Rolland turns back, and searching through the field, Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier.... He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly, And, as he could, returning to Turpin, Stretched on a shield he lays him down among The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils And signs him with the holy cross. The grief And pity were more sore than heart can bear.... Then said Rolland:--"Fair comrade Olivier, Son of the good Count Renier, he who held The marches to the distant shores of Gennes; To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil, No land e'er saw a better _chevalier_." Aoi. CLXVI. When Count Rolland beheld his Peers lie dead, And Olivier, that friend so tenderly Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed; Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand. Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth. The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!" Aoi. CLXVII. The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rolland swoon, Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before; Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.-- Ronceval there is a running stream; Thence will he water bring to Count Rolland. Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes, But loss of blood has made him all too weak: Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony. Aoi. CLXVIII. Meantime the Count Rolland revives.--Erect He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks And upward. Then he sees the noble lord The Archbishop, holy minister of God, Beyond his comrades lying on the sward Stretched out.--He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls His sins, and raising both his joined hands, He prays Our God to grant him paradise.-- Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life, With doughty blows and sermons erudite, Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord Grant him His holy blessing evermore! Aoi. CLXIX. The Count Rolland sees lifeless on the field The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds His entrails in the dust, and through his skull The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form Of holy Cross upon his breast Rolland Disposes both his hands so fair and white, And mourned him in the fashion of his land: "O noble man! O knight of lineage pure! To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend; For ne'er was man who Him more truly served, Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong, To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men. From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!" Aoi. ROLAND'S DEATH. CLXX.