 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
415
ROLAND AT RONCESVALLES
Roll up thy tardy legions, Charlemagne,
Haste to my succour: red in glory ride
The heaving furrows of the battle tide:
Advance, wipe out this pagan horde of Spain,
Whose rabble myriads crush me. In disdain
Thy paladins, thy chivalry have died.
They sleep unbroken in their ranks of pride,
And where they nobly fought, lie nobly slain.
Haste to my succour: red in glory ride
The heaving furrows of the battle tide:
Advance, wipe out this pagan horde of Spain,
Whose rabble myriads crush me. In disdain
Thy paladins, thy chivalry have died.
They sleep unbroken in their ranks of pride,
And where they nobly fought, lie nobly slain.
Farewell, my gallant bugle-horn, farewell,
Come, let me wind thy martial note once more,
And peal one last, one loud despairing cry;
Until the long reverberations swell,
To rock my death-dirge on the echoing shore,
And all the Fontarabian woods reply.
Come, let me wind thy martial note once more,
And peal one last, one loud despairing cry;
Until the long reverberations swell,
To rock my death-dirge on the echoing shore,
And all the Fontarabian woods reply.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |