National Epics Part 31

Rolland with bleeding mouth and temples burst, Still, in his anguish, blows his olifant; Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims: "That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies: "Rolland it is, and in a sore distress, Upon my faith a battle rages there!

A traitor he who would deceive you now.

To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!

Plainly enough you hear his call for help."

Aoi.

Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound The march. The French alight. They arm themselves With helmets, hauberks and gold-hilted swords, Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white And red and blue. The barons of the host Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through The pa.s.s they march, each to the other says: "Could we but reach Rolland before he dies, What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"

But what avails? Too late they will arrive.

Aoi.

The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams Reflects upon the marching legions, spears, Hauberks and helms, s.h.i.+elds painted with bright flowers, Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.

Burning with wrath the emperor rides on; The French with sad and angered looks. None there But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rolland.

The king commands Count Ganelon be seized And given to the scullions of his house.

Their chief, named Begue, he calls and bids: "Guard well This man as one who all my kin betrayed."

Him Begue received, and set upon the count One hundred of his kitchen comrades--best And worst; they pluck his beard on lip and cheek; Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown For more dishonor on a sumpter mule, There guarded so until to Carle brought back.

Aoi.

High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible, The valleys deep, and swift the rus.h.i.+ng streams.

In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow, Answering the olifant. With angry look Rides on the emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief, Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears, Praying that G.o.d may guard Rolland, until They reach the battle-field. With him what blows Will they not strike! Alas? what boots it now?

Too late they are and cannot come in time.

Aoi.

Carle in great anger rides--his snow-white beard O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the barons spur, For never one but inwardly doth rage That he is far from their great chief, Rolland, Who combats now the Saracens of Spain: If wounded he, will one of his survive?

O G.o.d! What knights those sixty left by him!

Nor king nor captain better ever had....

Aoi.

_Rabillon's Translation._

ROLAND'S DEATH.

When all the French lay dead upon the field except Roland and the Archbishop Turpin, Roland gathered together the bodies of his dead comrades, the peers, that they might receive the archbishop's blessing. He then fell fainting from grief, and aroused himself to find the archbishop dead also.

Rolland now feels his death is drawing nigh: From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.

For all his peers he prays that G.o.d may call Their souls to him; to the Angel Gabriel He recommends his spirit. In one hand He takes the olifant, that no reproach May rest upon him; in the other grasps Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes, Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.

Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees, Four terraces of marble spread;--he falls p.r.o.ne fainting on the green, for death draws near.

Aoi.

High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.

Four terraces are there, of marble bright: There Count Rolland lies senseless on the gra.s.s.

Him at this moment spies a Saracen Who lies among the corpses, feigning death, His face and body all besmeared with blood.

Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds Upon the baron. Handsome, brave, and strong He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.

He seized the body of Rolland, and grasped His arms, exclaiming thus: "Here vanquished Carle's Great nephew lies! This sword to Araby I'll bear." He drew it; this aroused the count.

Aoi.

Rolland perceived an alien hand would rob Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word He spoke: "I trow, not one of us art thou!"

Then with his olifant from which he parts Never, he smites the golden studded helm, Crus.h.i.+ng the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown Dead at the baron's feet he falls;--"O wretch,"

He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill, Lay hands upon Rolland? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."

Aoi.

Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand And struggles up with all his force; his face Grows livid; Durendal, his naked sword, He holds; beside him rises a gray rock On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief And rage. The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor Is notched; then cried the count: "Saint Mary, help!

O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!

Though we two part, I care not less for thee.

What victories together thou and I Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"

Aoi.

Rolland smites hard the rock of Sardonix; The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt; Then seeing that he cannot break his sword, Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal: "O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against The sun what flas.h.i.+ng light thy blade reflects!

When Carle pa.s.sed through the valley of Moriane, The G.o.d of Heaven by his Angel sent Command that he should give thee to a count, A valiant captain; it was then the great And gentle king did gird thee to my side.

With thee I won for him Anjou--Bretaigne; For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine And Normandie the free; I won Provence And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all The Romanie; I won for him Baviere, All Flandre--Buguerie--all Puillanie, Costentinn.o.ble which allegiance paid, And Saxonie submitted to his power; For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande, And Engleterre he made his royal seat; With thee I conquered all the lands and realms Which Carle, the h.o.a.ry-bearded monarch, rules.

Now for this sword I mourn. . . . Far better die Than in the hands of pagans let it fall!

May G.o.d, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"

Aoi.

Upon the gray rock mightily he smites, Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword But grinds. It breaks not--nor receives a notch, And upward springs more dazzling in the air.

When sees the Count Rolland his sword can never break, Softly within himself its fate he mourns: "O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!

In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth Of great Saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile, A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis, A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.

It is not right that pagans should own thee; By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms I shall have conquered once that now are ruled By Carle, the king with beard all blossom-white, And by them made great emperor and lord.

May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."

Aoi.

The Count Rolland feels through his limbs the grasp Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine He hastens, and falls stretched upon the gra.s.s.

Beneath him lie his sword and olifant, And toward the Heathen land he turns his head, That Carle and all his knightly host may say: "The gentle count a conqueror has died. . . ."

Then asking pardon for his sins, or great Or small, he offers up his glove to G.o.d.

Aoi.

The Count Rolland feels now his end approach.

Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain, He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says: "Mea culpa! Oh, my G.o.d, may through thy grace, Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small, Until this hour committed since my birth!"

Then his right glove he offers up to G.o.d, And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.

Aoi.

Beneath a pine Rolland doth lie, and looks Toward Spain. He broods on many things of yore: On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France, On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord Who nurtured him;--he sighs, nor can restrain His tears, but cannot yet himself forget; Recalls his sins, and for the grace of G.o.d He prays: "Our Father, never yet untrue, Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved Thy Daniel from the lions' claws,--oh, free My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"

His right hand glove he offered up to G.o.d; Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined He breathed his last. G.o.d sent his cherubim, Saint-Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril_.

Together with them Gabriel came. All bring The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise.

Aoi.

_Rabillon's Translation_

THE SHAH-NAMEH.

The monarchs of ancient Persia made several attempts to collect the historic annals of their country, but both people and traditions were scattered by the Arabian conquest. The ma.n.u.script annals were carried to Abyssinia, thence to India, and were taken back to Persia just when the weakness of the conquerors was beginning to show itself. The various members of the Persian line, who had declared themselves independent of their conquerors, determined to rouse the patriotism of their countrymen by the recital of the stirring deeds of the warriors of old Persia.