The Song of Roland [26]
have won so many fights, Combating 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."
CLXXII
Rollant hath struck the sardonyx 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! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain! Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays! In Moriane was Charles, in the vale, When from heaven God by His angel bade Him give thee to a count and capitain; Girt thee on me that noble King and great. I won for him with thee Anjou, Bretaigne, And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine, And Normandy the free for him I gained, Also with thee Provence and Equitaigne, And Lumbardie and all the whole Romaigne, I won Baivere, all Flanders in the plain, Also Burguigne and all the whole Puillane, Costentinnople, that homage to him pays; In Saisonie all is as he ordains; With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England also, where he his chamber makes; Won 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, Rather I'ld die, than it mid pagans stay. Lord God Father, never let France be shamed!"
CLXXIII
Rollant 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 plaint most sweet. "Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed! Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals: Saint Peter's Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile, Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise, Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary. It is not right that pagans should thee seize, 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."
CLXXIV
But Rollant 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 olifant 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. AOI.
CLXXV
But Rollant 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: "Mea Culpa! 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. AOI.
CLXXVI
The count Rollanz, beneath a pine he sits,; Turning his eyes towards Spain, he begins Remembering so many divers things: So many lands where he went conquering, And France the Douce, 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, Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst remit, And Daniel save from the lions' pit; My soul in me preserve from all perils And from the sins I did in life commit!" His right-hand glove, to God he offers it Saint Gabriel from's hand hath taken it. Over his arm his head bows down and slips, He joins his hands: and so is life finish'd. God sent him down His angel cherubin, And Saint Michael, we worship in peril; And by their side Saint Gabriel alit; So the count's soul they bare to Paradis.
CLXXVII
Rollant is dead; his soul to heav'n God bare. That Emperour to Rencesvals doth fare. There
CLXXII
Rollant hath struck the sardonyx 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! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain! Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays! In Moriane was Charles, in the vale, When from heaven God by His angel bade Him give thee to a count and capitain; Girt thee on me that noble King and great. I won for him with thee Anjou, Bretaigne, And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine, And Normandy the free for him I gained, Also with thee Provence and Equitaigne, And Lumbardie and all the whole Romaigne, I won Baivere, all Flanders in the plain, Also Burguigne and all the whole Puillane, Costentinnople, that homage to him pays; In Saisonie all is as he ordains; With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England also, where he his chamber makes; Won 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, Rather I'ld die, than it mid pagans stay. Lord God Father, never let France be shamed!"
CLXXIII
Rollant 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 plaint most sweet. "Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed! Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals: Saint Peter's Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile, Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise, Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary. It is not right that pagans should thee seize, 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."
CLXXIV
But Rollant 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 olifant 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. AOI.
CLXXV
But Rollant 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: "Mea Culpa! 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. AOI.
CLXXVI
The count Rollanz, beneath a pine he sits,; Turning his eyes towards Spain, he begins Remembering so many divers things: So many lands where he went conquering, And France the Douce, 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, Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst remit, And Daniel save from the lions' pit; My soul in me preserve from all perils And from the sins I did in life commit!" His right-hand glove, to God he offers it Saint Gabriel from's hand hath taken it. Over his arm his head bows down and slips, He joins his hands: and so is life finish'd. God sent him down His angel cherubin, And Saint Michael, we worship in peril; And by their side Saint Gabriel alit; So the count's soul they bare to Paradis.
CLXXVII
Rollant is dead; his soul to heav'n God bare. That Emperour to Rencesvals doth fare. There