[CLXXII.]
Rollánd 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, Crushing 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 Rollánd? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow." Aoi.
[CLXXIII.]
Now feels Rollánd 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 cries 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.
[CLXXIV.]
Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix; The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt; Then seeing that he can not break his sword, Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal: "O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects! When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane, The God 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 Bavière, All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie, Costentinnoble 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 hoary-bearded monarch, rules. Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall! May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!" Aoi.
[CLXXV.]
Upon the grey rock mightily he smites, Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword But grinds.—It breaks not—nor receives a notch, And upwards springs more dazzling in the air. When sees the Count Rollánd 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.
[CLXXVI.]
The Count Rollánd 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 grass. 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 God. Aoi.