Count Roland throws himself beneath a pine And toward Spain has turned his face away. Of many things he called the memory back, Of many lands that he, the brave, had conquered, Of gentle France, the men of his lineage, Of Charlemagne his lord, who nurtured him; He cannot help but weep and sigh for these, But for himself will not forget to care; He cries his Culpe, he prays to God for grace. "O God the Father who has never lied, Who raised up Saint Lazarus from death, And Daniel from the lions saved, Save my soul from all the perils For the sins that in my life I did!" His right-hand glove to God he proffered; Saint Gabriel from his hand took it; Upon his arm he held his head inclined, Folding his hands he passed to his end. God sent to him his angel cherubim And Saint Michael of the Sea in Peril, Together with them came Saint Gabriel. The soul of the Count they bear to Paradise. Our age has lost much of its ear for poetry, as it has its eye for colour and line, and its taste for war and worship, wine and women. Not one man in a hundred thousand could now feel what the eleventh century felt in these verses of the "Chanson," and there is no reason for trying to do so, but there is a certain use in trying for once to understand not so much the feeling as the meaning. The naivete of the poetry is that of the society. God the Father was the feudal seigneur, who raised Lazarus--his baron or vassal--from the grave, and freed Daniel, as an evidence of his power and loyalty; a seigneur who never lied, or was false to his word. God the Father, as feudal seigneur, absorbs the Trinity, and, what is more significant, absorbs or excludes also the Virgin, who is not mentioned in the prayer. To this seigneur, Roland in dying, proffered (puroffrit) his right-hand gauntlet. Death was an act of homage. God sent down his Archangel Gabriel as his representative to accept the homage and receive the glove. To Duke William and his barons nothing could seem more natural and correct. God was not farther away than Charlemagne. Correct as the law may have been, the religion even at that time must have seemed to the monks to need professional advice. Roland's life was not exemplary. The "Chanson" had taken pains to show that the disaster at Roncesvalles was due to Roland's headstrong folly and temper. In dying, Roland had not once thought of these faults, or repented of his worldly ambitions, or mentioned the name of Alda, his betrothed. He had clung to the memory of his wars and conquests, his lineage, his earthly seigneur Charlemagne, and of "douce France." He had forgotten to give so much as an allusion to Christ. The poet regarded all these matters as the affair of the Church; all the warrior cared for was courage, loyalty, and prowess.