will I take my stand, Together will endure things good and bad, I'll leave you not, for no incarnate man. We'll give again these pagans their attack. The better blows are those from Durandal. Says the Archbishop, shame on him that holds back, Charles is at hand, full vengeance heal exact. The pagans say, unlucky were we born, An evil day for us did this day dawn, for we have Lost our peers and all our lords, Charles, his great host, once more upon us draws, Of Frankish men we plainly hear the horns, More enjoy they cry and great as they uproar. The Count Roland is of such pride and force, He'll never yield to man of woman born. Let's aim at him, then leave him on the spot. And aim they did, with arrows long and short, Lancers and spears and feathered javelots. Count Roland's shield they've broken through and bored. The woven mail have from his Hoburk torn. But not himself, they've never touched his course. Vailantif is in thirty places gored, Beneath the count he's fallen dead, that horse. Pagans are fled and leave him on the spot. The Count Roland stands on his feet once more. Pagans are fled, in angered and enraged, Home into Spain with speed they make their way. The Count Roland's he has not given chase, For Vailantif his charger they have slain. Will he or nil, on foot he must remain. To the archbishop Turpens he goes with aid. He's from his head the golden helm unlaced, Taken from him his white Hoburk away, And cut the gown in strips was round his waist. On his great wounds the pieces of it placed. Then to his heart has caught him and embraced. On the green grass he has him softly laid. Most sweetly then to him has Roland prayed. Ah, gentle sir, give me your leave, I say. Our companions whom we so dear appraised, Are now all dead, we cannot let them stay. I will go seek and bring them to this place. Arrange them here in ranks before your face. With the archbishop go and return again. This field is yours and mine now, God be praised. So Roland's turns through the field all alone, Searching the veils and mountains he is gone. He finds Gerard, Gerard his companion, Also he finds Varenger and Othon. There too he finds Anse and Sanson, And finds Gerard the old of Rossillon. By one and one he's taken those barons, To the archbishop with each of them he comes, Before his needs arranges every one. That archbishop he cannot help but sob, He lifts his hand, gives benediction. After he said, Unlucky lords, your lot, But all your souls he'll lay, Our glorious lord, in paradise his holy flowers upon. For my own death such anguish now I've got, I shall not see him, our rich emperor. So Roland turns, goes through the field in quest, His companion Olivier finds at length. He has embraced him close against his breast, To the archbishop returns as he can best, Upon a shield he's laid him by the rest, And the archbishop has then absolved and blessed. On his grief and pity grow afresh. Then says Roland's, Fair comrade Olivier, You were the son of the good Count Rénier, Who held the march by the Vale of Rounier, To shatter spears through buckled shields to bear, And from hoburks the mail to break and tear, Proof men to lead and prudent council share, Gluttons in field to frighten and conquer. No land has known a better Chevalier. The Count Roland's, when dead, he saw his peers, And Oliver he held so very dear, Grew tender and began to shed a tear. Out of his face the colour disappeared, No longer could he stand for so much grief, Will he or nil, he swooned upon the field, Said the archbishop, unlucky lord indeed. When the archbishop beheld him swoon, Roland, Never before such bitter grief he'd had, Wishing his hand he took that olive-fant, Through Renseval a little river ran, He would go there, fetch water for Roland. Went step by step, to stumble soon began, So feeble he is, no further fare he can, For too much blood he's lost, And no strength has. Here he has crossed an acre of the land, His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and, Death comes to him with very cruel pangs. The Count Roland's wakes from his swoon once more, Climbed to his feet, his pains are very sore, Looks down the veil, looks to the hills above. On the green grass beyond his companions, He sees him lie that noble old Baron. Tis the archbishop whom in his name wrought God, There who proclaims his sins and looks above, Joins his two hands to heaven, holds them forth, And paradise prays God to him to accord. Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Shalom. In battles great and very rare sermons, Against pagans, ever a champion. God grant him now his benediction. The Count Roland sees the archbishop lie dead, Sees the bowels out of his body shed, And sees the brains that surge from his forehead. Between his two armpits upon his breast, Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair, Then mourns aloud as was the custom there. The gentle sir, Chevalier nobly bred, To the glorious celestial I commend, N'er shall man be That will him serve so well, Since the apostles was never such prophet To hold the law and draw the hearts of men. Now may your soul no pain nor sorrow ken, Finding the gates of paradise open. Then Roland feels that death to him draws near, For all his brain is issued from his ears, He prays to God that he will call the peers, Bids Gabriel the angel to himself appear, Takes the olafant that no reproach shall hear, And Durandal in the other hand he wields. Better than might a crossbow's arrow-speed Goes towards Spain into a fallow field, Climes on a cliff, where, under two fair trees, Four terraces of marble wrought he sees. There he falls down and lies upon the green, He soons again, for death is very near. High are the peaks, the trees are very high, Four terraces of polished marble shine, On the green grass count Roland soons thereby, A Sarazan hymn all the time as spies, who feigning death among the others hides, Blood hath his face and all his body died. He gets afoot, running towards him highs, Fear was he, strong and of a courage high, A mortal hate he's kindled in his pride, He seized Roland, and the arms were at his side. Charles Nephew, he said, here conquered lies, To Arabi I'll bear this sword as prize. As he drew it, something the count described. So Roland felt his sword was taken forth, Opened his eyes, and this word to him spoke. That never one of ours, full well I know, Took the olafant, that he would not let go, Struck him on the helm, that droid was with gold, And broke its steel, his skull and all his bones, Out of his head both the two eyes he drove, Dead at his feet he has the pagan throne. After he said, Colvert, thou wert too bold, Or right or wrong of my sword-seizing hold, Thou doth thee fool to whom the tale is told. But my great one, my olafant, I broke, Fallen from it the crystal and the gold. Then Roland's feels that he has lost his sight, Climes to his feet, uses what strength he might. In all his face, the colour is grown white. In front of him a great brown boulder lies, Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes, The steel cries out, but does not break outright. And the count says, Saint Mary, be my guide, Good Durandal, unlucky is your plight, I've need of you no more, Spent is my pride. We in the field have won so many fights, Combatting through so many regions wide, that Charles holds Whose beard is hoary white. Be you not his that turns from any in flight, A good vassal has held you this long time. Never shall France the free behold his like. Roland hath struck the Sardinix terrace, The steel cries out, but broken is no ways. So when he sees he never can it break, Within himself begins he to complain, Ah, Durandal, white art thou, clear of stain, Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays, In Maureen was Charles in the veil, When from heaven God by his angel bade, And give thee to account and capertain, Girt thee on me that noble king and great. I won for him with thee, Angeau bretain, And won for him with thee, Pétot the main, And Normandy the free for him I gained, Also with thee, Provence and Equitaine, And Lombardy and all the whole Romaine, I won be there, all Flanders in the plain, Also Bergrine and all the whole Priaine, Constantinople that homage to him pays, In Cessonee all is as he ordains. With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England also, where he his chamber makes. One I with thee so many countries strange, That Charles holds, whose beard is white with age, For this sword's sake sorrow upon me weighs, For I'll die when it mid Pagan's day, Let God father never let France be shamed. Roland his stroke on a dark stone repeats, And more of it breaks off than I can speak. The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least. Back from the blow into the air it leaps, Destroy it, can he not, Which when he sees, within himself, He makes a plate most sweet. Ah, dear Andal, most holy, fair indeed, Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals, St. Peter's tooth, the blood of St. Basil, Some of the hairs of my lord, St. Denise, Some of the robe was worn by St. Mary. It is not right that Pagan should these sees, For Christian men your use shall ever be, Nor any man's that worketh cowardice, Many broad lands with you have I retrieved, Which Charles holds, who hath the great white beard, Wherefore that King so proud and rich is he. But Roland felt that death had made a way, Down from his head till on his heart it lay, Beneath a pine running in haste he came, On the green grass he lay there on his face, His olive-font and sword beneath him placed, Turning his head towards the Pagan race. Now this he did in truth, that Charles might say, As he desired, and all the Franks his race, Ah, gentle count, conquering he was slain! He owned his faults often and every way, And for his sins his glove to God upraised. But Roland feels he's no more time to seek, Looking to Spain he lies on a sharp peak, And with one hand upon his breast he beats. Mayor Culper, God, by thy virtues, Clean me from my sins, the mortal and the mean, Which from the hour that I was born have been, Until this day when life is ended here. Holds out his glove, towards God as he speaks, Angels descend from heaven on that scene. The Count Roland's beneath a pine he sits, Turning his eyes towards Spain he begins, conquering so many diverse things, So many lands where he went conquering, And France the deuce, the heroes of his kin, And Charlemagne, his lord who nourished him. Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this, But his own self he's not forgotten him. He owns his faults and God's forgiveness bids, Very Father, in whom no falsehood is, Sent Lazaron from death thou didst remit, And Daniel save from the lion's pit, My soul and me preserve from all peril, And from the sins I did in life commit. His right hand glove, to God he offers it, St. Gabriel from's hand hath taken it, Over his arm his head bows down and slips, He joins his hands, and so is life finished. God sent him down his angel cherubin, And St. Michael we worship in peril, And by their side St. Gabriel a-lit. So the Count's soul they bear to paradise. End of verses 139 to 176, verses 177 to 186 of the Song of Roland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joy Chan, the Song of Roland, Anonymous, translated by Charles Kenneth Scott Moncrief, verses 177 to 186, Roland is dead, His soul to heaven God bear, The Emperor to Ronce evolved doth fare. There was no path nor passage anywhere, nor Of waste ground, nor El nor foot to spare, Without a frank or pagan lying there. Charles cries aloud, Where are you, Nephew Fair? Where is the Archbishop and that Count Olivier? Where is Gerard and his comrade Gerard? Otis the Duke and the Count Beringier, And Ivory and Ive, so dear they were. What has become of Gascon Giliers, Sanson the Duke and Anse the Fierce? Where's all Gerard of Roussillon? Oh, where! the dozen peers are left behind me here. But what avail, since none can answer bear? God, says the King, now well may I despair, I was not here the first assault to share. Seeming enraged, his beard the King doth tear, Weep from their eyes, barons and chivaliers. A thousand score they swoon upon the earth, Duke neems for them were smoothed with pity rare. No chivalier nor baron is there, Who pitifully weeps not for grief and duel. They mourn their sons, their brothers, their nephews, And their liege-lords and trusty friends and true, Upon the ground and many of them swoon. Thereon Duke neems doth act with wisdom-proof, First before all he's said to the Emperor. See before hand, and league from us or two, From the highways dust rising in our view, Pagans are there, and many them too, Cancer therefore vengeance upon them do. Ah, God, says Charles, so far they removed, Do right by me my honour still renew, they've torn from me the flower of France the deuce. The King commands Geburin and Oton, Ted Bolt of Reims, also the Count Miloun, Guard me this field, these hills and valleys too, Let the dead lie, all as they are, unmoved, Let not approach Lyon nor any brute, let not approach Esquire nor any groom, For I forbid that any come there too, until God will that we return anew. These answer him sweetly, their love to prove, Right Emperor, dear Sire, so will we do. A thousand nights they keep in retinue. That Emperor bids trumpet sound again, Then canters forth with his great host so brave, Of Spanish men whose backs are turned their way, Frank's one and all continue in their chase. When the King sees the light at even fade, On the green grass dismounting as he may, he kneels aground to God the Lord doth pray, That the son's cause he will for him delay, Put off the night and still prolong the day. An angel then, with him should reason make, Nimbly enough appear to him and spake. Charles, canter on, light needs not thou await, The flower of France as God knows well is slain. Thou can't be avenged upon that crimeful race. On that word mounts the Emperor again. For Charlemagne a great marvel God planned, making the son still in his course to stand. So Pagans fled, and chased them well the Franks, through the valley of shadows, close in hand. Towards Zaragoose by force they chased them back, and as they went with killing blows attacked, barred their highways, and every path they led. The river Sibara before them reared its bank. Twas very deep, marvellous current ran, No barge thereon, nor drummond, nor calland. A god of theirs invoked they, Tervogant, And then leapt in, but there no warrant had. The armed men more weighty were for that, Many of them down to the bottom sank, downstream the rest floated as they might have. So much water the luckiest of them drank, that all were drowned, with marvellous keen pangs. An evil day, cried Franks, ye saw Roland. When Charles sees that Pagans all are dead, some of them slain, the greater part drownered, Whereby great spoils his chivaliers collect, That gentle king upon his feet descends, Kneels on the ground his thanks to God presents. When he wants more rise the sun is set, Says the Emperor, time is to pitch our tents, To Ronseval too late to go again. Our horses are worn out and founded. Unsaddle them, take bridles from their heads, and through these meads let them refreshment get. Answer the Franks, Sire, you have spoken well. Let Emperor Ror hath chosen his beaver-wack, The Franks dismount in those deserted tracts. Their saddles take from off their horses' backs, Bridles of gold from off their heads unstrap. Let them go free. There is enough fresh grass. No services can they render them save that. Who is most tired sleeps on the ground stretch flat. Upon this night no sentinels keep watch. That Emperor Ror is lying in a mead, By his head so brave he's placed his mighty spear. On such a night unarmed he will not be. He's daunt his white herbok with broidery, As laced his helm, drooled with golden beads. Girt on, Joryus, there never was its pier. Whereon each day thirty fresh hues appear. All of us know that lance, and well may speak, Whereby our Lord was wounded on the tree. Charles, by God's grace, possessed its point of steel. His golden hilt he enshrined it underneath. By that honour and by that sanctity the name Joryus was for that sword decreed. Barons of France may not forget for thee. Whence comes the end-sign, mon joy they cry at need. Wherefore no race against them can succeed. Clear was the night, the moon shone radiant. Charles laid him down, but sorrow for Roland. And Oliver, most heavy on him he had. For a dozen pears, for all the Frankish band he had left dead in bloody Ronseval. He could not help but wept and waxed mad. And pray to God to be their souls warrant. Worry that king or grief he's very sad. He falls on sleep. He can no more withstand. Through all those meads they slumber then the Franks. Is not a horse can any longer stand. Who would eat grass, he takes it lying flat. He has learned much, can't understand their pangs. Charles, like a man worn out with labour, slept. Saint Gabriel the Lord to him hath sent, whom as a guard or the emperor he set, stood all night long that angel by his head. In a vision announced he to him then a battle should be fought against him yet. Significance of griefs demonstrated. Charles looked up towards the sky, and there, thunders and winds and blowing gales beheld, and hurricanes and marvellous tempests, lightnings and flames he saw in readiness, that speedily on all his people fell. Apple and ash, their spear shafts all burnered, also their shields in the golden bosses. Crumbled the shafts of their trenchant lances, crushed their hoburks and all their steel helmets, his chivaliers he saw in great distress. Bears and leopards would feed upon them next, adversaries, dragons, wyverns, serpents, griffons were there, thirty thousand no less. Nor was there one but on some frank it set. And the Franks cried, ah, shall amain give help! Wherefore the king much grief and pity felt. He'll go to them, but was endures kept. Out of a wood came a great lion then, to his very proud and fierce and terrible. His body-deer sought out and on him lept, each in his arms wrestling the other held. But he knew not which conquered nor which fell. The emperor woke not at all, but slept. And after that another vision came. He seemed in France at X on a terrace, and that he held a broom by two chains. Out of our den saw thirty bears that came, and each of them words as a man might, spake, said to him, Sire, give him to us again. It is not right that he with you remain. He's of our kin, and we must lend him aid. A harrier fear ran out of his palace. Among them all the greatest bear assailed, and on the green grass beyond his friends some way. There saw the king marvellous give and take. But he knew not which fell, nor which or came. The angel of God so much to him made plain. Charles slept on to the clear dawn of day. End of verses one hundred and seventy-seven to one hundred and eighty-six. Verses one hundred and eighty-seven to two hundred and fourteen of the song of Roland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joy Chan. The song of Roland. Anonymous. Translated by Charles Kenneth Scott Moncrief. Verses one hundred and eighty-seven to two hundred and fourteen. King Marsilis, fleeing to Saragus, dismounted there beneath an olive cool. His sword and sark and helm aside he put. On the green grass lay down in shame and gloom. For his right hand he'd lost, to his clean cut through. Such blood he'd shed in anguish keen he swooned. Before his face, his Lady Bramimund, bewailed and cried with very bitter rue. Twenty thousand and more around him stood. All of them cursed Calun and France the deuce. Then Apollon in grotto they surround and threaten him and ugly words pronounce. Such shame on us, thou God, why bringest thou? This is our King, wherefore dost him confound, who served the off ill-recompense hath found. Then they take off his scepter and his crown, with their hands hang him from a column down. Among their feet trample him on the ground. With great cudgels they battle him and trounce. From Turvagant his car-bunkle they impound, and Muhammad into a ditch fling out, where swine and dogs defile him and devour. Out of his soon awakens Marsilis, and has him borne his vaulted roof beneath. Many colours were painted there to see, and Bramimund laments for him the Queen. Tearing her hair, cateef herself she cleeps. Also these words cries very loud and clear, us are a goose, henceforth for lawn thou be, of the fair King that had thee in his keep. All those our gods have wrought great felony, who in battle this morning failed at need. That admiral will show his cowardice, unless he fight against that race hardy, who are so fierce for life they take no heed. That emperor with his blossoming beard hath vassalage and very high folly. Battle to fight, he will not ever flee. Great grief it is, no man may slay him clean. That emperor by his great majesty, full seven years in Spain now has he been, and castles there and many cities seized. King Marsilis was therefore sore-displeased. In the first year he sealed and sent his brief to Baligot, into Babyloni. T'was the admiral, old in antiquity, that clean-out lived Oma and Vigili. To Saragus with succour bade him speed, for, if he failed, Marsil his gods would leave. All his idols he worshipped formerly, he would receive blessed Christianity, and reconcile to Shalamein would be. Long time that one came not, far off was he. Through forty realms he did his tribes rally. His great drum-ons he made them all ready. Barges and skiffs and ships and galleries. Neath Alexandra, a haven next the sea. In readiness he get his whole navy. That was in May, first summer of the year. All of his hosts he launched upon the sea. Great are the hosts of that opposed race, with speed they sail, they steer and navigate. High on their yards, at their massed heads they place lanterns enough, and carbuncles so great. Thence, from above, such light they dissipate. The sea is more clear at midnight than by day. And when they come into the land of Spain, all that country lightens and shines again. Of their coming Marsil has heard the tale. The pagan race would never rest, but come, out of the sea where the sweet waters run. They leave Marbury, they leave behind Marbrus. Upstream by sea where doth all their navy turn. Lanterns they have, and carbuncles enough, that all night long and very clearly burn. Upon that day they come to Saragou. Clear is that day and the sun radiant. Out of his barge issues their admiral. Aspanolus goes forth at his right hand. Seventeen kings follow him in a band. Count, too, and Dukes, I cannot tell of that. Where in a field, midway, a laurel stands. On the green grass they spread a white silk mat. Set a foldstool there, made of olefant. Sits him thereon, the pagan baligant. And all the rest enrows about him stand. The lord of them speaks before any man. Listen to me, free knights and valiant. Charles the king, the emperor of the Franks, shall not eat bread, save when that I command. Throughout all Spain great war with me, he's had. I will go seek him now into douche France. I will not cease while I'm a living man, till be slain, or fall between my hands. On his knee his right hand glove he slaps. He is fast bound by all that he has said. He will not fail, for all the gold neath him. But go to ex, where Charles Court is held. His men applaud for so they counseled. After he called two of his chivaliers, one clarifern and the other clarion. You are the sons of King Maltrayen. Freely was, want my messages to bear. You are command to Saragousse to fare. Masillion on my part you shall tell, against the Franks I'm come to give him help. Find I their host, great battle shall be there. Give him this glove that's stitched with golden thread. On his right hand let it be worn and held. This little wand of fine gold take as well. Bid him come here his homage to declare. To France I'll go, and war with Charles again. Save at my feet he kneel, and mercy beg. Save all the laws of Christians he forget. I'll take away the crown from off his head. Answer, Pagans. Sire, you say very well. Said Baligant. But can'ter now, barons. Take one the wand, and the other one the glove. These answer him. Dear Lord, it shall be done. Can'ter so far to Saragousse they come. Pass through ten gates across four bridges run. Through all the streets we're in the burgers crowd when they draw nigh the citadel above. From the palace they hear a mighty sound. About that place I've seen Pagans enough who weep and cry with grief of wax and wood, and curse their gods to Vagana Mahon, and a pollen from whom no help is come. As each to each, caitifs, what shall be done? For upon us confusion vile has come. Now have we lost our king Marsilion, for yesterday his hand count Rolan's cut. We'll have no more fair Jerusalem his son. The whole of Spain hence-forward is undone. Both messengers on the terrace dismount. Horses they leave under an olive tree, which by the rains to Sarazans do lead. Those messengers have wrapped them in their weeds. To the palace they climb the topmost steep. When they come in the vaulted roof beneath, Marsilion with courtesy they greet. May Muhammad, who all of us doth keep, and Turvagan and our Lord Apolline, preserve the king and guard from harm the queen. Says Bramimund, great foolishness I hear. Those gods of vows and cowardice are steeped. In Ronseval they wrought an evil deed. Our Chevaliers they let be slain in heaps. My Lord they failed in battle in his need. Never again will he his right hand see. For that rich count Rolan's hath made him bleed. All our whole Spain shall be for Charles to keep. Miserable, what shall become of me? Alas, that I've no man to slay me clean. Says Clarion, my lady, say not that. We're messengers from Pagan, Baligant. To Marsilis, he says, he'll be warrant. So sense him here, his glove. Also this wand. Vessels we have are moored by Sera's bank. Barges and skiffs and galleys, four thousand, drommons are there. I cannot speak of that. Our admiral is wealthy and pre-salt. And Charlemagne, he will go seek through France, and quittance give him dead or requriant. Says Bramie Mound. Unlucky journey that. Tharniera here you'll light upon the Franks. For seven years he stayed now in this land. That Emperor is bold and combatant. Rather he'll die than from the field drawback. No king need home above a child, he ranks. Charles hath no fear for any living man. Says Marsilis the king. Now let that be. To the messengers. Sirs, pray you, speak to me. I am held fast by death, as ye may see. No son have eye nor daughter to succeed. That one I had, they slew him yesterday. Bid you my lord, he come to see me here. Right over Spain that admiral hath he. My claim to him, if he will take it, I yield. But from the Franks he then must set her free. Against Charlemagne I'll show him strategy. Within a month from now he'll conquer be. Of Sarah Goose you'll carry him the keys. He'll go not hence say, if he trusts in me. They answer him. Sir, tis the truth you speak. Then says Marsilis, the Emperor Charles the Great hath slain my men, and all my land laid waste. My cities are broken and violate. He lay this night upon the river Sibre, hath counted well, tis seven leagues away. Bid the admiral, leading his host this way. Do battle here, this word to him convey. Gives them the keys of Sarah Goose her gates. Both messengers they leave of him do take. On that word bow down, and turn away. Both messengers did on their horses mount, from that city nimbly they issued out. Then saw afraid the admiral they sought, to whom the keys of Sarah Goose they brought. Says Baligante, Speak now, what have ye found? Where's Marsilis to come to me was bound? Says Clarion. To death he's stricken down, the Emperor was in the past but now. To France the Deuce he would be homeward bound. Reward he set, to save his great honour. His nephew there installed, Rolan's the Count, and Oliver, the dozen peers around. A thousand score Franks and Armour found. Marsil the King fought with them there, so proud. He and Rolan's upon that field did joust, with Durandal he dealt him such a clout. From his body he cut the right hand down. His son is dead, in whom his heart was bound, and the barons that serve as to him vowed. Fleeing he came he could no more hold out, that Emperor has chased him well enough. The King implores, you'll hasten with succour, yields to you Spain, his kingdom and his crown. And Baligante begins to think and frowns. Such grief he has, Doth nearly him confound. Sir Admiral, said to him Clarion, in Ranserval was yesterday battle. Dead is Rolan's and that Count Oliver. The dozen peers whom Charles so cherished, and of their Franks are twenty thousand dead. King Marsilis of his right hand bereft, and the Emperor chased him and now from Thence. Throughout this land no Chevalier is left, but he be slain or drowned in Sira's bed. By riverside the Franks have pitched their tents into this land so near to us they've crept. But if you will, grief shall go with them hence. And Baligante looked on him proudly then, in his courage grew joyous and content. From the foldstool upon his feet he leapt, then cried aloud, Barons, too long yeasts leapt, forth from your ship's issue, mount, canter well. If he flee not that shall amane the Eld, King Marsilis shall somehow be avenged. For his right hand I'll pay him back in head. Pagan Arabs out of their ship's issue, then mount upon their horses and their mules, and canter forth. Nay, what more might they do? Their Admiral by whom they all were ruled, called up to him Gemmelfan, whom he knew. I give command of all my hosts to you. On a brown horse mounted, as he was used, and in his train he took with him four dukes. Cantered so far he came to Saragus. Dismounted on a floor of marble blue, where four counts were, who by his syrup stood. Up by the steps the palace came into. To meet him there came running Brammy Mound, who said to him, A cursed from the room, that in such shame my sovereign lord I lose. Fell at his feet, that Admiral her took. In grief they came up into Marsil's room. King Marsilis, when he sees Baligant, calls to him then to Spanish Sarazans. Take me by the arms, and so lift up my back. One of his gloves he takes in his left hand. Then says Marsil, Sire, King and Admiral, Quittance I give you here of all my land, with Saragus and the honour thereto hangs. Myself I've lost, my army every man. He answers him. Therefore the more I'm sad, no long discourse together may we have. Full well I know, Charles waits not our attack. I take the glove from you in spite of that. He turned away in tears, such grief he had. Down by the steps, out of the palace ran, mounted his horse, to his people galloped back. Cantored so far he came before his band. From hour to hour then as he went, he sang, Pagans come on, already flee the Franks. In morning time when the dawn breaks at last, awakened is that Emperor Charles. St. Gabriel, who on God's part him guards, raises his hand, the sign upon him marks. Rises the king, his arms aside his cast. The others then, through all the host, disarm. After they mount by virtue, canter fast, through those long ways, and through those roads so large. They go to see the marvellous damage, in Ronseval, there where the battle was. In Ronseval is Charles entered, begins to weep for those he finds there dead, says to the Franks, My lords, restrain your steps, since I myself alone should go ahead, for my nephew whom I would find again. At X I was, upon the feast, Noelle. Vaunted them there my valiant chivaliers, Of battles great and very hot contests. With reason thus I heard Roland speak then, He would not die in any foreign realm, ere he'd surpassed his peers and all his men. To the foes land he would have turned his head. Congeringly his gallant life he'd end. Further than one a little wand could send, before the rest his honor peak mounted. When the emperor went seeking his nephew, he found the grass and every flower that bloomed, turned scarlet, with our barren's blood imbrewed. Pity he felt, he could but weep for rue. Beneath two trees he climbed the hill and looked, and Roland's strokes on three terraces knew, on the green grass saw lying his nephew. It is nothing strange that Charles' anger grew, dismounted then and went. His heart was full. In his two hands the count's body he took. With anguish keen he fell on him and swooned. That emperor was from his swoon revived. Names the Duke and the Count Assaline, Geoffrey D'Angiot and his brother Thierry, take up the king, bear him beneath a pine. There on the ground he sees his nephew lie. Most sweetly then begins he to repine. Roland, my friend, may God to thee be kind. Never beheld any man such a night, so to engage and so to end a fight. Now my honor is turned into decline. Charles' wounds again he cannot stand upright. Charles the king returned out of his swoon. Him in their hands, for of his barrens, took. He looked to the earth, saw lying his nephew. All colorless his lusty body grew. He turned his eyes, were very shadowful. Charles complained in amity and truth. Roland, my friend, God-lady, mid the blooms of paradise, among the glorious. Thou camest to Spain in evil tide, Signor. Day shall not dawn, for thee I've no dollar. How perishes my strength and my valour. None shall I have now to sustain my honor. I think I've not one friend neath heaven's roof. Kinsmen I have, but none of them's so proof. He tore his locks till both his hands were full. Five score thousand francs had such great dollar. There was not one, but sorely wept for rue. Roland, my friend, to France I will away. When at loam I'm in my hall again. Strange men will come from many foul domains, who'll ask me, Where's that count, the Capitaine? I'll say to them that he is dead in Spain. In bitter grief henceforward shall I reign. Day shall not dawn, I weep not nor complain. Roland, my friend, fair youth that bust the bell. When I arrive at ex in my chapel, Men coming there will ask what news I tell. I'll say to them, marvellous news and fell. My nephews did, who warn for me such realms. Against me then the Saxon will rebel, hunger, bulgar, and many hostile men, Romain, Puyain, all those are in Parlain, and in Afrique, and those in California. A fresh then will my pain and suffering swell. For who will lead my armies with such strength? When he is slain, that all our days us led. Ah! France the deuce, now art thou deserted. Such grief I have that I would feign be dead. All his white beard he hath begun to rend. Tall with both hands, the hair out of his head. Five score thousand francs swooned on the earth and fell. Roland, my friend, God show thee his mercy. In paradise repose the soul of thee. Who hath thee slain? Exile for France decreed. I'll live no more, so bitter is my grief. For my household who hath been slain for me. God grant me this, the son of Saint Mary. Here I am come to the master pass of seas. From my body my soul at length go free. Among their souls let mine in glory be, And let my flesh upon their flesh be heaped. Still his white beard he tears, and his eyes weep. Duke name says, his wrath is great indeed. Sire, Emperor, Geoffrey d'Angiot implored, Let not your grief to such excess be wrought, Bid that our men through all this field be sought, Whom those of Spain have in the battle caught, In a channel command that they be born. Answered the king, sound then upon your horn. Geoffrey d'Angiot, upon his trumpet, sounds, As Charles bade them, all the Franks dismount, All of their friends whose bodies they have found, To a channel speedily they bring down, Bishops they are, and abbots they are now, Cannons and monks, vikers with shaven crowns, Absolution in God's name they've pronounced, Incense and myrrh with precious gums they've ground, And lustily they've swung the censors round. With honour great they've laid them in the ground. They've left them there. What else might they do now? That Emperor sets Roland on one side, And Oliver and the Archbishop to a pound. Their bodies bids open before his eyes, And all their hearts and silken veils to wind, And set them in coffers of marble white. After they take the bodies of those knights, Each of the three is wrapped in a deer's hide, They're washin' well in all spice and in wine. The King commands Therbot and Jebuin, Maki otun, Milun the Count besides, Along the road in three wagons to drive. They're covered well with carpets galazine. Now to be off with that Emperor or Charles, When Pagans low come surging the vanguard, Two messengers come from their ranks forward, From the Admiral bring challenge to combat. To his not-yet-time proud King that thou depart, Low Baligant comes cantering afterward. Great are the hosts he leads from Arab parts. This day we'll see of thou hast vesselage. Charles the King, his snowy beard has clasped, Remembering his sorrow and damage. Hortley then his people all regard, In a loud voice he cries with all his heart. Barons and Franks, to horse I say, to arms! End of verses 187-214, verses 215-272 of the Song of Rowland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joy Chan. The Song of Rowland. Anonymous. Translated by Charles Kenneth Scott Moncrief. Verses 215-272. First before all was armed the Emperor. Nimbly enough his eye and sarkened dude, Laced up his helm, Get on his sword your use. Out shone the sun, That dazzling light it threw, Hung from his neck a shield was of dirund, And took his spear, Was fashioned at Blandoun. On his good horse then mounted, Tonson Dhu, Which he had won at the Ford below Marsoon, When he flung dead Malpalin of Nibboun. Let go the reins, spurred him with either foot, Five score thousand behind him as he flew, Calling on God and the Apostle of Rome. Through all the field dismount the Frankish men, Five score thousand and more they arm themselves. The gear they have enhances much their strength, Their horses swift, their arms are fashioned well. Mounted they are, and fight with great science, Find they that host, battle they'll render them, They gon' felon flutter above their helms. When Charles sees the fair aspect of them, He calls to him Jozoran of Provence, Nine on the Duke with aunt Helm of Mayance. In such vessels should man have confidence, Whom not to trust were surely want of sense, Unless the Arabs of coming here repent, Then Roland's life I think will dearly sell. Answers Duke's names, God grant us his consent. Charles hath called Rabel and Guineamon, Thus said the king, My lords, you I command, To take their place, Olivier and Roland, One bear the sword, and the other the olafont, So can't a forth a head before the van, And in your train take fifteen thousand francs, Young bachelors that are most valiant, As many more shall after them advance, When Gabriel shall lead, or soul around. Names the Duke and the Count Jozoran, Go to adjust these columns in their ranks, Find they that host, they'll make a grand attack. Of francs the first columns made ready there, After those two a third they next prepare, In it us set the vassals of Baviere, Some thousand score high prize chevaliers, Never was lost the battle were they there, Charles for no race neath heaven hath more care, Save those of France who realms for him conquered. The Danish chief, the warrior Count Ogre, Shall lead that troop, for Horty is their heir. Three columns now he has the Emperor Charles, Names the Duke a forth next sets apart, Of good barons endowed with vassalage, Germans they are, come from the German march, A thousand score as all said afterward. They are well equipped with horses and with arms, Rather they'll die than from the battle pass. They shall be led by Hermann's Duke of Trace, Who'll die before he's any way cowered. Names the Duke and the Count Jozoran, The fifth column have mustered of Normans, A thousand score or so say all the francs. Well armed are they, their horses charge and prance, Rather they'll die than air be recriant. No race need home, can moor in the field compass. Richard the old, lead them in the field he shall, He'll strike hard there with his good trenchant lance. The sixth column is mustered of Britons, Thirty thousand Chevaliers their income. These canter in the manner of barons, Upright their spears, their ensigns fastened on, The overlord of them is named Oedon, Who doth command the county Neverlon, Tedpolt of Reims and the Marquis O'Ton. Lead ye my men by my commission. That emperor have now six columns year, Names the Duke, the Seventh Next Prepears, Of Peter Vain and Barons from Alvern, Forty thousand Chevaliers might be there, Their horses good, their arms are almost fair, They're neath a cliff in a veil by themselves, With his right hand King Charles hath them blessed, Them Josarans shall lead, also God sounds. And the Eighth column hath names made ready, Tis of Flamengues and Barons out of Fries, Forty thousand and more good knights are these, Nor lost by them has any battle been, And the King says, These shall do my service. Between Remboldt and Harmon of Galis Shall they be led for all their chivalry. Between Noamon and Josarand the Count Are prudent men for the Ninth Column found, Of Notharengues and those out of Bourgogne, Fifty thousand good knights they are by count, In helmets laced and sarks of iron brown, Strong are their spears, short are the shafts cut down. If the Arabids demur not but come out, And trust themselves to these, they'll strike them down. Thierry the Duke shall lead them of Argonne. The Tenth Column is of Barons of France, Five score thousand of our best Capitans, Lusty of limb and proud of countenance, Snurry their heads are, and their beards are blanched, In double sarks and in hobux they're clad, Girt on their sides Frankish and Spanish brands, And noble shields of diverse cognisance. Soon as they mount, the battles they demand, M'enjoy they cry, with them goes Charlemagne. Geoffrey d'enjoy carries that oriflem, Saint Peter's toils, and bear the name Roman. But on that day M'enjoy by change it get. That emperor down from his horse descends, To the green grass kneeling, his face he bends, Then turns his eyes towards the Orient, Calls upon God with heartiest intent. Very father this day do me defend, Who to Jonah's sucker did truly send, Out of the whale's belly where he was pent, And who did spare the king of Ninevehne, And Daniel for marvellous torment, When he was caged within the lion's den, And three children all in fire ardent, Thy gracious love to me be here present. In thy mercy, if it please thee, consent, That my nephew Roland I may avenge. When he had prayed upon his feet he stepped, With the strong mark of virtue signed his head, Upon his swift charger the king mounted, While Josuran and Names his stirrup held, He took his shield, his tronchant spear he kept, Fine limbs he had, both gallant and well-set, Clear was his face and filled with good intent, Vigorously he cantered onward tense. In front, in rear, they sounded their trumpets, Above them all boomed the olafant again, Then all the francs for pity of Roland wept. That emperor canters in noble array, Over his sack all of his beard displays, For love of him or others do the same, Five score thousand francs are thereby made plain. They pass those peaks, those rocks and those mountains, Those terrible narrows, and those deep veils, Then issue from the passes and the wastes, Till they are calm into the much of Spain, A halt they've made in the middle of a plain. To Balagon his vanguard calms again, A sultan has told his message, We have seen Charles, that haughty sovereign, Fierce are his men, they have no mind to fail, Arm yourself then, battle you'll have today. Says Balagon, mine is great vassalage, Let horns this news to my pagans proclaim. Through all the host they have their drums sounded, And their bugles and very clear trumpets, Pagans dismount that they may arm themselves. Their admiral will stay no longer then, Puts on a sark embroidered in the hems, Laces his helm, that is with gold beguined. After, his sword on his left side, he set. Out of his pride a name for it, he spelt, Like to Carlons, as he has heard it said. So press use, he bade his own be clept. To us there ensigned when they to battle went, His chivaliers. He gave that cry to them, His own broad shield he hangs upon his neck. Round its gold-boss a band of crystal went, The strap of it was a good silken web. He grasps his spear, the which he calls maltet, So great its shaft as its astout cudgel, Beneath its steel alone a mule had bent. On his charger is Balagon mounted, Mercules from overseas his stirrup held, That warrior with a great stride he stepped, Small were his thighs, his ribs of wide extent. Great was his breast, and finely fashioned, With shoulders broad and very clear aspect. Proud was his face, his hair was ring-littered, White as a flower in summer was his head, His vassalage had often been proved. God what a night were he a Christian yet! His horse he spurred, the clear blood issued, He's galloped on over a ditch he's lept. Full fifty feet a man might mark its breath. Pagans cry out, our marches shall be held, There is no Frank, may once with him contest, Will he or nil, his life he'll soon have spent, Charles is mad that he departs not hence. That admiral, to a baron's like enough, White is his beard as flowers by summer burnt, In his own laws of wisdom hath he much, And in battle he's proud and arduous. His son Malpreems is very chivalrous, He's great and strong, his ancestors were thus. Says to Hisire, to canter then let us, I marvel much that soon we'll see Calun. Says Baligant, yea, for he's very proff, In many tales honour to him is done, He hath no more Roland his sister's son, He'll have no strength to stay and fight with us. Fair son Malpreems, then says to him Baligant, We're slain yesterday in the good vassal Roland's, And Oliver the proud and valiant, The dozen peers whom Charles so cherished, And twenty thousand more Frankish combatants, For all the rest I'll not unglove my hand, But the emperor is verily come back. So tells me now my man that soon the earn. Ten great columns he's set to them in their ranks, He's a proof man who sounds that olefant, With a clear call he rallies his comrades, These at the head come cantering in advance. Also with them are fifteen thousand Franks, Young bachelors whom Charles calls infants, As many again come following that band, Who will lay on with utmost arrogance. Then says Malpreems, the first blow I demand. Fair son Malpreems, says Baligant to him, I've granted you as you have asked me this. Against the Franks go now and smite them quick, And take with you Torlot the Persian king, And Dapamore another king-lutish. Their arrogance, if you can humble it, Of my domains a slice to you I'll give, From Cheriant unto the Vale Marquis. I thank you, Sire, Malpreems answers him. Going before he takes delivery, Tis of that land was held by King Fleury. After that hour he never looked on it, Investiture get never nor season. That admiral canters among his hosts. After his son with his great body follows, Torlot the king and the king Dapamore, Thirty columns most speedily they form, They've chevaliers and marvellous great force, Fifty thousand the smallest column holds, The first is raised of men from Bunton roll, The next after my scenes whose heads are gross, Along their backs above their spinal bones, As they were hogs great bristles on them grow. The third is raised from Nubles and from Bloss, The fourth is raised from Bram from Asclavals, The fifth is raised from Sobreus and from Soles, The sixth is raised from Irmins and from Mauls, The seventh is the men of Jericho. Negroes are the eighth, the ninth are men of Gros. The tenth is raised from Balid the stronghold, That is a tribe no good will ever shows, That admiral hath sawn the way he knows, By Mohammed his virtues and his bones, Charles of France is mad to can't or so, Battle he'll have unless he take him home, No more he'll wear on his head that crown of gold. Ten great columns they marshal thereafter, Of Cornelius right ugly is the first, Who from Valfari came across country there, The next of Turks of Persians is the third, The fourth is raised of Desperate Pincenors, The fifth is raised from Sultris and Avers, The sixth is from Ormaleus and Euges, The seventh is the tribe of Samuel, The eighth is from Bruiz, The ninth from Esclaves, The tenth is from Oceant the desert, That is a tribe do not the Lord God serve, Of such felons you never else have heard, Hard as they hide as though it iron were, Wherefore of Helm or Hobart they've no care, In the battle their fellow murderers. That admiral ten columns more reviews, The first is raised of Giants from Malpruz, The next of Huns, The third a hunger crew, And from Baldiz the long the fourth have trooped, The fifth is raised of Men from Valpe Nus, The sixth is raised of Tribesmen from Maruz, The seventh is from Lus and Astrimunes, The eighth from Argoils, The ninth is from Claboun, The tenth is raised of Beardsmen from Valfround, That is a tribe no love of God earn you, Guest of Rancor these thirty columns prove, Great are the hosts their horns come sounding through, Pagans counter as men of Valar should. That admiral hath great possessions, He makes them bear before him his dragon, And their standard Turvagans and Mahoms, And his image a pollen the felon. Ten Canelius canter in the environs, And very loud the cry out the sermon, Let who would from our gods have garrison, Serve them and pray with great affliction. Pagans are while their heads and faces on, Their breasts abase, Their polished helmets doff, And the Frank say, Now shall you die, gluttons, This day shall bring you vile confusion, Give warranty our God unto Calon, And in his name this victory be won. That admiral hath wisdom great indeed, His son to him and those two kings calls he, My Lord's barons beforehand canter ye, All my columns together shall you lead, But of the best I'll keep beside me three, One is of Turks, the necks of Ormalie, The third is the giants of Malpre, And Ocyons, they'll also stay with me, Until with Charles and with the Franks they meet, That emperor, if he combat with me, Must lose his head, cut from his shoulders clean, He may be sure not else for his decreed. Great are the hosts and all the columns fair, No peak nor veil nor cliff between them there, Thicket nor wood nor ambush anywhere. Across the plain they see each other well, Says Baligant, my pagan tribes averse, Battle to sea canter ye now ahead, Carries their ensign a bras of olufon, Pagans cry out by presues they swear, And the Franks say, Great hurt this day you'll get, And very loud, bonjour, they cry again, The emperor has bid them sound trumpets, And the oliphant sounds over all its knell. The pagans say, Caloon's people are fair, Battle will have bitter and keenly sent. Great is that plain and wide is that country, Their helmets shine with golden jewellery, Also their sacks embroidered and their shields, And the ensigns fixed on all their burnished spears. The trumpet sound their voice is very clear, And the oliphant its echoing music speaks. Then the admiral his brother calleth he, Tis Canavius the king of Floridii, Who holds the land unto the veil sevri. He's shown to him, Caloon's ten companies, The pride of France renowned land, you see, That emperor canters right haughtily, His bearded men are with him in the rear, Over their sacks they have thrown out their beards, Which are as white as driven snows that freeze, Strike us they will with lances and with spheres, Battle with them will have prolonged and keen. Never has man beheld such armies meet. Further than one might cast a rod that's peeled, Goes valagant before his companies, His reason then he's shown to them and speaks, Pagans come on, for now I take the field. His spear in hand he brandishes and wields, Towards Caloon has turned the point of steel. Charles the Great when he sees the admiral, And the dragon his ensign and standard, In such great strength are mustered those Arabs Of that country they've covered every part, Save only that whereon the emperor was. The King of France in a loud voice has called, Barons and Franks, good vassals are ye all, Ye in the field have fought so great combats, See the pagans, their felons and cowards, No penny worth is there and all their laws, Though they've great hosts, my lords, what matters that? Let him go hence who'd fail me in the attack. Next with both spurs he's gored his horses flanks, And Tenzendor has made four bounds thereat. Then say the Franks, this King's a good vassal, Canter brave lord, for none of us holds back. Clear is the day and the sun radiant, The hosts are fair, the companies are grand, The first columns are come now hand to hand, The Count Rable and the Count Grinamans, Let fall the reins on their swift horses' backs, Spurring in haste, then onrush all the Franks, And go to strike each with his trenchant lance. That Count Rable, he was a hardy knight, He pricked his horse with spurs of gold so fine, The Persian king Tolo, he went to strike, Nor shield nor sark could such a blow abide, The golden spear his carcass passed inside, Flung down upon a little bush he died. Then say the Franks, Lord God be thou our guide, Charles we must not fail, his cause is right. And Grinamans tilts with the King Lutis, Has broken all the flowers on his shield, Next of his sark he has undone the seam, All his ensign thrust through the carcass clean, So flings him dead, let any laugh or weep. Upon that blow the Franks cry out with heat, Strike on, baron, nor slacken in your speed, Charles in the right against the pagan breed, God sent us here his justice to complete. Pure white the horse were on Malpreet's sight, Guided his course amid the press of Franks, Our in, our out, great blows he struck them back, And ever dead one upon others packed. Before them all has cried out belly-gunt, Barons, long time I fed you at my hand, You see my son who goes on Culloon's track, And with his arms so many lords attacks, Better vassal than him I'll not demand, Go, sucker him, each with his trenchant lance. Upon that word the pagans all advance, Grimblows they strike, the slaughter's very grand, And marvellous and weighty the combat, Before nor since was never such attack. Great are the hosts, the companies in pride, Come touching all the breadth of either side, And the pagans do marvellously strike, So many shafts by God in pieces lie, And crumpled shields and sacks with mail untwined, So splattered all the earth there would you find, That through the field the grass so green and fine, With men's lifeblood is all vermilion died, That admiral rallies once more his tribe, Barons, strike on, shatter the Christian line. Now very keen and lasting is the fight, As never was, before or since that time, The Finnish nun shall reach, unless he die. That admiral to all his race appeals, Pagan, strike on, came you not therefore here, I promise you noble women and dear, I promise you honours and lands and fives, Answer pagans, we must do well indeed. With mighty blows they shatter all their spears, Five score thousand swords from their scabbards leap, Slaughter them, grim and sorrowful you'd seen, Battle he saw that stood those hosts between. That emperor calls on his francs and speaks, I love you lords and whom I well believe, So many great battles you fought for me, Kings overthrown and kingdoms have redeemed, Guerdon I owe, I know it well indeed, My lands, my wealth, my body are yours to keep, For sons, for heirs, for brothers reek, Who in Ronsevol were slaughtered yes or eve, Mine is the right, you know, against pagan breeds. Answer the francs, Sire, tis the truth you speak. Twenty thousand beside him, Charles Leeds, Who with one voice have sworn him fealty, In straits of death they never will him leave, There is not one thenceforth employed his spear, But with their swords they strike in company, The battle is straightened marvellously. Across that field the bold malprimes cantors, Who of the francs hath wrought their much great damage, Names the duke right haughtily regard him, And goes to strike him like a man of valour, And of his shield breaks all the upper margin, Tears both the sides of his embroidered her berk, Through the carcass thrusts all his yellow banner, So dead among seven hundred else he casts him. King Canabeus, brother of the admiral, Has pricked his horse with spurs in either flank, He's drawn his sword whose hilt is of crystal, And strikes Naaman on its helmet principal. Away from it he's broken off one half, Five of the links his brand of steel hath napped. No penny worth the hood is after that. Right to the flesh he slices through the cap, One piece of it he's flung upon the land. Great was the blow! The duke amazed their at had fallen him, But aid from God he had. His chargers neck he clasped with both his hands, Had the pagan but once renewed the attack, Then was he slain that noble old vassal. Came there to him with succour, Charles of France. Keen anguish then he suffers that duke names, And the pagan to strike him hotly hastens. Colvert, says Charles, you'll get now as you gave him. With vassalage he goes to strike that pagan, Shatters his shield against his heart he breaks it, Tears the chingard above his hoburk mailed, So flings him dead his saddle shall be wasted. Bitter great grief has shall amane the king, Who duke Naaman before him sees lying, On the green grass all his clear blood shedding. Then the emperor to him this council gives. Fair master names canter with me to win, The gluttons dead that had you straightly pinned, Through his carcass my spear I thrust once in. Answers the duke, Sire, I believe it this, Great proof you'll have of valour if I live. Then gauge them then, true love and faith swearing, A thousand score Franks surround them still, Nor is there one but slaughters, strikes, and kills. Then through the field cantered that admiral, Going to strike the county grinaman. Against his heart his argent shield he cracked, The folds of his hoburk a part he slashed, Two of his ribs out of his side he hacked, So flung him dead while still his charger ran. After he slew Gebure and Lorraine, Richard the old, The lord of those Normans. Precious, Crypagans, is valiant, Baron, strike on, here have we our warrant. Who then had seen those Arabic chivaliers? From Okiond, from Aghoy, and from Baskol, And well they strike and slaughter with their lances, But Franks, to escape they think it no great matter, On either side dead men to the earth fall crashing, Till even tide is very strong that battle. Barons of France do suffer much great damage, Grief shall be there ere the two hosts be scattered. Right well they strike both Franks and Arabies, Breaking the shafts of all their burnish spears, Who so had seen that shattering of shields, Who so had heard those shining hoburks' creak, And heard those shields on iron helmets beat, Who so had seen fall down the chivaliers, And heard men groan dying upon that field, Some memory of bitter pains might keep, That battle is most hard to endure, indeed, And the admiral calls upon a pollen, And hervagan and mahum praise and speaks. My lords and gods, I've done you much service, Your images in gold I'll fashion each, Against Carlon give me your warranty. Comes before him, his dear friend Gamalfa, Evil the news he brings to him and speaks. Sabalagans, this day in shame you're steeped, For you have lost your son, even Malpreme, And can obey us your brother, slain is he. Fairly two Franks have got the victory, That Emperor was one as I have seen. Great Lindsay has his every way, Maki. White is his beard as flowers in April. That admiral has bent his head down deep, And thereafter lowers his face and weeps. Fain would he die at once, so great his grief. He calls to him Jean-Gleur from overseas. Says the admiral, Jean-Gleur, beside me stand, For you are proof and greatly understand, Counsel from you I've ever sought to have. How seems it you, of Arabits and Franks, Shall we from hence victorious go back? He answers him, slain are you, Baligant, For from your gods you'll never have warrant. So proud is Charles, his men so valiant, Never saw I a race so combatant. But call upon barons of Oceant, Turks and Unfrans, Arabits and Giants. No more delay, what must be, take in hand. That admiral has shaken out his beard, That even so white as thorn in blossom seams. He'll no way hide, what ere his fate may be. Then to his mouth he sets a trumpet clear, And clearly sounds so all the pagans hear. Throughout the field rally his companies. From Oceant, those men who bray and bleed, And from Aghaoui, who, like dogs barking, speak, Seek out the Franks with such a high folly, Break through their line, the thickest press they meet, Dead from that shock they've seven thousand heaped. The Count Ogre no cowardice ere knew, That her vassal hath not his sark endued. He sees the Franks their columns broken through. So calls to him, ductuary of Aghaoui, Count Josoran and Geoffrey d'Avangeau, And to Carloun most proud his reason proves, Behold pagans and how your men they slew. Now from your head please God the crown remove, Unless you strike, and vengeance on them do. And not one word to answer him he knew. They spurred in haste, their horses let run loose, And where so ere they met the pagans, stroke. Now very well strikes the king Charlemagne, Names the duke, also Ogre the dain, Geoffrey d'Avangeau, who that ensign displays. Exceeding proof is Don Ogre the dain, He spears his horse, and lets him run in haste, So strikes that man who the dragon displays. Both in the field before his feet he breaks, That kings ensign and dragon both are based. Balagant sees his gonfalon disgraced, And Muhammad's standard thrown from its place, That admiral at once perceives it plain, That he is wrong, and right is Charlemagne. Pagan Arabs coily themselves contain, That emperor calls on his Franks again, Say Barons, come, support me in God's name. Answer the Franks, question you make in vain, Or felon he that dares not exploits brave. Passes that day, turns into Vespertide. Franks and Pagan still with their swords do strike. Brave vassals they, who brought those hosts to fight. Never have they forgotten their ensigns, That admiral still presues doth cry, Charles Montjoy renown'd word of pride. Each the other knows by his clear voice and high. Amid the field they're both come into sight, Then as they go great blows on either side. They with their spears on their round targets strike, And shatter them beneath their buckles wide, And all the folds of their herbics divide, But bodies know, wound them they never might. Broken their girths downwards their saddles slide, Both those kings fall, themselves aground do find. Nimbly enough upon their feet they rise, Most vassal-like they draw their swords outright. From this battle they'll never be turned aside, Nor make an end without that one man die. A great vassal was Charles, of France the deuce, That admiral no fear nor caution knew, Those swords they had bear from their sheaths they drew. Many great blows on's shield each gave and took, The leather pierced and doubled core of wood. Down fell the nails the buckles break into, Still they struck on, bear in their socks they stood, From their bright helms the light shone forth anew, Finish nor fail that battle never could, But one of them must in the wrong be proved. Says the admiral, Nay, Charles, think I beg, And counsel take that towards me thou repent, Thou slain my son, I know that very well. Most wrongfully my land thou challenged, Become my man, afar from me thou'd get, Come, serving me, from here to the Orient. Charles answers him, That were most vile offence, No peace nor love may I to pagan lend, Receive the law that God to us presents, Christianity, and then I'll love thee well. Serve and believe the king omnipotent, Says Baligant, the evil sermon thou sayst. They go to strike with the swords, are on their belts. In the admiral as much great virtue found, He strikes Carlon on his steel helm so brown, Has broken it and rent above his brow, Through his thick hair the sword goes glancing round, A great palm's breadth and more of flesh cuts out, So that all bear the boners in that wound. Charles Totterith falls nearly to the ground, God wills not he be slain or overpowered. St. Gabriel once more to him comes down, And question him, Great king, what doest thou? Charles, hearing how that holy angel spake, Had fear of death no longer nor dismay, Remembrance and a fresh vigor he's gained, So the admiral he strikes with France's blade, His helmet breaks were on the jewels blaze, Slices his head to scatter all his brains. And, down unto the white beard, all his face, So he falls dead, recovers not again. Mon joy, Christ Charles, that all may know the tale, Upon that word is come to him duke names, Holds tensender, bids mount that king so great, Pagans turn back, God wills not they remain, And Franks have all they wish, be that what may. Pagans are fled, even as the Lord God wills, Chase them the Franks and the emperor all therewith, Says the king then, my lords avenge your ills, Unto your heart's content do what you will, For tears this mourn I saw your eyes did spill. Answer the Franks, so even so we will. Then such great blows as each may strike he gives, That few escape of those remain there still. Great was the heat, the dust arose and blew, Still Pagans fled and hotly Franks pursued, The chase endured from there to Saragus. On her tower, high up, Clone Brammi mooned, Around her there the clerks and cannons stood, Of the false law, whom God ne'er loved nor knew, Orders they'd none, nor were their heads tonsured, And when she saw those Arabits confused, Allowed she cried, Give us your aid, my home! Ah, noble king, conquered are all our troops, And the admiral to shameful slaughter put. When Marcel heard, towards the wall he looked, Wept from his eyes, and all his body stooped, So died of grief, with sins he so corrupt, The soul of him to hell life devils took. Pagans are slain, the rest are put to rout, Whom Charles hath in battle overpowered, Of Saragus the gates he's battered down, For well he knows there's no defence there now. In come his men he occupies that town, And all that night they lie there in their power, Fierce is that king, with his hoary beard and proud, And Brammi mooned hath yielded up her towers. But ten ear great, and lesser fifty around, Great exploits his, whom the Lord God endows. Passes the day, the darkness is grown deep, But all the stars burn, and the moon shines clear, And Saragus is in the emperor's keep. A thousand francs he bids seek through the streets, The synagogues and the mohammaries, With iron moulds and axes which they wield, They break the idols and all the imageries, So there remain no fraud nor falsity. That king fears God, and would do his service. On water then bishops their blessings speak, And pagans bring into the baptistry. If any childs with contradiction meet, Then hanged or burned or slaughtered shall he be. Five score a thousand and more are thus redeemed. Very Christians, save that alone the queen, To France the deuce goes in captivity. By love the king will her conversion seek. Passes the night, the clear day opens now, Of Saragus Charles Garrison's the towels. A thousand nights he's left there, fighters stout, Who guard that town as bids their emperor. After the king and all his army mount, And Brammiwound, a prisoner, is bound, No harm to her but only good he's vowed. So are they come, with joy and gladness, out. They pass Nabon by force and by vigour, Come to Burdell, that city of Hyvala, Above the altar to Saint Severin endowed, Stands the Oliphant, with golden pieces bound. All the pilgrims may see it, who thither crowd, Passing Jirund in great ships there abound, Even unto Blave he's brought his nephew down, And Oliver, his noble companion, And the archbishop, who was so wise and proud. In white coffers he bids them lay these counts, At Saint Romain, so rest they in that ground, Franks them to God and to his angels' vow, Charles canters on by valleys and by mounts, Not before X will he not make sojourn, Canters so far on the terrace he dismounts, When he has come into his lofty house, By messengers he seeks his judges out, Saxons, favours, lotherings and frissones, Germans he calls, and also calls Burgones, From Normandy, from Brittany, and Poitot, And those in France that are the sages found, Thereon begins the cause of Guenolone. The Emperor, returning out of Spain, Arrived in France in his chief seat at X, Clown to the palace into the hall he came, Was come to him there old, that fair dame, Said to the King, Where's Roland, the captain, Who swear to me he'd have me for his mate? Then upon Charles a heavy sorrow wade, And his eyes wept he tore his beard again. Sister, dear friend, of a dead man you spake, I'll give you one far better in exchange, That is Lois, what further can I say? He is my son, and shall my marchers take? I'll answer him. That word to me is strange. Never please God, his angels and his saints, When Roland's dead shall I alive remain. Her colour fails, at the feet of Charlemagne, She falls, she's dead. Her soul God's mercy awaits. Barons of France weep therefore and complain. Old the fair's gone now to her rest, Yet the King thought she was but swooning then. Pity he had, our Emperor, and wept. Took her in his hands, raised her from the earth again. On her shoulders her head still drooped and lent. When Charles saw that she was truly dead, Four countesses at once he summoned. To a monastery of nuns they bear her fence, All night they watch until the dawn they held. Before the altar her tomb was fashioned well. Her memory the King with honour kept. That Emperor is now returned to ex. The felon Gawain, all in his iron chains, Is in that town before the King's palace. Those serfs have bound him, fast upon his stake, In deer-hide thongs his hands they've helpless made. With clubs and whips they trounce him well and based. He has deserved not any better fate. In bitter grief his trial there he awaits. Written it is, and in an ancient jest, How Charles called for many lands his men, Assembled them at ex in his chapel. Holy that day for some chief feast was held, Saint Sylvester's that barons many tell. Thereon began the trial and defence of Gwennalun, Who had the treason spelt, Before himself the Emperor has him led. Lords and barons, Charles the King doth speak, Of Gwennalun judge what the right may be, He was in the host even in Spain with me. Thereof my Franks a thousand score did steal, And my nephew whom never more you'll see, And Oliver in his pride and courtesy, And wealth to grain betrayed the dozen peers. Felon be I, said Gawain's, ought to conceal. He did from me much gold and wealth forfeit, Wends to destroy and slay him did I seek, But treason, no, I vow there's not the least. Answer the Franks, take counsel now, must we. End of verses 215 to 272