It is supposed that this _chanson de geste_ was first composed in the thirteenth century; but the version which has come down to us must have been written shortly before the discovery of printing. Although this poem was deservedly a favorite composition during the middle ages, no manuscript copy of it now exists. Such was the admiration that it excited that Lord Berners translated it into English under Henry VIII. In modern times it has been the theme of Wieland's finest poem, and of one of Weber's operas, both of which works are known by the title of "Oberon." It is from this work that Shakespeare undoubtedly drew some of the principal characters for his "Midsummer-Night's Dream," where Oberon, king of the fairies, plays no unimportant part. [Sidenote: Charlot slain by Huon.] The hero of this poem, Huon of Bordeaux, and his brother Girard, were on their way from Guienne to Paris to do homage to Charlemagne for their estates. Charlot, the monarch's eldest son, who bears a very unenviable reputation in all the mediaeval poems, treacherously waylaid the brothers, intending to put them both to death. He attacked them separately; but, after slaying Girard, was himself slain by Huon, who, quite unconscious of the illustrious birth of his assailant, calmly proceeded on his way. The rumor of the prince's death soon followed Huon to court, and Charlemagne, incensed, vowed that he would never pardon him until he had proved his loyalty and repentance by journeying to Bagdad, where he was to cut off the head of the great bashaw, to kiss the Sultan's daughter, and whence he was to bring back a lock of that mighty potentate's gray beard and four of his best teeth. "'Yet hear the terms; hear what no earthly power Shall ever change!' He spoke, and wav'd below His scepter, bent in anger o'er my brow.-- 'Yes, thou may'st live;--but, instant, from this hour, Away! in exile rove far nations o'er; Thy foot accurs'd shall tread this soil no more, Till thou, in due obedience to my will Shalt, point by point, the word I speak fulfill; Thou diest, if this unwrought thou touch thy native shore. "'Go hence to Bagdad; in high festal day At his round table, when the caliph, plac'd In stately pomp, with splendid emirs grac'd, Enjoys the banquet rang'd in proud array, Slay him who lies the monarch's left beside, Dash from his headless trunk the purple tide. Then to the right draw near; with courtly grace The beauteous heiress of his throne embrace; And thrice with public kiss salute her as thy bride.