Arrived upon the field of Ronceval, Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and said Unto the French:--"Seigneurs, move slowly here; For I alone, will forward go in search Of my fair nephew lost among the dead. Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast, My valiant bachelors, in warlike deeds Their exploits vaunting, I could hear Rolland Say, should he ever die on foreign soil, Before his peers and men he should be found Facing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still." A few steps further than a staff's throw, Carle Far in advance of all, ascends a hill. Aoi. CCVII. When sought the Emperor his nephew there, Amid the field, and found so many plants With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood, By pity moved he can not choose but weep. Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew The blow upon the three rocks Rolland struck, And saw his nephew lying on the sward, A mangled corse--No wonder Carle is wroth; Alights in haste and lifting in his arms The Count, broken by grief upon him faints. Aoi. CCVIII. From his deep swoon the Emperor revives. Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'Anjou His brother Tierri raise the King, and place Him resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earth He sees his nephew lying dead, and mourns O'er him with gentle words and tender looks, "Sweet friend, Rolland, God's mercy unto thee! Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen, For noble combats ordered and achieved! Mine honor turns to its decline!--" Once more Carle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away. Aoi. CCIX. Again King Carle recovers from his swoon.... Four of his Barons, with their hands support His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow, Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments. "Sweet friend Rolland, may God enshrine thy soul Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur, Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n My strength and power! Who now will e'er support My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n The one true friend! though other kindred mine, Was none so brave and wise."--He tore his hair In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears. Aoi. CCX.