“And as he makes to draw the steel, A something doth Sir Roland feel; He opes his eyes, says nought but this, ‘Thou art not one of us, I wis,’ Raises the horn he would not quit, And cracks the pagan’s skull with it. . . And then the touch of death that steals Down, down from head to heart he feels Under yon pine he hastes away On the green turf his head to lay Placing beneath him horn and sword, He turns towards the Paynim horde, And, there, beneath the pine, he sees A vision of old memories A thought of realms he helped to win, Of his sweet France, of kith and kin, And Charles, his lord, who nurtured him. He sighs, and tears his eyes bedim. Then, not unmindful of his case, Once more he sues to God for grace ‘O Thou, true Father of us all, Who hatest lies, who erst did call The buried Lazarus from the grave, And Daniel from the lions save, From all the perils I deserve For sinful life my soul preserve!’ Then to his God outstretcheth he The glove from his right hand; and, see! St. Gabriel taketh it instantly. God sends a cherub-angel bright, And Michael, Saint of Peril hight; And Gabriel comes; up, up they rise, And bear the Count to Paradise.” It is useless to carry these quotations any further; they are sufficient to give an idea of the grand character of the poem in which so many traits of really touching affection and so many bursts of patriotic devotion and pious resignation are mingled with the merest brute courage. Such, in its chief works, philosophical, historical, and poetical, was the literature which the middle ages bequeathed to the reign of Francis I. In history only, and in spite of the new character assumed afterwards by the French language, this literature has had the honor of preserving its nationality and its glory. Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart, and Commynes have remained great writers. In philosophy and in poesy a profound revolution was approaching; the religious reform and the fine literary genius as well as the grand French language of the seventeenth century were preparing to rise above the intellectual horizon. But between the moment when such advances dawn and that when they burst forth there is nearly always a period of uncertain and unfruitful transition: and such was the first half of the sixteenth century, that is to say, the actual reign of Francis I.; it is often called the reign of the Renaissance, which certainly originated in his reign, but it did not grow and make any display until after him; the religious, philosophical, and poetical revolution, Calvin, Montaigne, and Ronsard, born in the earlier half of the seventeenth century, did not do anything that exercised any power until the later. One single poet, a third-rate one, Clement Marot, attained lustre under Francis I. Rabelais is the only great prose writer who belongs strictly to that period. The scholars, the learned critics of what had been left by antiquity in general and by Greek and Roman antiquity in particular, Bude (Budaeus), J.