Song and Legend From the Middle Ages | Page 8

blows his horn, but it is too late. All the Moors are slain

or routed, but so are all the Franks save Roland, and he has received his
death blow.
Stanza 195--
That Death was on him he knew full well;
Down from
his head to his heart it fell.
On the grass beneath a pinetree's shade,

With face to earth his form he laid,
Beneath him placed he his horn
and sword,
And turned his face to the heathen horde.
Thus hath he
done the sooth to show,
That Karl and his warriors all may know,

That the gentle count a conqueror died.
Mea Culpa full oft he cried;

And, for all his sins, unto God above,
In sign of penance, he raised
his glove.
Stanza 197.--
Beneath a pine was his resting-place,
To the land of
Spain hath he turned his face.
On his memory rose full many a
thought
Of the lands he won and the fields he fought;
Of his gentle
France, of his kin and line;
Of his nursing father King Karl benign;

He may not the tear and sob control,
Nor yet forgets he his parting
soul.
To God's compassion he makes his cry:
"O Father true, who
canst not lie,
Who didst Lazarus raise unto life again,
And Daniel
shield in the lions' den;
Shield my soul from its peril, due
For the
sins I sinned my lifetime through."
He did his right hand glove
upliftst.
Gabriel took from his hand the gift;
Then drooped his head
upon his breast,
And with clasped hands he went to rest.
God from
on high sent down to him
One of his angel cherubim--
Saint
Michael of Peril of the sea,
Saint Gabriel in company--
From
heaven they came for that soul of price,
And they bore it with them to
Paradise.
The king hears Roland's horn and hurries back, only to find him and all
his knights slain. He swoons, revives, but swoons again.
Stanza 212.--
As Karl the king revived once more,
His hands were
held by barons four.

He saw his nephew, cold and wan;
Stark his
frame, but his hue was gone;
His eyes turned inward, dark and dim;


And Karl in love lamented him:
"Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest

In paradise, amongst His blest!
In evil hour thou soughtest Spain:

No day shall dawn but sees my pain,
And me of strength and pride
bereft,
No champion of mine honour left;
Without a friend beneath
the sky;
And though my kindred still be nigh,
Is none like thee their
ranks among."
With both his hands his beard he wrung.
The Franks
bewailed in unison;
A hundred thousand wept like one.
Stanza 213.--
"Dear Roland, I return again
To Laon, to mine own
domain;
Where men will come from many a land,
And seek Count
Roland at my hand.
A bitter tale must I unfold--
'In Spanish earth he
lieth cold.'
A joyless realm henceforth I hold,
And weep with daily
tears untold.
Stanza 214--
"Dear Roland, beautiful and brave,
All men of me will
tidings crave,
When I return to La Chapelle.
Oh, what a tale is mine
to tell!
That low my glorious nephew lies.
Now will the Saxon
foeman rise;
Palermitan and Afric bands,
And men from fierce and
distant lands.
To sorrow sorrow must succeed;
My hosts to battle
who shall lead,
When the mighty captain is overthrown?
Ah!
France deserted now, and lone.
Come, death, before such grief I
bear."
Began he with his hands to tear;
A hundred thousand fainted
there.
Stanza 215.--
"Dear Roland, and was this thy fate?
May Paradise
thy soul await.
Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane:
I cannot
live so deep my pain.

For me my kindred lie undone;
And would to
Holy Mary's Son,
Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight,
My soul may take its
parting flight:
My spirit would with theirs abide;
My body rest their
dust beside."
With sobs his hoary beard he tore.
"Alas!" said
Naimes, "for the Emperor."
The Franks take terrible vengeance on the Moors who survive. Then
they bury their dead comrades and all return to France.

Stanza 225.
--From Spain the Emperor made retreat,
To Aix in
France, his kingly seat;
And thither, to his halls, there came,
Alda,
the fair and gentle dame.
"Where is my Roland, sire," she cried,

"Who vowed to take me for his bride?
O'er Karl the flood of sorrow
swept;
He tore his beard and loud he wept.
"Dear Sister, gentle
friend," he said,
"Thou seekest one who lieth dead:
I plight to thee
my son instead,--
Louis, who lord of my realm shall be."
"Strange,"
she said, "this seems to me.
God and his angels forbid that I
Should
live on earth if Poland die."
Pale grow her cheek--she sank amain,

Down at the feet of Carlemaine.
So died she. God receive her soul!

The Franks bewail her in grief and dole.
Stanza 226.--
So to her death went Alda fair.
The king but deemed
she fainted there.
While dropped his tears of pity warm,
He took her
hands and raised her form.
Upon his shoulder drooped her head,

And Karl was ware that she was dead.
When thus he saw that life was
o'er,
He summoned noble ladies four.
Within a cloister was she
borne;
They watched beside her until morn;
Beneath a shrine her
limbs were laid;
Such honour Karl to Alda paid.
ROMANCES.
Another form of narrative literature in the Middle Ages is