“Then Roland takes his horn once more; His blast is feebler than before, But still it reaches the emperor He hears it, and he halts to shout, ‘Let clarions, one and all, ring out!’ Then sixty thousand clarions ring, And rocks and dales set echoing. And they, too, hear--the pagan pack; They force the rising laughter back; ‘Charles, Charles,’ they cry, ‘is on our track!’ They fly; and Roland stands alone-- Alone, afoot; his steed is gone-- Brave Veillantif is gone, and so, He, willy-nilly, afoot must go. Archbishop Turpin needs his aid: The golden helm is soon unlaced, The light, white hauberk soon unbraced; And gently, gently down he laid On the green turf the bishop’s head; And then beseechingly he said,-- “‘Ah! noble sir, your leave I crave The men we love, our comrades brave, All, all are dead; they must not lie Here thus neglected; wherefore I Will seek for them, each where he lies, And lay them out before your eyes.’ ‘Go,’ said the bishop, ‘and speed be thine Thank God! the field is thine and mine.’ “Sir Roland searched the plain, and found His comrade’s body on the ground; Unto his heart he strained it tight, And bore it off, as best he might. Upon a shield he lays his friend Beside the rest, and, for an end, The bishop gives them, all and one, Absolvement and a benison. As Roland marks them lying there, His peers all dead--and Oliver, His mighty grief he cannot stay, And, willy-nilly, swoons away. “The bishop feeleth grief profound To see Sir Roland in a swound. Through Roncesvalles, well he knows, A stream of running water flows, And fain would he a journey make To fetch thereof for Roland’s sake, He totters forth; he makes essay; But all! his feeble limbs give way; Breaks his great heart; he falls and lies, Face downward, in death’s agonies! So Charles’s soldier-priest is dead He who with mighty lance and sword And preacher’s craft incessant warred Against the scorners of the Lord: God’s benediction on his head! Count Roland laid him to his rest Between his shoulders, on his breast, He crossed the hands so fine and fair, And, as his country’s customs were, He made oration o’er him there ‘Ah! noble knight, of noble race, I do commend thee to God’s grace Sure never man of mortal birth Served Him so heartily on earth. Thou hadst no peer in any clime To stoutly guard the Christian cause And turn bad men to Christian laws, Since erst the great Apostles’ time. Now rest thy soul from dolor free, And Paradise be oped to thee!’” (A last encounter takes place: a Saracen left wounded on the battle-field, seeing Roland in a swoon, gets up, and approaches him, saying, “Vanquished, he is vanquished, the nephew of Charles! There is his sword, which I will carry off to Arabia!”)