READ STUDY GUIDE: Laisses 161-176 |
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Section 6:
Laisses 161-176
Laisses 161-176
| CLXI |
| Pagans are fled, enangered and enraged, |
| Home into Spain with speed they make their way; |
| The count Rollanz, he has not given chase, |
| For Veillantif, his charger, they have slain; |
| Will he or nill, on foot he must remain. |
| To the Archbishop, Turpins, he goes with aid; |
 I He's from his head the golden helm unlaced, |
| Taken from him his white hauberk away, |
| And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist; |
| On his great wounds the pieces of it placed, |
| Then to his heart has caught him and embraced; |
| On the green grass he has him softly laid, |
| Most sweetly then to him has Rollant prayed: |
| "Ah! Gentle sir, give me your leave, I say; |
| Our companions, whom we so dear appraised, |
| Are now all dead; we cannot let them stay; |
| I will go seek and bring them to this place, |
| Arrange them here in ranks, before your face." |
| Said the Archbishop: "Go, and return again. |
| This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!" |
| CLXII |
| So Rollanz turns; through the field, all alone, |
| Searching the vales and mountains, he is gone; |
| He finds Gerin, Gerers his companion, |
| Also he finds Berenger and Otton, |
| There too he finds Anseis and Sanson, |
| And finds Gerard the old, of Rossillon; |
| By one and one he's taken those barons, |
| To the Archbishop with each of them he comes, |
| Before his knees arranges every one. |
| That Archbishop, he cannot help but sob, |
| He lifts his hand, gives benediction; |
| After he's said: "Unlucky, Lords, your lot! |
| But all your souls He'll lay, our Glorious God, |
| In Paradise, His holy flowers upon! |
| For my own death such anguish now I've got; |
| I shall not see him, our rich Emperor." |
| CLXIII |
| So Rollant turns, goes through the field in quest; |
| His companion Olivier finds at length; |
| He has embraced him close against his breast, |
| To the Archbishop returns as he can best; |
| Upon a shield he's laid him, by the rest; |
| And the Archbishop has them absolved and blest: |
| Whereon his grief and pity grow afresh. |
| Then says Rollanz: "Fair comrade Olivier, |
| You were the son of the good count Reinier, |
| Who held the march by th' Vale of Runier; |
| To shatter spears, through buckled shields to bear, |
| And from hauberks the mail to break and tear, |
| Proof men to lead, and prudent counsel share, |
| Gluttons in field to frighten and conquer, |
| No land has known a better chevalier." |
| CLXIV |
| The count Rollanz, when dead he saw his peers, |
| And Oliver, he held so very dear, |
| Grew tender, and began to shed a tear; |
| Out of his face the colour disappeared; |
| No longer could he stand, for so much grief, |
| Will he or nill, he swooned upon the field. |
| Said the Archbishop: "Unlucky lord, indeed!" |
| CLXV |
| When the Archbishop beheld him swoon, Rollant, |
| Never before such bitter grief he'd had; |
| Stretching his hand, he took that olifant. |
| Through Rencesvals a little river ran; |
| He would go there, fetch water for Rollant. |
| Went step by step, to stumble soon began, |
| So feeble he is, no further fare he can, |
| For too much blood he's lost, and no strength has; |
| Ere he has crossed an acre of the land, |
| His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and |
| Death comes to him with very cruel pangs. |
| CLXVI |
| The count Rollanz wakes from his swoon once more, |
| Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore; |
| Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above; |
| On the green grass, beyond his companions, |
| He sees him lie, that noble old baron; |
| 'Tis the Archbishop, whom in His name wrought God; |
| There he proclaims his sins, and looks above; |
| Joins his two hands, to Heaven holds them forth, |
| And Paradise prays God to him to accord. |
| Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Charlon. |
| In battles great and very rare sermons |
| Against pagans ever a champion. |
| God grant him now His Benediction! |
| AOI. |
| CLXVII |
| The count Rollant sees the Archbishop lie dead, |
| Sees the bowels out of his body shed, |
| And sees the brains that surge from his forehead; |
| Between his two arm-pits, upon his breast, |
| Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair. |
| Then mourns aloud, as was the custom there: |
| "Thee, gentle sir, chevalier nobly bred, |
| To the Glorious Celestial I commend; |
| Neer shall man be, that will Him serve so well; |
| Since the Apostles was never such prophet, |
| To hold the laws and draw the hearts of men. |
| Now may your soul no pain nor sorrow ken, |
| Finding the gates of Paradise open!" |
| CLXVIII |
| Then Rollanz feels that death to him draws near, |
| For all his brain is issued from his ears; |
| He prays to God that He will call the peers, |
| Bids Gabriel, the angel, t' himself appear. |
| Takes the olifant, that no reproach shall hear, |
| And Durendal in the other hand he wields; |
| Further than might a cross-bow's arrow speed |
| Goes towards Spain into a fallow-field; |
| Climbs on a cliff; where, under two fair trees, |
| Four terraces, of marble wrought, he sees. |
| There he falls down, and lies upon the green; |
| He swoons again, for death is very near. |
| CLXIX |
| High are the peaks, the trees are very high. |
| Four terraces of polished marble shine; |
| On the green grass count Rollant swoons thereby. |
| A Sarrazin him all the time espies, |
| Who feigning death among the others hides; |
| Blood hath his face and all his body dyed; |
| He gets afoot, running towards him hies; |
| Fair was he, strong and of a courage high; |
| A mortal hate he's kindled in his pride. |
| He's seized Rollant, and the arms, were at his side, |
| "Charles nephew," he's said, "here conquered lies. |
| To Araby I'll bear this sword as prize." |
| As he drew it, something the count descried. |
| CLXX |
| So Rollant felt his sword was taken forth, |
| Opened his eyes, and this word to him spoke |
| "Thou'rt never one of ours, full well I know." |
| Took the olifant, that he would not let go, |
| Struck him on th' helm, that jewelled was with gold, |
| And broke its steel, his skull and all his bones, |
| Out of his head both the two eyes he drove; |
| Dead at his feet he has the pagan thrown: |
| After he's said: "Culvert, thou wert too bold, |
| Or right or wrong, of my sword seizing hold! |
| They'll dub thee fool, to whom the tale is told. |
| But my great one, my olifant I broke; |
| Fallen from it the crystal and the gold." |
| CLXXI |
| Then Rollanz feels that he has lost his sight, |
| Climbs to his feet, uses what strength he might; |
| In all his face the colour is grown white. |
| In front of him a great brown boulder lies; |
| Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes; |
| The steel cries out, but does not break outright; |
| And the count says: "Saint Mary, be my guide |
| Good Durendal, unlucky is your plight! |
| I've need of you no more; spent is my pride! |
| We in the field have won so many fights, |
| Combating through so many regions wide |
| That Charles holds, whose beard is hoary white! |
| Be you not his that turns from any in flight! |
| A good vassal has held you this long time; |
| Never shall France the Free behold his like." |
| CLXXII |
| Rollant hath struck the sardonyx terrace; |
| The steel cries out, but broken is no ways. |
| So when he sees he never can it break, |
| Within himself begins he to complain: |
| "Ah! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain! |
| Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays! |
| In Moriane was Charles, in the vale, |
| When from heaven God by His angel bade |
| Him give thee to a count and capitain; |
| Girt thee on me that noble King and great. |
| I won for him with thee Anjou, Bretaigne, |
| And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine, |
| And Normandy the free for him I gained, |
| Also with thee Provence and Equitaigne, |
| And Lumbardie and all the whole Romaigne, |
| I won Baivere, all Flanders in the plain, |
| Also Burguigne and all the whole Puillane, |
| Costentinnople, that homage to him pays; |
| In Saisonie all is as he ordains; |
| With thee I won him Scotland, Ireland, Wales, |
| England also, where he his chamber makes; |
| Won I with thee so many countries strange |
| That Charles holds, whose beard is white with age! |
| For this sword's sake sorrow upon me weighs, |
| Rather I'ld die, than it mid pagans stay. |
| Lord God Father, never let France be shamed!" |
| CLXXIII |
| Rollant his stroke on a dark stone repeats, |
| And more of it breaks off than I can speak. |
| The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least, |
| Back from the blow into the air it leaps. |
| Destroy it can he not; which when he sees, |
| Within himself he makes a plaint most sweet. |
| "Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed! |
| Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals: |
| Saint Peter's Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile, |
| Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise, |
| Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary. |
| It is not right that pagans should thee seize, |
| For Christian men your use shall ever be. |
| Nor any man's that worketh cowardice! |
| Many broad lands with you have I retrieved |
| Which Charles holds, who hath the great white beard; |
| Wherefore that King so proud and rich is he." |
| CLXXIV |
| But Rollant felt that death had made a way |
| Down from his head till on his heart it lay; |
| Beneath a pine running in haste he came, |
| On the green grass he lay there on his face; |
| His olifant and sword beneath him placed, |
| Turning his head towards the pagan race, |
| Now this he did, in truth, that Charles might say |
| (As he desired) and all the Franks his race;— |
| 'Ah, gentle count; conquering he was slain!'— |
| He owned his faults often and every way, |
| And for his sins his glove to God upraised. |
| AOI. |
| CLXXV |
| But Rollant feels he's no more time to seek; |
| Looking to Spain, he lies on a sharp peak, |
| And with one hand upon his breast he beats: |
| "Mea Culpa! God, by Thy Virtues clean |
| Me from my sins, the mortal and the mean, |
| Which from the hour that I was born have been |
| Until this day, when life is ended here!" |
| Holds out his glove towards God, as he speaks |
| Angels descend from heaven on that scene. |
| AOI. |
| CLXXVI |
| The count Rollanz, beneath a pine he sits,; |
| Turning his eyes towards Spain, he begins |
| Remembering so many divers things: |
| So many lands where he went conquering, |
| And France the Douce, the heroes of his kin, |
| And Charlemagne, his lord who nourished him. |
| Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this. |
| But his own self, he's not forgotten him, |
| He owns his faults, and God's forgiveness bids: |
| "Very Father, in Whom no falsehood is, |
| Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst remit, |
| And Daniel save from the lions' pit; |
| My soul in me preserve from all perils |
| And from the sins I did in life commit!" |
| His right-hand glove, to God he offers it |
| Saint Gabriel from's hand hath taken it. |
| Over his arm his head bows down and slips, |
| He joins his hands: and so is life finish'd. |
| God sent him down His angel cherubin, |
| And Saint Michael, we worship in peril; |
| And by their side Saint Gabriel alit; |
| So the count's soul they bare to Paradis. |
