THE SONG OF ROLAND
(an excerpt)

80

Oliver climbs to the top of a hill,
looks to his right, across a grassy vale,
sees that pagan army on its way there;
and called down to Roland, his companion;
“That way, toward Spain: the uproar I see Coming!
all their hauberks, all blazing, helmets like flames!
It will be a bitter thing for our French.
Ganelon knew that criminal, that traitor,
when he marked us out before the Emperor.”
“Be still, Oliver,” Roland the Count replies.
He is my stepfather – my stepfather.
I won’t have you speak one word against him.”

81

Oliver has gone up a hill,
sees clearly now; the kingdom of Spain,
and the Saracens assembled in such numbers;
helmets blazing, bedecked with gems in gold,
those shields of theirs, those hauberks sewn with brass,
and all their spears, the gonfalons affixed;
cannot begin to count their battle corps,
there are too many, he cannot take their number.
And he is deeply troubled by what he sees.
He made his way quickly down from the hill,
came the French, told them all he had seen.

82

Said Oliver: “ I saw the Saracens,
no man on earth ever saw more of them –
one hundred thousand, with their shields, up in front.
helmets faced on, hauberks blazing on them,
the shafts straight up, the iron heads like flames –
you’ll get a battle, nothing like it before.
My lords, my French, may God give you the strength
Hold your ground now! Let them not defeat us!”
And the French say: “God hate the man who runs!
We may die here, but no man will fail you.”

83

Said Oliver: “The pagan force is great;
from what I see, our French here are too few.
Roland, my companion, sound your horn then,
Charles will hear it, the army will come back”
Roland replies: “I’d be a fool to do it.
I would lose my good name all through sweet France.
I will strike now, I’ll strike with Durendal,
the blade will be bloody to the gold from striking!
These pagan traitors came to these passes doomed!
I promise you, they are marked men, they’ll die.”

87

Roland is good, and Oliver is wise,
both these vassals men of amazing courage:
once they are armed and mounted on their horses,
they will not run, though they die for it, from battle.
Good men, these Counts, and their words full of spirit.
Traitor pagans are riding up in fury.
Said Oliver: “Roland, look – the first ones,
on top of us – and Charles is far away.
You did not think it right to sound your olifant:
if the King were here, we’d come out without losses.
Now look up there, toward the passes of Aspre
you can see the guard, it will suffer.
No man in that detail will be in another.”
Roland replies: “Don’t speak such foolishness –
shame on the heart gone coward in the chest.
We’ll hold our ground, we’ll stand firm – we’re the ones!
We’ll fight with spears, we’ll fight them hand to hand!”

89

And now there comes the Arcbishop Turpin
He spurs his horse, goes up into a mountain,
summons the French; and he preached them a sermon:
“Barons, my lords, Charles left us in this place.
We know our duty: to die like good men for our King.
Fight to defend the holy Christian faith.
Now you will have a battle, you know it now,
you see the Saracens with your own eyes.
Confess your sins, pray to the Lord for mercy.
I will absolve you all, to save your souls.
If you die here, you will stand up holy martyrs,
you will have seats in highest Paradise,”
The French dismount, cast themselves on the ground;
the Archbishop blesses them in God’s name.
He commands them to do one penance; strike.

91

Roland went forth into the Spanish passes
on Vellantif, his good swift running horse.
He bears his arms – how they become this man,
grips his lance now, hefting it, working it,
now swings the iron point up toward the sky,
the gonfalon all white laced on above –
the golden streamers beat down upon his hands
a noble’s body, the face aglow and smiling.
Close behind him his good companion follows,
the men of France hail him; their protector!
He looks wildly toward the Saracens,
and humbly and gently to the men of France;
and spoke a word to them, in all courtesy:
“Barons, my lords, easy now, keep at a walk.
These pagans are searching for martyrdom.
We’ll get good spoils before this day is over,
no king of France ever got such treasure!”And with these words, the hosts are at each other.

93

Marsilion’s nephew is named Aelroth.
He rides in front, at the head of the army,
comes on shouting, insults against our French:
“French criminals, today you fight our men.
One man should have saved you; he betrayed you
A fool, your King, to leave you in these passes.
This is the day sweet France will lose its name,
and Charlemagne the right arm of his body.”
when he hears that – God – Roland is outraged!
He spurs his horse, gives Veillantif its head.
The Count comes on to strike with all his might,
smashes his shields, breaks his hauberk apart,
and drives rips through his chest, shatters the bones,
knocks the whole backbone out of his back
Casts out the soul of Aelroth with his lance:
which he thrusts deep, makes the whole body shake
throws him down dead, lance straight out, from his horse
he has broken his neck; broken it in two.
There is something, he says, he must tell him:
Clown! Nobody! Now you know Charles is no fool
he never was the man to love treason.
It took his valor to leave us in these passes!
France will not lose its name, sweet France! today.
Brave men of France, strike hard! The first blow is ours.
We’re in the right, and these swine in the wrong!”

105

Roland, the Count, comes riding through the field,
holds Durendal, that sword! it carves its way!
and brings terrible slaughter down on the pagans
To have seen him cast one man dead on another,
the bright red blood pouring out on the ground,
his hauberk, his two arms, running with blood,
his good horse – neck and shoulders running with blood.
And Oliver does not linger, the strikes!
and the Twelve Peers, no man could reproach them;
and the brave French, they fight with lance and sword
The pagans die, some simply faint away!
said the Archbishop. “Bless our band of brave men!”
Munjoie he shouts – the war cry of King Charles.

110

The battle is fearful and full of grief.
Oliver and Roland strike like good men,
the Archbishop, more than a thousand blows,
and the Twelve Peers do not hang back, they strike!
the French fight side by side, all as one man.
The pagans die by hundreds, by thousands:
whoever does not flee finds no refuge from death,
like it or not, there he ends all his days.
And there the men of France lose their greatest arms;
they will not see their fathers, their kin again,
or Charlemagne, who looks for them in the passes.
Tremendous torment now comes forth in France,
a mighty whirlwind, tempests of wind and thunder,
rains and hailstones, great and immeasurable,
bolts of lightning hurtling and hurtling down:
it is, in truth, a trembling of the earth.
From Saint Michael – in – Peril to the Saints,
from Besancon to the port of Wissant,
there is no house whose veil of walls does not rumble.
A great darkness at noon falls on the land,
there is no light but when the heavens crack.
No man sees this who is not terrified,
and many say: “The Last Day! Judgment Day!
The end! The end of the word is upon us!”
They do not know, they do not speak the truth:
it is the world wide grief for the death of Roland.

130

And Roland says: “ We are in a rough battle.
I’ll sound the olifant, Charles will hear it.”
Said Oliver: “No good vassal would do it.
When I urged it, friend, you did not think it right.
If Charles were here, we’d come out with no losses.
Those men down there – no blame can fall on them.”
Oliver said: “Now by this beard of mine,
If I can see my noble sister, Aude,”
once more, you will never lie in her arms!”


131

And Roland said: “Why are you angry at me?”
Oliver answers: “Companion, it is your doing.
I will tell you what makes a vassal good:
it is judgment, it is never madness;
restraint is worth more than the raw nerve of a fool.
Frenchmen are dead because of your wildness.
And what service will Charless ever have from us?
If you had trusted me, my lord would be here,
we would have fought this battle through to the end,
Marsilion would be dead, or our prisoner.
Roland, your prowess – had we never seen it!
And now, dear friend, we’ve seen the last of it.
No more aid from us now for Charlemagne,
a man without equal till Judgment Day,
you will die here, and your death will shame France.
We kept faith, you and I, we were companions;
and everything we were will end today.
We part before evening, and it will be hard.

132

Turpin the Archbishop hears their bitter words,
digs hard into his horse with golden spurs
and rides to them; begins to set them right:
“You, Lord Roland, and you, Lord Oliver,
I beg you in God’s name do not quarrel.
To sound the horn could not help us now, true,
but still it is far better that you do it;
let the King come, he can avenge us then –
these men of Spain must not go home exulting!
Our French will come, they’ll get down on their feet.
and find us here – we’ll be dead, cut to pieces.
They will lift us into coffins on the backs of mules.
and weep for us, in rage and pain and grief,
and bury us in the courts of churches;
and we will not be eaten by wolves or pigs or dogs.”
Roland replies. “Lord, you have spoken well.”

133

Roland has put the olifant to his mouth,
he sets it well, sounds it with all his strength
The hills are high, and that voice ranges far,
they heard it echo thirty great leagues away.
King Charles heard it, and all his faithful men.
And the King says: “Our men are in a battle.”
And Ganelon disputed him and said:
“Had someone else said that, I’d call him liar.”

134

And now the mighty effort of Roland, the Count,
he sounds his olifant; his pain is great,
and from his mouth the bright blood comes leaping out,
and the temple bursts in his forehead.
That horn, in Roland’s hands, has a mighty voice.
King Charles hears it drawing through the passes.
Naimon heard it, the Franks listen to it.
And the King said: “I hear Cound Roland’s horn
he’d never sound it unless he had a battle.”
Says Ganelon: “Now no more talk of battles.”
You are old now, your hair is white as snow,
the things you say make you sound like a child.
You know Roland and that wild pride of his – what a wonder God has suffered it so long.”
Remember? he took Noples without your command –
the Saracens rode out, to break the siege;
Afterward he used the streams to wash the blood
from the meadows: so that nothing would show.
He blasts his horn all day to catch a rabbit,
he’s strutting now before his peers and bragging
who under heaven would dare meet him on the field?
So now: ride on! Why do you keep on stopping.
The Land of Fathers lies far ahead of us.”


135

The blood leaping from Count Roland’s mouth
the temple broken with effort in his forehead
he sounds his horn in great travail and pain
King Charles heard it, and his French listen hard
And the King said: “That horn has a long breath”
Naimon answers: It is a barons breath.
There is a battle there, I know there is.
He betrayed him! and now asks you to fail him!
Put on your armour! Lord, shout your battle cry,
and save the noble of your house!
you hear Roland’s call. He is in trouble.”

136

The Emperor commanded the horns to sound,
the French dismount, and they put on their armor:
their hauberks their helmets, their gold – dressed swords
their handsome shields; and take up their great lances
the gonfalons of white and red and blue.
The barons of that host mount their war horses
and spur them hard the whole length of the pass;
and every man of them says to the other:
“If only we find Roland before he’s killed,
we’ll stand with him, and then we’ll do some fighting!”
What does it matter what they say! They are too late.

138

High are the hills, and tenebrous, and vast,
The valley deep, the raging waters swift;
to the rear to the front, the trumpets sound:
They answer the lone voice of the olifant.
The Emperor rides on, rides on in fury,
the men of France in grief and indignation.
There is no man who does not weep and wail,
and they pray God: protect the life of Roland
till they come, one great host, into the field
and fight at Roland’s side like true men all.
What does it matter what they pray? It does no good
They are too late, they cannot come in time.

156

Roland, the Count, fights well and with great skill,
but he is hot, his body soaked with sweat;
has a great wound in his head, had much pain,
his temple broken because he blew the horn.
But he must know whether King Charles will come;
draws out the olifant, sounds it, so feebly.
The Emperor drew to a halt, listened.
“Seignerus,” he said, “it all goes badly for us
My nephew Roland falls from our ranks today.
I hear it in the horn’s voice: he hasn’t long.
Let every man who wants to be with Roland
ride fast! Sound trumpets! Every trumpet in this host!”
Sixty thousand, on these words, sound, so high
the mountains sound, and the valleys resound.
The pagans hear; it is no joke to them;
cry to each other: “We’re getting Charles on us!”

160

Say the pagans: “We were all born unlucky!
The evil day that dawned for us today!
We have lost our lords and peers, and now comes Charles
that Charlemagne! – with his great host. Those trumpets!
the shrill sound on us – the trumpets of the French!
And the loud roar of that Munjoie! This Roland
is a wild man, he is too great a fighter –
What man of flesh and blood can ever hope
to bring him down! Let us cast at him, and leave him there.”
And so they did arrows, wigars, darts,
Lances and spears, javelots dressed with feathers;
struck Roland’s shield, pierced it, broke it to pieces.
ripped his hauberk, shattered its rings of mail,
but never touched his body, never his flesh.
They wounded Veillantif in thirty places,
struck him dead, from afar, under the Count.
The pagans flee, they leave the field to him.
Roland the Count stood alone, on his feet.

161

The pagans flee, in bitterness and rage,
strain every nerve running headlong toward Spain,
and Count Roland has no way to chase them,
he has lost Veillnatif, his battle horse;
he has no choice, left alone there on foot.
He went to the aid of Archbishop Turpin,
unlaced the gold – dressed helmet, raised it from his head,
lifted away his bright, light coat of mail,
cut his under tunic into some lengths,
stilled his great wounds with thrusting on the strips;
then held him in his arms, against his chest,
and laid down, gently, on the green grass;
and softly now Roland entreated him:
“My noble lord, I beg you, give me leave:
our companions, whom we have loved so dearly,
are all dead now, we must not abandon them.
I want to look for them, know them once more,
and set them in ranks, side by side, before you.”
Said the Archbishop: “Go then, go and come back.
The field is ours, thanks be to God, yours and mine.”

168

Now Roland feels the death is very near.
His brain comes spilling out through his two ears;
prays to God for his peers; let them be called;
and for himself, to the angel Gabriel;
took the olifant; there must be no reproach!
took Durendal his sword in his other hand,
and farther than a crossbow’s farthest land,
and climbs a hill; there beneath two pine trees
stand four great blocks of stone, all are of marble;
and he fell back, to earth, on the green grass,
has fainted there, for death is very near.

169

High are the hills, and high, high are the trees;
there stands four blocks of stone, gleaming of marble.
Count Roland falls fainting on the green grass,
and is watched, all this time, by a Saracen:
who has feigned death and lies now with the others,
has smeared blood on his face and on his body;
and quickly now gets to his feet and runs –
a handsome man, strong, brave, and so crazed with pride
that he does something mad and dies for it:
laid hands on Roland, and on the arms of Roland,
an cried: “Conquered! Charles’ nephew conquered!
I’ll carry this sword home to Arabia!”
As he draws it, the Count begins to come round.

170

Now Roland feels; someone taking his sword!
opened his eyes, and had one word for him.
“I don’t know you, you aren’t one of ours”
grasps that olifant that he will never lose,
strikes on the helm beset with gems in gold,
shatters the steel, and the head, and the bones,
sent his two eyes flying out of his head,
dumped him over stretched out at his feet dead;
and said: “You nobody! how could you dare lay hands on me – rightly or wrongly: how?
Who’ll hear of this and not call you a fool?
Ah! the bell mouth of the olifant is smashed,
the crystal and the gold fallen away.”


171

Now Roland the Count feels: his sight is gone;
gets on his feet, draws on his final strength,
the color on his face lost now for good.
Before him stands a rock; and on that dark rock
in rage and bitterness he strikes ten blows:
the steel blade grates, it will not break, it stand unmarked.
“Ah! said the Count, “Blessed Mary, your help!
Ah Durendal, good sword, your unlucky day
for I am lost and cannot keep ou in my care.
The battles I haave won, fighting with you,
the mighty lands that holding you I counquered,
that Charles rules now, our King, whose beard is white!
Now you fall to another; it must not be
a man who’d run before another man!
For a long while a good vassal held you:
there’ll never be like in France’s holy land.”

173

Roland, the Count, strikes down on a dark rock,
and the rock breaks, breaks more than I can tell,
and the blade grates, but Durendal will not break,
and sword leaped up, rebounded toward the sky,
The count, when he sees that sword will not be broken,
softly in his own presence, speaks the lament:
“Ah Durendal, beautiful, and most sacred,
the holy relics in this golden pommel!
St. Peter’s tooth and blood of Saint Basile,
a lock of hair of my lord Saint Denis,
and a fragment of blessed Mary’s robe.
Your power must not fall to the pagans,
and must be served by Christian warriors.
May no coward ever come to hold you!
with you I conquered those great lands
that Charles has in his keeping, whose beard is white,
the Emperor’s lands, that make him rich and strong.”

174

Now Roland feels death coming over him,
death descending from his temples to his heart.
He came running, underneath a pine tree
and there stretched out, face down, on the green grass,
lays beneath him his sword and the olifant.
He turned his head toward the Saracen hosts,
and this is why: with all his heart he wants
King Charles the Great and all his men to say,
he died, that noble Count, a conqueror;
makes confession, beats his breast often, so feebly,
offers his glove, for all his sins, to God.
176

Count Roland lay stretched out a pine;
he turned his face toward the land of Spain,
began to remember many things now:
how many lands, brave man, he had conquered;
and he remembered: sweet France, the men of his line,
remembered Charles, his lord, who fostered him:
cannot keep, remembering, from weeping, sighing;
but would not be unmindful of himself;
he confesses his sins, prays God for mercy:
“ Loyal Father, you who never failed us,
who resurrected Saint Lazarus from the dead,
and saved your servant Daniel from the lions:
now save the soul of me from every peril
for the sins I committed while I still lived.”
Then he held out his right glove to his Lord:
Saint Gabriel took the glove from his hand.
He held his head bowed down upon his arm,
he is gone, his two hands joined, to his end.
Then God sent him his angel Cherubim
and Saint Michael, angel of the sea’s Peril;
and with these two there came Saint Gabriel:
they bear Count Roland’s soul to Paradise.

177
Roland is dead, God has his soul in heaven.
The Emperor rides into Rencesvals;
there is no passage there, there is no track,
no empty ground, not an elle, not one foot,
that does not bear French dead or pagan dead.
King Charles cries out: “Dear Nephew, where are you?
Where is the Archbishop? Count Oliver?
Where is Gerin, his companion Gerer?
Where is Otun, where is Count Berenger,
Yves and Yvoire, men I have loved so dearly?
What has become of Engeler the Gascon,
Sansun the Duke, and Anseis, that fighter?
Where is Gerard the Old of Roussillon,
and the twelve Peers, whom I left in these passes?”
And so forth – what’s the difference? No one answered.
“God!” said the King, “how much I must regret
I was not here when the battle began”;
pulls his great beard, a man in grief and rage.
His brave knights weep, their eyes are filled with tears,
twenty thousand fall fainting to the ground;
Duke Naimon feels the great pity of it.

180

God made great miracles for Charlemagne,
for on that day in heaven the sun stood still.
The pagans flee, Franks keep at their heels,
catch up with them in the Vale Tenebrous,
chase them on spurring hard to Saragossa,
and always killing them, striking with fury;
cut off their paths, the widest roads away;
the waters of the Ebro lie before them,
very deep, an amazing sight, and swift;
and there is no boat, no barge, no dromond, no gallery.
They call on Tervagant, one of their gods.
Then they jump in, but no god is with them:
those in full armour, the ones who weigh the mos;
sank down, and they were many, to the bottom;
the others float downstream: the luckiest one
who fare best in those waters, have drunk so much,
they all drown there, struggling, it is amazing.
The French cry out: “Curse the day you saw Roland!”

King Marsilion loses his right hand in the battle with Charlemagne but escapes to Saragossa and enlists the aid of Balignant, another pagan. Charlemagne, however, kills Balignant in combat and defeats his army. Then, after capturing Saragossa, the emperor returns home.

270
The Emperor has come home again to Aix.
In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon
stands before the palace, within the cty.
e has been bound, and by serfs, to a stake;
they tie his hands with deerhide straps and thongs,
and beat him hard, with butcher’s hooks, with clubs –
for what better reward has this man earned?
There he stands, in pain and rage, awaiting his trial.

Pinabel, one of Ganelon’s kinsmen, threatens to kill anyone who recommends that Ganelon be hanged. The emperor’s advisers then suggest freeing Ganelon, a piece of advice that enrages Charlemagne. At this point however, Tierri volunteers o fight Pinabel. When Tierri wins, against all odds the French agree that Ganelon must die.

289

Bavarians and Alemans returned,
and Poitevins, and Bretons, and Normans,
and all agreed, the Franks before the others.
Ganelon must die, and in amazing pain.
The war horses are led out and brought forward;
then they attach his two feet, his two hands.
These battle horses are swift and spirited,
the sergeants come and drive them on ahead
toward a river in the midst of a field.
Ganelon is brought to terrible perdition,
all his mighty sinews are pulled to pieces,
and the limbs of his body burst apart;
on the green grass flows that bright and famous blood.
Ganelon died a traitors and recreant’s death.
Now when one man betrays another, it is not right
that he should live to boast of it.