Let the king come: he’ll strike a blow For vengeance, lest the Paynim foe Back to their homes in triumph go.’ “With pain and dolor, groan and pant, Count Roland sounds his Olifant: The crimson stream shoots from his lips; The blood from bursten temple drips; But far, O, far the echoes ring, And, in the defiles, reach the king; Reach Naymes, and the French array: ‘Tis Roland’s horn,’ the king doth say; ‘He only sounds when brought to bay.’ How huge the rocks! How dark and steep! The streams are swift! The valleys deep! Out blare the trumpets, one and all, As Charles responds to Roland’s call. Round wheels the king, with choler mad, The Frenchmen follow grim and sad; Not one but prays for Roland’s life, Till they have joined him in the strife. But ah! what prayer can alter fate? The time is past; too late! too late! As Roland scans both plain and height, And sees how many Frenchmen lie Stretched in their mortal agony, He mourns them like a noble knight: ‘Comrades, God give ye grace to-day, And grant ye Paradise, I pray! No lieges ever fought as they. What a fair land, O France, art thou! But ah! forlorn and widowed now! O Oliver, at least to thee, My brother, I must faithful be Back, comrade mine, back let us go, And charge once more the Paynim foe!’ “When Roland spies the cursed race, More black than ink, without a trace, Save teeth, of whiteness in the face, ‘Full certified,’ quoth he, ‘am I, That we this very day shall die. Strike, Frenchmen, strike; that’s all my mind!’ ‘A curse on him who lags behind!’ Quoth gallant Oliver; and so Down dash the Frenchmen on the foe. . . . Sir Oliver with failing breath, Knowing his wound is to the death, Doth call to him his friend, his peer, His Roland: ‘Comrade, come thou here; To be apart what pain it were!’ When Roland marks his friend’s distress, His face all pale and colorless, ‘My God!’ quoth he, ‘what’s now to do? O my sweet France, what dole for you, Widowed of all your warriors true! You needs must perish!’ At such plaint, Upon his steed he falls a-faint. “See Roland riding in a swound: And Oliver with mortal wound; With loss of blood so dazed is he He neither near nor far can see What manner of man a man may be: And, meeting with Sir Roland so, He dealeth him a fearful blow That splits the gilded helm in two Down to the very nasal, though, By luck, the skull it cleaves not through. With blank amaze doth Roland gaze, And gently, very gently, says, ‘Dear comrade, smit’st thou with intent? Methinks no challenge hath been sent I’m Roland, who doth love thee so.’ Quoth Oliver, ‘Thy voice I know, But see thee not; God save thee, friend: I struck thee; prithee pardon me. No hurt have I; and there’s an end.’ Quoth Roland, ‘And I pardon thee ‘Fore man and God right willingly.’ They bow the head, each to his brother, And so, in love, leave one another.” (Oliver dies: Roland and Archbishop Turpin continue the fight.)