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THE SONG OF ROLAND.
Before the battle of Hastings, Taillefer, a famous Norman minstrel and champion, advanced on horseback in front of the invading host, and tossing his sword in the air, caught it again as he galloped forward to the charge, and gave the signal for onset by singing “The Song of Roland,” that renowned nephew of Charlemagne's of whom (Sir Walter Scott says) romance tells us so much and history so little.
The following poem is a literal translation from the Basque. It was found by La Tour d'Auvergne, in 1794, in a convent of Font Arabia, and is still preserved among the mountaineers of the Pyrenees, under many variations. It commemorates the combat at the defile of Roncesvalles (here called Altibicar), spoken of by Dante as “la dolorosa rotta,” where, through the treachery of Ganelon, thirty thousand brave Gauls, under the command of Charlemagne, were slaughtered, and where Roland fell. There is a savage grandeur in the simplicity, not without art, with which the numbers of the foe, so carelessly reckoned at the opening of the poem, are counted downwards at its close. It gives the gloomy and ominous effect of a muffled drum, or the measured, backward tread of a great multitude.
This song was imitated in 1803 by Alexandre Duval, with a reference to events then passing.
C'est le cri du soldat sans gloire.
Le héros cherche les périls;
Sans le péril qu'est la victoire?
Ayons tous, O braves amis,
De Roland l'âme noble et fière;
Il ne comptait ses ennemis
Qu'étendus morts sur la poussière.”
And the dog, who is asleep at his master's feet, is roused, and barks till all the mountains of Altibicar resound.
The noise draws nearer; it comes from the hills of Ibaneta, cleaving the rocks from right to left; it is the dull roar of an advancing army. Our people have already given it answer from the heights; they have blown their horns of buffalo, and the Basque is sharpening his arrows.
“They are coming! they are coming, oh; what a forest of lances! What waving of many-coloured
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and thousands more.”
“It is but losing time to count them; let us join our strong arms; let us tear out our rocks and hurl them down upon their heads; let us crush them; let us kill.”
What business have these men from the north among our mountains? Why should they come to trouble our peace? When God made the mountains, He did not mean them to be overpassed by men.
Then the rocks, loosened, rush down of their own accord; they fall upon the troops beneath; blood flows, limbs quiver. Oh, what a heap of broken bones! What a sea of blood is there!
Roland lifts the Olifant to his mouth, and blows it with all his might. The mountains around him
Charles hears it, and his companions hear it too. “Ah,” says the king, “our people are now fighting.” But Ganelon (the traitor) makes answer—“Had any other said so, he would have been set down at once as a liar.”
Alas for Roland! with great force, with great effort, with great pain, he blows the horn again! Blood flows from his mouth; his head is cloven; still the sound of the horn is carried to a great distance.
Charles hears it just at the moment of his landing; the Duke Naismo hears it, as well as all the French.
“Ah,” says the king, “I hear the horn of Roland; I know he would not blow it if he were not overtaken by the enemy.” But Ganelon again makes answer, “The sound has nothing to do with fighting. We know the pride of the Count. He is only jousting with his peers; let us mount and ride onwards; why should we delay to set forth? we have yet a long road before us.”
But now blood flows faster from the lips of
Charles bids the trumpets sound. The French come down upon us, clad in mail of steel. The hills are lofty, the darkness thick, the valleys deep, the descents rugged! Before the army and behind it the trumpets bray. King Charles is troubled, as he spurs onwards; his white beard shakes upon his breast. Too late! Run, run for it, ye who have yet strength or a horse left. Run, King Charles, with thy plume of black feathers and thy scarlet cloak, run! Thy nephew, thy pride, thy beloved, has bitted the dust below thee; he was brave, but it has brought him little profit.
And now, Escualdunachi, let us leave the cliffs,
let us go down quickly and let fly our arrows at the
flying. See how they run! they run! Where is
now the forest of lances? Where the many-coloured
banners waving in the midst of them? No more
flashing of their armour, it is too deeply stained
with blood! How many of them are there? Count
them well, my boy—count them. “Twenty, nineteen,
eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen,
thirteen twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six,
five, four, three, two, one,—One! no, there is not
In the night the vultures will come down to feast upon their mangled flesh, and their bones will lie there, and be white for ever.
The famous horn (so named) of Roland, of which Turpin reports, that its sound was heard by Charlemagne at the distance of eight miles.
We must remember that this is the composition of one hostile both to Charlemagne and Roland, the elect heroic pair, the sight of whose companionship in Paradise made Dante glad.
Vide moverse un altro roteando
E' letizia era dal paleo
Cosi per Carlo-magno ed Orlando.”
The name of the great Paladin is honoured, however, not only among the Pyrenees, but in many fragments of Spanish songs, one of which is thus concluded: “Oh, Orlando! hast thou commended, hast thou commended thy soul to God? We have beheld thee, and whoever saw thee in battle, felt himself sweat with fear! Well we know that thou didst slay thy thousands, both among the Moors and our own people. Bernardo, however, thou didst not slay. Shall those be vanguished, Roland, thunderbolt of war? Honour to the brave, of whatever country! No, Roland, thou shalt be slain, but never vanquished!”
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