Unto Roncesvalles King Karl hath sped, And his tears are falling above the dead; "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace,-- I will go before, a little space, For my nephew's sake, whom I fain would find. It was once in Aix, I recall to mind, When we met at the yearly festal-tide,-- My cavaliers in vaunting vied Of stricken fields and joustings proud,-- I heard my Roland declare aloud, In foreign land would he never fall But in front of his peers and his warriors all, He would lie with head to the foeman's shore, And make his end like a conqueror." Then far as man a staff might fling, Clomb to a rising knoll the king. CCX As the king in quest of Roland speeds, The flowers and grass throughout the meads He sees all red with our baron's blood, And his tears of pity break forth in flood. He upward climbs, till, beneath two trees, The dints upon the rock he sees. Of Roland's corse he was then aware; Stretched it lay on the green grass bare. No marvel sorrow the king oppressed; He alighted down, and in haste he pressed, Took the body his arms between, And fainted: dire his grief I ween. CCXI As did reviving sense begin, Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin, The noble Geoffrey of Anjou, And his brother Henry nigh him drew. They made a pine-tree's trunk his stay; But he looked to earth where his nephew lay, And thus all gently made his dole: "My friend, my Roland, God guard thy soul! Never on earth such knight hath been, Fields of battle to fight and win. My pride and glory, alas, are gone!" He endured no longer; he swooned anon. CCXII As Karl the king revived once more, His hands were held by barons four. He saw his nephew, cold and wan; Stark his frame, but his hue was gone; His eyes turned inward, dark and dim; And Karl in love lamented him: "Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest In Paradise, amongst His blest! In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: No day shall dawn but sees my pain, And me of strength and pride bereft. No champion of mine honor left; Without a friend beneath the sky; And though my kindred still be nigh, Is none like thee their ranks among." With both his hands his beard he wrung. The Franks bewailed in unison; A hundred thousand wept like one. CCXIII "Dear Roland, I return again To Laon, to mine own domain; Where men will come from many a land, And seek Count Roland at my hand. A bitter tale must I unfold-- 'In Spanish earth he lieth cold,' A joyless realm henceforth I hold, And weep with daily tears untold." CCXIV