“He mounts his steed, won, so they tell, From Denmark’s monarch, hight Grosselle; He slew the king and took the steed The beast is light and built for speed; His hoofs are neat, his legs are clean, His thigh is short, his flanks are lean, His rump is large, his back full height, His mane is yellow, his tail is white; With little ears and tawny head, No steed like him was ever bred. The good archbishop spurs a-field, And smites Abyme upon the shield, His emir’s shield, so thickly sown With many a gem and precious stone, Amethyst and topaz, crystals bright, And red carbuncles flashing light: The shield is shivered by the blow; No longer worth a doit, I trow; Stark dead the emir lies below. ‘Ha! bravely struck!’ the Frenchmen yell: ‘Our bishop guards the Cross right well!’ “To Oliver Sir Roland cried, ‘Sir comrade, can it be denied Our bishop is a gallant knight? None better ever saw the light! How he doth strike With lance and pike!’ Quoth Oliver, ‘Then in the fight Haste we to aid him with our might!’ And so the battle is renewed: The blows are hard, the melley rude; The Christians suffer sore Four times they charge and all is well, But at the fifth--dread tale to tell-- The knights of France are doomed to fall,-- All, all her knights; for of them all God spareth but threescore. But O, their lives they dearly sell! Sir Roland marks what loss is there, And turns him to Sir Oliver ‘Dear comrade, whom pray God to bless, In God’s own name see what distress-- Such heaps of vassals lying low-- Fair France hath suffered at a blow Well may we weep for her, who’s left A widow, of such lords bereft! And why, O, why art thou not near, Our king, our friend, to aid us here? Say, Oliver, how might we bring Our mournful tidings to the king?’ Quoth Oliver, ‘I know not, I To fly were shame; far better die.’ Quoth Roland, ‘I my horn will blow, That Charles may hear and Charles may know; And, in the defiles, from their track The French, I swear, will hasten back.’ Quoth Oliver, ‘‘Twere grievous shame; ‘Twould bring a blush to all thy name When I said thus thou scornedst me, And now I will not counsel thee. And shouldst thou blow, ‘twere no great blast; Already blood is gushing fast From both thine arms.’ ‘That well may be,’ Quoth he, ‘I struck so lustily! The battle is too strong: I’ll blow Mine Olifant, that Charles may know.’ Quoth Oliver, ‘Had Charles been here, This battle had not cost so dear; But as for yon poor souls, I wis, No blame can rest with them for this.’ ‘Why bear me spite?’ Sir Roland said. ‘The fault,’ said he, ‘lies on thy head. And mark my words; this day will see The end of our good company; We twain shall part--not as we met-- Full sadly ere yon sun bath set.’ The good archbishop hears the stir, And thither pricks with golden spur; And thus he chides the wrangling lords ‘Roland, and you, Sir Oliver, Why strive ye with such bitter words Horns cannot save you; that is past; But still ‘twere best to sound a blast;