University of Virginia Library

THE DEATH OF ROLAND.

I.

Dead was Gerard the fair, the girl-mouth'd, the gay,
Who jested with the foe he slung his sword to slay;
Dead was the giant Guy, big-hearted, small of brain;
Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red hunch slit in twain;
Dead was the old hawk Luz, and sleeping by his side
His twin-sons, Charles the fleet, and Pierre the serpent-eyed;
Dead was Antoine, the same who swore to speak no word
Till five score heathen heads fell by his single sword;
Dead was the wise Gerin, who gript both spear and pen;
Sansun was dead, Gereir was dead!—dead were the mighty men!

II.

Then Roland felt his sense return, and stirr'd, and cried,
Felt down if Adalmar lay safe against his side,
And smiled most quietlie, for joy the Sword was there;
With heavy-mailed hand brush'd back his bloody hair,
And lying prone upon his back, beheld on high
The stars like leopard-spots strewn in the sapphire sky.
He turn'd his head, and lo! the large hills looming dim,
In the wan west the Moon with red and wasting rim;
Then sighing sore, swung round his head as in a swoon,
And met the hunchback's eyne, glazèd beneath the Moon.
Chill was the air, and frosty vapours to and fro,
Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, were stealing slow;
And Roland thought, because his wound had made him weak,
The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his cheek.
Crawling unto his knees, shivering in the cold,
He loosed his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roll'd;
And darkly his dim eyes distinguish'd things around,—
The mute and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground,
A helm glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red,
A white steed quivering beside a warrior dead,
And in one moonlit place, a ring on a white hand,
When Roland thought, ‘Gerard! the brightest of the band!’
And no one stirr'd; behind, the hills loom'd large and dim;
And in the west the waning Moon with red and wasting rim.

III.

Then Roland cried aloud, ‘If living man there be
Among these heaps of slain, let that man answer me!’
And no soul spake. The wind crept chilly over all,
And no man felt it creep, or heard the leader call.
‘Ho, Olivier! Gerin! speak, an' ye be not slain!’
The voices of the hills echoed the cry again,—
Only a heathen churl rose cursing on his side,
And spat at him who spake, and curl'd his limbs, and died.
Then Roland's mighty heart was heavy with its woes,—
When fitfully, across the fields, faint radiance rose,
First a faint spark, and then a gleam, and then a glare,
Then smoke and crimson streaks that mingled in the air,
And as the thick flame clear'd, and the black smoke swam higher,
There loom'd beyond a Shape like one girt round with fire!
And Roland cried aloud, because his joy was great,
And brandish'd Adalmar, and fell beneath the weight,
But lying prone strain'd eyes, and, gazing through the night,
Still saw the glittering Shape circled with spectral light.
He seem'd in a dark dream, he could not think at all,
Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl:
Then, like a bruisèd worm weary he slipt and slow,
Straining his fever'd eyes lest the sweet ghost should go,
And oft he paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail,
'Mong heathens foul to smell and warriors clad in mail,
But coming near the gleam beheld the godly man,
Turpin the Archbishòp, unhelm'd and gaunt and wan,—
Gripping with skinny hand the ivory Cross sat he,
Clad head to heel in frost-white mail and propt against a tree.

IV.

And when on hands and knees the stricken Chief came near,
The Bishop raised the Cross, and knew his comrade dear;
And Roland's heart swell'd up, and tears were on his cheek,
He touch'd the blessèd Cross, and smiled and did not speak;
While, ‘Glory be to God!’ the Bishop faintly said,
‘Thou livest, kinsman dear, though all the rest be dead!
For while I linger'd here and listen'd for a sound,
And in the dim red Moon beheld the dead around,
Thinking I heard a cry, I sought to cry again,
But all my force had fled, and I was spent with pain;
When, peering round, I saw this heathen at my heel,
And search'd his leathern scrip and gat me flint and steel,
Then crawl'd, though swooning-sick, and found his charger gray,
And searching in the bags found wither'd grass and hay,
And made a fire, a sign for thee, whoe'er thou wert,
But fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt;
And waken'd to behold thee near, wounded and weak,
The red fire flaming on thy face, thy breath upon my cheek.’

V.

Then those brave (hiefs wrung hands, and as the crimson flare
Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer;
And shadows loom'd out black against the frosty shine,
While Turpin search'd his pouch and murmur'd, ‘Here is wine!’
And Roland on his elbows raised himself and quaff'd,
Yea, till his head reel'd round, a great and goodly draught,
And quickly he felt strong, his heart was wild and light,
He placed his dear Sword softly down, and rose his height,
Loosening his mail, drew forth the shirt that lay beneath,
And took the blood-stain'd silk and tore it with his teeth,
Dressing the Bishop's wounds with chilly hand and slow,
Then, while the Bishop pray'd, bound up his own wide wound alsoe.

VI.

Then Roland search'd around, dipping his hands in blood,
Till in a henchman's pack he found a torch of wood,
And taking flint and steel, blew with his mouth, and lo!
The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the glow.
Then into Turpin's hands he set that beacon bright
Who glittering like fire, sat looming in its light,
And crept across the mead, into the dark again,
And felt the faces of the dead, seeking the mighty men.

VII.

Blest be thy name, White Mary, for thy breath and might,
Like vapour cold, did fill the nostrils of thy knight!
Yea, all his force came back, his red wound ceased to bleed,
And he had hands of strength to do a blessèd deed!
For one by one he found each well-belovèd head,
Sought out the mighty Chiefs, among the drifts of dead,
Softly unloosed their helms, let the long tresses flow,
Trail'd them to Turpin's feet and set them in a row;
And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazing bright
Lit shapes in silvern mail and faces snowy white:
Sansun, who grasp'd his sword with grip that ne'er unloosed;
Gerin, with chin on breast, as if he breathed and mused;
Great Guy, with twisted limbs, and bosom gash'd and bare,
And blood-clots on his arms the frost had frozen there;
Old Luz, his skinny hands filled with a foeman's beard;
Charles with his feet lopp'd off, Pierre with his green eye spear'd;
Sanche, the fierce woman's foe, and round his neck, behold!
A lock of lady's hair set in a ring of gold;
Antoine, with crafty smile, as if new fights he plann'd;
Gerard, still smiling on the ring that deckt his hand;
And, brightest of the host, our Roland's comrade dear,
The iron woman-shape, the long-lock'd Olivier,
Who gript the bladeless hilt of Durandal his pride,
And held it to his kissing lips, as when he droop'd and died.

VIII.

And Turpin raised the torch, counted them, one by one:
‘Ah, woe is me, sweet knights, for now your work is done!’
Then, reaching with the Cross, he touch'd their brows and cried:
‘White Mary take your souls, and place them at her side,
White Mary take your souls, and guard them tenderlie,—
For ye were goodly men as any men that be!’
And Roland stooping touch'd the brow of Olivier,
Smoothing the silken hair behind the small white ear,
And cried, ‘Ah, woe is me, that we should ever part!’
And kiss'd him on the clay-cold lips, and swoon'd, for ache of heart.

IX.

Then Turpin dropt the torch, that flamed upon the ground,
But drinking blood and dew, died out with drizzlie sound;
He groped for Roland's heart, and felt it faintly beat,
And, feeling on the earth, he found the wine-flask sweet,
And fainting with the toil, slaked not his own great drouth,
But, shivering, held the flask to Roland's gentle mouth:
E'en then, his Soul shot up, and in its shirt of steel
The Corse sank back, with crash like ice that cracks beneath the heel!

X.

The frosty wind awaken'd Roland from his swound,
And, spitting salt foam from his tongue, he look'd around,
And saw the Bishop dear lying at length close by,—
Touch'd him, and found him cold, and utter'd a great cry:
‘Now, dead and cold, alas! lieth the noblest wight
For preaching sermons sweet and wielding sword in fight;
His voice was as a trump that on a mountain blows,
He scatter'd oils of grace and wasted heathen-foes,—
White Mary take his soul, to join our comrades dear,
And let him wear his Bishop's crown in heaven above, as here!’

XI.

Now it grew chiller far, the grass was moist with dew,
The landskip glimmer'd pale, the frosty breezes blew,
The many stars above melted like snowflakes white,
Behind the great blue hills the East was laced with light,
The dismal vale loom'd clear against a crimson glow,
Clouds spread above like wool, pale steam arose below,
And on the faces dead the frosty Morning came,
On mighty men of mark and squires unknown to fame,
And golden mail gleam'd bright, and broken steel gleam'd gray,
And cold dew filled the wounds of those who sleeping lay;
And Roland, rising, drank the dawn with lips apart,
But scents were in the air that sicken'd his proud heart!
Yea, all was deathly still; and now, though it was day,
The Moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away,
The white mist wreath'd and curl'd over the glittering dead;
A cock crew, far among the hills, and echoes answerèd.

XII.

Then peering to the East, through the thick vaporous steam,
He spied a naked wood, hard by a running stream;
Thirsting full sore, he rose, and thither did he hie,
Faintly, and panting hard, because his end was nigh;
But first he stooping loosed from Turpin's fingers cold
The Cross inlaid with gems and wrought about with gold,
And bare the holy Cross aloft in one weak hand,
And with the other trail'd great Adalmar his brand.
Thus wearily he came into the woody place,
And stooping to the stream therein did dip his face,
And in the pleasant cold let swim his great black curls,
Then swung his head up, damp with the dim dewy pearls;
And while the black blood spouted in a burning jet,
He loosed the bandage of his wound and made it wet,
Wringing the silken folds, making them free from gore,
Then placed them cool upon the wound, and tighten'd them once more.

XIII.

Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in air,
Ghastly and round the Sun loom'd with a lurid glare,
High overhead the Moon shrivell'd with sickle chill,
The frosty wind dropp'd down, and all was deathlier still,
When Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours cold
Beheld three marble steps, as of a Ruin old,
And at the great tree-bolls lay many a carven stone,
Thereto a Dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown;
And frosted were the boughs that gather'd all around,
And cold the runlet crept, with soft and soothing sound,
And sweetly Roland smiled, thinking, ‘Since death is nigh,
In sooth, I know no gentler place where gentle man could die!’

XIV.

Whereon he heard a cry, a cry, a crash of breaking boughs,
And from the thicket wild leapt one with painted brows;
Half-naked, glistening grim, with oily limbs, he came,
His long-nail'd fingers curl'd, his bloodshot eyes aflame,
Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the Chief he flew,
‘Yield thee thy sword of fame, and thine own flesh thereto!’
Then Roland gazed and frown'd, though nigh unto his death,
Sat still, and drew up all his strength in one great breath,
Pray'd swiftly to the Saints he served in former days,
With right hand clutch'd the Sword he was too weak to raise,
And in the left swung up the Cross!—and, shrieking hoarse,
Between the eyebrows smote the foe with all his force,
Yea, smote him to the brain, crashing through skin and bone,
And prone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone,—
While gold and gems of price, unloosen'd by the blow,
Ev'n as he fell rain'd round the ringlets of the foe;
But Roland kiss'd the Cross, and, laughing, backward fell,
And on the hollow air the laugh rang heavy, like a knell.

XV.

And Roland thought: ‘I surely die; but, ere I end,
Let me be sure that thou art ended too, O friend!
For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am clay,
My ghost would grieve full sore until the Judgment Day!’
Then to the marble steps, under the tall bare trees,
Trailing the mighty Sword, he crawl'd on hands and knees,
And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with might—
The bright hilt sounding shook, the blade flash'd sparks of light;
Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round,
Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound;
Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down the glade,
Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter'd the peerless blade!

XVI.

Then Roland wept, and set his face against the stone—
‘Ah, woe! I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and bone!’
And sickness seized his soul to die so cheerless death;
When on his naked neck he felt a touch, like breath,—
And did not stir, but thought, ‘O God, that madest me,
And shall my sword of fame brandish'd by heathens be?
And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen's heel?
Too spent to slay the slave whose hated breath I feel!’
Then, clenching teeth, he turn'd to look upon the foe,
His bright eyes growing dim with coming death; and lo!
His life shot up in fire, his heart arose again,
For no unhallow'd face loom'd on his dying ken,
No heathen-breath he felt, — though he beheld, indeed,
The white arch'd head and round brown eyes of Veillintif, his Steed!

XVII.

And pressing his moist cheek on his who gazed beneath,
Curling the upper lip to show the large white teeth,
The white horse, quivering, look'd with luminous liquid eye,
Then waved his streaming mane, and utter'd up a cry;
And Roland's bitterness was spent—he laugh'd, he smiled,
He clasp'd his darling's neck, wept like a little child;
He kiss'd the foam-fleck'd lips, and clasp'd his friend and cried:
‘Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle ride!
Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be,
And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting thee?
To leave thy brave bright heart to break, in slavery to the foe?
I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so!
Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners bright unfurl'd,
A shining light 'mong lesser lights, a wonder to the world!’

XVIII.