God made the hills intending none should pass.
Down fall the rolling rocks, the troops they crush!
Streams the red blood! Quivers the mangled flesh!
Oh! what a sea of blood! What shattered bones!
6.
Fly, to whom strength remaineth and a horse!
Fly, Carloman, red cloak and raven plumes!
Lies thy stout nephew, Roland, stark in death;
For him his brilliant courage naught avails.
And, now, ye Basques, leaving awhile these rocks,