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La Chanson de Roland (The Song of Roland)

Part III: The Death of Oliver

Combat of Roland and the giant Ferragut from the Grandes Chroniques de France, Paris, BNF, Fr. 2813, fol. 118

Combat of Roland and the giant Ferragut from the Grandes Chroniques de France, Paris, BNF, Fr. 2813, fol. 118
Picryl

Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2024, All Rights Reserved.

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Contents

Verses 105-107: Roland and Oliver fight side by side

Count Roland galloped onwards through the field.

Gripping Durendal, that sliced away and thrust.

Great damage he thus wrought the Saracen foe,

Who were seen, dying, hurled on one another.

Through all that place the blood flowed clear!

His hauberk and arms were drenched with blood,

And the shoulders and neck, of his good steed.

Meanwhile Oliver failed not in striking hard.

No blame should fall upon those dozen peers,

For all the Franks fought fiercely there and slew.

Pagans fell dead, some fainted in the saddle.

Said Archbishop Turpin: ‘Noble work, indeed!’

‘Montjoie’ he shouted, Charlemagne’s war-cry.

Brave Oliver galloped on through the ranks;

His lance now broken, thrusting with the hilt;

He moved to strike a pagan lord, Malun;

And broke his shield, gilded all with flowers,

The pagan’s eyes burst forth from his head,

And all his brains poured out into the dust;

He flung him, dead, midst seven hundred others.

And then he downed Turgis and Esturguz;

Though his lance-stub shattered all to pieces.

Cried Roland: ‘My companion, what is this?

In such a fight, plain wood is of scant use;

Iron and steel must show our valour here.

Where is your sword, Halteclere, by name,

Whose hilt is gold, with crystal set therein?

‘I’d no time to draw the blade,’ cried Oliver,

‘Needing to strike one blow upon another!’

Then Oliver drew forth his sword of steel,

As his comrade Roland had demanded,

And courteously showed him the blade.

He struck a knight, Justin de Val Ferree,

And split the man’s head, at once, in two,

Sliced the chest, the embroidered robes,

The fine saddle, all embossed with gold,

And, through the spine, the pagan’s steed.

Dead, on the field, before his feet, they fell.

Said Roland: ‘For that, I call you brother!

Our emperor will love us for such blows.’

On every side there rose the cry: ‘Montjoie!’

Verses 108-109: Gerins, Gerers and Turpin are in action

Count Gerins sat astride his horse Sorel,

Gerers, his friend, beside him, on Passecerf.

They loosed their reins, and sped on together,

Attacking a pagan knight, one Timozel;

One struck the shield; the hauberk, the other,

Their two lances piercing the man’s body,

Hurling him, dying, to the ground below.

I know not, for I’ve ne’er heard it said,

Which of the two fought more skilfully.

Esprieres was slain, the son of Burdel,

While the Archbishop did for Siglorel,

The vile enchanter, that was once in hell,

Where Jupiter led him by his magic art.

Turpin cried: ‘Here was he forfeit to us!’

Roland replied: ‘His villainy is ended.

Such lance-blows, friend Oliver, I like well.’

The battle grew immeasurably fiercer,

Franks and pagans dealing wondrous blows.

One struck as some other knight defended.

Many a blood-stained shaft was shattered,

Many a banner, and many a pennant torn.

Many a Frankish youth that day was lost;

Gazed on by his wife and mother no more,

Nor by the Frankish host amidst that pass.

Charlemagne, maddened, weeps their fate?

What matter? For no aid can help them now!

Evil service, that day, did Ganelon render,

When he sold his countrymen, in Zaragoza.

Later, he would lose his limbs, and life,

Condemned to die, facing justice, at Aix,

With thirty more, together, of his kindred,

Who had ne’er expected, thus, to be slain.

Verses 110-112: Battle rages and the forces are thinned

Now the battle was marvellously intense.

Right well they fought, Oliver and Roland.

The archbishop, he dealt a thousand blows;

None of the Twelve fell much short of them.

All of the Franks engaged now in the battle.

The pagans died by hundreds, by thousands.

He that fled not from death found no safety,

But, whether he would or no, left this life.

The Franks had lost the flower of their force,

No more to see their fathers, and their kin,

Nor Charlemagne, where in the pass he stood.

In the skies, a wondrous tumult beset France;

A fierce tempest, of wind and thunder-cloud,

With immeasurable bursts of hail and rain,

As lightning-bolts struck, often, everywhere.

And the solid ground shook, as if in answer.

From Saint-Michel de Peril as far as Sens,

From Besançon to the harbour at Wissant,

Never a house but its walls were cracked:

At midday, the darkness proved so intense,

No light was there, unless the heavens split.

None there viewed all this except in terror.

Many cried: ‘Comes the Day of Judgement;

And the end of all things is close at hand.’

They could not know they spoke in error;

Twas but the day of woe at Roland’s death.

The Franks fought hard, with heart and vigour.

The pagan ranks they slew, in their thousands.

Of that hundred thousand barely two remained.

Roland said: ‘Our men may boast their prowess.

Ne’er on earth has any man commanded better.’

And in the Chronicle of the Franks tis written,

What fine service our emperor there received.

Through the field they went, seeking friends,

Tears in their eyes, born of pain and sorrow,

For kinsmen, dear to their hearts, they’d loved,

As King Marsilius and his host drew near.

King Marsilius led his men along the valley,

The mighty host that yet remained to him.

Twenty great columns the king had gathered.

With studs of gold their helmets gemmed,

Shields and embroidered robes gleaming.

Seven thousand trumpets sounded the charge,

And loud was the noise through all that place.

Said Roland: ‘Oliver, companion, brother,

That wretch Ganelon has sworn to end us;

His treachery can be concealed no more.

Mighty vengeance our emperor will take;

A battle we shall have, long and hard,

For never has any man beheld the like.

With Durendal, my blade, I shall strike,

And, you my comrade, wield Halteclere.

On many a field have we borne them,

And with them have ended many a fight;

No shameful song shall be sung of them.’

Verses 113-115: Archbishop Turpin slays Abisme, the Saracen

Marsilius had seen the slaughter of his men.

And had the horns and trumpets sounded.

And advanced the greater part of his host.

In the vanguard rode a Saracen, Abisme,

None more villainous in all that company.

Full of sin, of every form of wickedness,

He believed not in God, the Son of Mary;

His heart was as black as pitch, while he

Felt more desire for treachery and murder,

Than all the gold there was in Galicia;

Ne’er had any seen him smiling, or at ease,

A madness was in him, and such valour,

As made him dear to the king, Marsilius;

His ensign, of a dragon, his folk followed.

The archbishop loved not the sight of him.

Turpin eyeing the pagan, wished to strike,

While saying to himself, beneath his breath:

‘This Saracen’s a great heretic, it seems:

I’d rather die, than not slay the fellow;

No coward I, nor e’er loved cowardice.’

The Archbishop now commenced his attack.

Riding a steed he’d taken from Grossaille,

A king whom Turpin had slain in Denmark.

The charger was swift, and of a noble line,

Fine the hooves, the legs smooth and straight,

Short in the thigh, and the crupper full wide,

Long in the ribs, and the spine raised high,

White the tail, while yellow was the mane,

The ears neat and small, and tawny the face;

No creature e’er was born could outrun him.

Archbishop Turpin, spurred on by courage,

Paused not until he met with this Abisme.

He struck the man upon his wondrous shield,

Studded with jewels, amethysts and topaz,

And garnets, and other gems, that shone.

A devil gave it, as a gift, in Val Metas,

Handing it to the admiral Galafes.

Turpin struck home, sparing it not at all;

After that blow, twas not worth a penny.

He sliced the man; and cut away his ribs,

And flung his corpse to the empty ground.

The Franks cried, then: ‘What courage is his!

With such an archbishop, the Cross is safe.’

The Franks, seeing so many pagans there,

Covering the battlefield, on every side,

Often called out to Oliver, and Roland,

And others of the Twelve, to defend them.

Archbishop Turpin spoke loudly to them:

‘My lord barons, banish your ill thoughts!

For God’s sake, I pray, flee not the field,

Lest men should sing but ill of our valour!

Far better that we die here, as combatants.

Certain it is that we must meet death soon,

For not a man here shall outlive this day;

And yet, of this, I’ll give you guarantee:

Paradise now opens, blessed, before you,

And you shall be seated midst the Innocent.’

At this, the Franks were all emboldened;

Not one of them but cried aloud ‘Montjoie!’.

Verses 116-117: The Saracen Climborins slays Engeliers of Burdele

A Saracen there was, come of Zaragoza,

And one half of that same city he ruled;

Climborins his name; one of no great birth;

He swore an oath to serve Count Ganelon,

And kissed him on the mouth, in friendship,

Gave him his sword, and a fine garnet too.

He said he’d bring shame to wider France,

And take the emperor’s crown for his own.

He sat astride his charger, Barbamusche,

Far swifter than swallow or sparrowhawk,

Spurred him fiercely, and loosed the reins,

And attacked Engeliers, the Gascon lord.

Nor shield nor mail proved useful in defence.

The pagan’s lance-tip pierced him deeply,

Pinned him well, and transfixed his body;

From the shaft was he flung to the ground.

Climborins cried: ‘ So we’ll confound them!

Strike, Saracens, and rout the enemy ranks!’

Cried the Franks: ‘Lord, woeful is his loss!’

Count Roland called aloud to Oliver:

‘Our comrade, Engeliers now lies dead.

No knight more valiant was among us.’

The other cried: ‘Let me avenge him, Lord!’

With his golden spurs, he pricked his steed

Gripped Halteclere, its blade blood-stained,

And, seeking to strike the pagan fiercely,

Wielded the blade, and felled the Saracen;

God’s adversaries snatched his soul away.

Next Oliver slew a duke, one Alphaïen,

Struck the head from the pagan Escababi,

And another seven Arabs then unseated;

Leaving them wounded, and unfit for war.

Said Roland, then: ‘My friend grows angry,

I cannot but praise him for that encounter;

Charlemagne holds us dearer for such blows,’

And shouted: ‘Strike hard, knights of France!’

Verses 118-119: The pagan Valdabrun slays Duke Sansun

Came, then, another pagan, Valdabrun.

Warden he’d been to King Marsilius,

And admiral of four hundred vessels;

No sailor was there but knew his name.

Jerusalem he’d once taken, by treason,

And violated Solomon’s great Temple,

And slain the Patriarch beside his font.

He’d pledged his oath to Count Ganelon,

Gifting his sword, and a thousand coins.

He rode a horse, its name Gramimund,

That was swifter than a falcon in flight.

He pricked the steed, with his sharp spurs,

And went to strike the rich Duke Sansun,

Splitting his shield, piercing his hauberk,

And driving the lance’s pennant through.

With the hilt he pushed him from the saddle:

‘Strike Saracens,’ he cried, ‘thus we conquer!’

The Franks: ‘Lord, woe for the baron’s loss!’

Count Roland, viewing the death of Sansun,

Was filled with great grief, as you’ll believe.

He spurred his horse on, and galloped hard,

Gripping Durendal, worth more than gold.

He struck the pagan, as fiercely as he could

Upon the helm, that with gold was studded,

Split the head, the hauberk, and the body,

The saddle, that was gold-embossed also,

And cut through the steed’s spine below;

Both he’d slain, blame or praise who might.

The pagans cried: ‘A blow to us, is this!’

Roland answered: ‘Love you, I may not!

For before you now lies pride, and error.’

Verses 120-121: Malquiant slays Anseis

Out of Africa, there came an African prince,

One Malquiant, the son of King Malcud,

His armour all embossed with beaten gold,

That shone, above all others, neath the sun.

He sat his steed, that he called Salt-Perdut,

And never a creature sped as swift as he.

Now, Malquiant struck Anseis on the shield,

Slicing through the crimson and the blue,

Tearing, then piercing the hauberk’s layers,

Driving the steel and shaft through the flesh.

Dead was the Count, and his days no more.

Cried the Franks: ‘Baron, twas evil chance!’

O’er the ground flew Archbishop Turpin.

Such shaven-head ne’er sang Mass before,

Nor showed such bodily prowess in the field.

He said to the pagan: ‘God send you all ill!

You have slain one my heart can but regret.’

His good steed he drove to the encounter,

Struck the man on his shield from Toledo,

And flung him dead upon the verdant grass.

Verses 122-124: Grandonie slays Gerins, Gerers, Berengers and Guion

Came forth another pagan, Grandonie,

The son of Capuel, Cappadocia’s king.

He sat his steed that he called Marmorie,

That sped swifter than any bird that flew.

He slacked the reins, and worked his spurs,

And struck at Gerins with all his might.

Shattering the crimson shield at his neck,

All the hauberk then, below, he tore away,

Driving his azure pennant through the flesh,

And flung Gerins, dead, upon the stones.

He slew brave Gerers his comrade, too,

Berengers, and Guion of Saint-Antoine;

Then moved to strike a rich duke, Austorje,

That ruled Valence, and all about the Rhône.

He flung him dead; the pagan ranks rejoiced.

Cried the Franks: ‘Many of ours, thus, fall!’

Count Roland’s blade was stained with blood,

He heard the cry from the Frankish ranks,

And felt such pain as if his heart was split.

To the foe he cried: ‘God send you every ill!

Such have you slain as shall cost you dear!’

He spurred his steed, and sped o’er the field.

They met together, seeking who might win.

Grandonie was skilful, and most valiant,

A powerful and courageous combatant.

He now encountered Roland in his path,

Whom he’d ne’er seen before, but knew

By his proud visage and his noble form,

By his gaze, and his steely countenance.

He could not fail to tremble at the sight;

He wished to flee then, but to no avail.

The Count struck at his enemy so fiercely

He split the pagan’s helm to the nose-plate,

Likewise, the nose, the teeth, and the jaw,

The hauberk of fine mail, and the body,

The golden saddle, fringed with silver,

And deep into the charger’s back below.

He’d slain them both, beyond all rescue,

And the men of Spain cried their dismay;

The Franks: ‘He fights well our champion!’

Verses 125-127: The battle rages fiercely

The battle raged, and was wondrous fierce.

The Franks struck hard with lance in hand.

There you’d have seen such a wealth of woe,

So many dead, broken, blood-stained men,

One on another hurled, upturned, writhing!

The Saracens could not endure such losses,

And quit the field, whether they would or no.

The Franks, by main force, drove them forth.

The battle raged, and it was wondrous lively;

The Franks struck with vigour, in their wrath,

Slicing through wrists, and ribs, and backs,

Through garments to the living flesh beneath.

Amidst the green turf, the red blood flowed.

A cry arose then from the Saracen ranks:

‘Mahomet curse you, and your wide realm!

Your people are more stubborn than others.’

Not a one of them but shouted: ‘Ride forth,

Marsilius, our king, for we have need of aid!’

Twas Count Roland called aloud to Oliver:

‘Friend, you may now bear witness, freely,

That our archbishop is a formidable knight;

None better on this earth, or above, in heaven.

The man strikes hard with lance and spear.’

Oliver replied: ‘We must grant him succour!’

With this, the Franks recommenced the fight.

Harsh were the blows, the slaughter, the woe.

And the Christians too met with sorrow there.

Seen to the fore were Oliver and Roland,

Striking and killing with their good blades;

Well might men praise the dead lying there.

In song, and chronicle, the tale is written:

Four thousand fell, those histories declare.

Against four bold attacks the Franks resisted,

But then the fifth brought misery and woe;

Nigh on all those Frankish knights were slain,

All but for sixty, whom God chose to spare,

Who’d sell their lives dearly, ere they perished.

Verses 128-132: Roland thinks of sounding his war-horn, Oliver demurs

Count Roland viewed the losses on his side,

And called aloud to Oliver his comrade:

‘Good sir, dear friend, by God, what think you?

So many warriors lie dead upon the ground!

Well may we mourn the flower of fair France.

Shorn of such noble men she’ll long remain!

Ah, king and comrade, were you but here!

Friend Oliver, can we yet bring that about?

May we yet send him tidings of our plight?

Answered Oliver: ‘I know not what to do.

Rather I’d die now than retreat in shame.’

Said Roland: ‘I will sound my ivory horn.

If Charlemagne’s yet in the pass, and hears,

I pledge to you that the army will return.’

Said Oliver: ‘Yet great would be the shame,

And bring reproach on all your kith and kin,

A shame, indeed, that will endure lifelong!

When I asked it of you once, you blew it not.

To do so now, will win no praise from me.

Sound it, and you show yourself less brave,

Although your arms are drenched with blood!’

The Count replied: ‘Full many have I struck!’

Said Roland: ‘This battle of ours waxes fierce.

I’ll sound the horn so Charlemagne may hear.’

Said Oliver: ‘Scant courage such will show!

You would not do so when I asked it, friend.

Were the king here, twould have done no harm;

That the army are not, is no fault of theirs.’

Said Oliver: ‘By this beard of mine, my friend,

If we should yet see my noble sister Alde,

She’ll not clasp you now in a fond embrace!’

Then said Roland: ‘Why so angry with me?’

He answered: ‘Friend, all this was through you.

True service lies in wisdom, and not in folly;

Common sense is worth more than stupidity.

Here lie these Franks, through your carelessness;

We can do Charlemagne scant service now.

If you had heeded me, he would be here;

This same battle we’d have fought and won.

King Marsilius we’d have taken or have slain.

Your rashness, Roland, brought us but ill!

You’ll win no aid now from Charlemagne,

Nor any such till the Day of Judgement.

Here you will die, and France be humbled;

Here will perish all our loyal company;

Ere this night, great our grief in parting!’

Archbishop Turpin heard them, in dispute,

His pricked his steed with his gilded spurs.

Reaching them, he started to reproach them:

‘Come, Sir Roland, and you, Sir Oliver,

For God’s sake, I beg you not to quarrel!

Though sounding the horn may do no good,

Nonetheless, it may be better so to do.

The King will yet avenge us, if he may;

The Saracens will ne’er retreat otherwise.

Our friends, once here, then dismounting,

Will find our corpses, lifeless, and all torn;

They’ll take us up; bear us hence on biers;

And grieve for us, shedding tears of pity;

They’ll bury us beneath some church aisle;

No wolf, or swine, or dog shall feed on us.’

Count Roland replied: ‘Sir, you speak well.’

Verses 133-135: He blows the horn thrice, and Charlemagne hears

Roland now set his war-horn to his lips,

Gripped it hard, and voiced it loudly.

High were the peaks; the echoes rang afar.

Thirty leagues away they heard the sound.

Charlemagne heard, and all his company.

Then said the king: ‘Our men do battle!’

But Count Ganelon replied, disagreeing:

‘Had another said it, I’d deem that false!’

Count Roland, there, sadly and painfully,

With much woe, sounded his horn, again.

Blood sprang from his lips, with the force,

His brow furrowed; the skin there creased.

Loud rang the voice of that ivory horn,

Charlemagne heard it, as he crossed the pass.

Duke Neimes listened hard, and all the Franks.

Then said the king: ‘Roland’s horn, I hear!

He’d not sound it unless deep in combat.’

Ganelon replied: ‘Tis no sound of battle!

You are old; blanched, and white-haired;

To claim such things is mere childishness.

You know how great is Roland’s pride,

And tis a wonder God above allows it.

Noples, he took, without your orders,

Where the Saracens had issued forth,

And would have fought as his vassals,

And yet he slew them all, nonetheless,

Then had the ground rinsed of their blood,

So that what he’d done might not be seen.

He sounds his horn, when hunting the hare.

He ever boasts aloud amidst his peers,

Yet dare not seek an enemy in the field.

Ride on, therefore. Why, should we halt?

The wider fields of France lie far ahead.’

Count Roland, with blood staining his lips,

Nigh on rupturing the veins in his brow,

Sounded the ivory war-horn once more.

Charlemagne heard, as did all the Franks.

Said the king: ‘That horn sounds mightily!’

Duke Neimes replied: ‘The Count’s in need!

For, in my mind, I see fierce battle raging.

He betrays you who’d tell you otherwise.

Take up arms, Sire, give your battle-cry,

And go to the help of these, your people.

You have heard how Roland cries for aid!’

Verses 136-138: Charlemagne turns back; Ganelon is seized

The emperor bade them sound the war-horns.

The Franks dismounted, and dressed for war,

With hauberks, and helms, and gilded swords,

Noble shields, and lances long and weighty,

Their ensigns fluttering, red, white, and blue.

The leaders of the host mounted their steeds,

And spurred in haste, riding through the pass,

As calling out, in unison, to one another:

‘If we can but reach Roland ere he’s slain,

We’ll deal some mighty blows by his side.’

To what avail? For they had stayed too long.

Evening it was, although the sky was bright;

Their armour gleamed, lit by the setting sun,

Hauberks and helms shone, as if with flame,

Their shields glowed, all painted with flowers,

Their lances glittered, decked with pennants.

The emperor now galloped forth in anger,

And all the Franks, in wonder and dismay,

Could not, to the last man, refrain from tears,

Being much afraid for Count Roland’s life.

The king had bid them seize Count Ganelon,

And called on the scullions of his household,

Of whom most called Besgun their master:

‘Guard him well, like to the felon he is,

That, in my ranks, has wrought such treachery!’

He took him, and set on the scullion band,

Out of the canteens, the better and worse,

And had them shave off Ganelon’s beard.

Then each gave him four blows with the fist,

Beating him hard, with cudgels and staves,

And round his neck clasped an iron chain,

And so enchained him much like to a bear.

And set him on a pack-mule to his shame,

And held him until summoned by the king.

High were the peaks, and vast, and shadowy,

The valleys deep, and swiftly ran the streams.

They sounded the trumpets from van and rear,

All blaring in answer to that ivory horn.

The emperor galloped onwards, in his anger,

And all of the Franks, in wonder and dismay.

There was not a man there but wept with woe,

And prayed to God to aid their Count Roland,

Till they might reach the battlefield together,

And, beside him, strike the foe, and valiantly.

To what avail? Their pleas were little worth.

They came too late, not reaching him in time.

Verses 139-140: Roland laments the death of his companions

Charlemagne galloped onwards, in anger,

His white beard flowing o’er his hauberk,

All the barons of France spurred on, likewise.

Not a man of them could contain his wrath

At being far from their champion, Roland,

Who battled against the Saracens of Spain.

If he was dead, not one there would remain.

Lord, but sixty had he in company now,

Yet no king or leader e’er had finer men!

Roland, ere this, was gazing at the hillside;

Many the dead of France, he saw, lay there.

As befits a noble knight, he wept for them:

‘Lord barons, may you know God’s mercy,

And your souls, through Him, find paradise!

May you lie there amidst the holy flowers,

For greater service have I seen from none!

Long have you served me; it seems forever;

Many a land, for Charlemagne, you gained.

The emperor gathered you here but for ill;

And the land of France, so sweet a country,

Lies deserted, through your so bitter exile.

Barons of France I watched you die, for me,

Yet no aid, no defence, I proved to you.

God be your aid, who ne’er proved false!

Oliver, my brother, you I must not fail.

If I am not slain, I shall die of sorrow.

Come, my friend, let us ride forth again!’

Verses 141-142: Marsilius’ army flees the field

Count Roland then returned to the battle.

Gripping Durendal, and striking bravely.

He sliced Faldron de Pui through the waist,

And twenty-four of their finest warriors.

Ne’er did any take such joy in vengeance.

Every pagan he met with fled as swiftly

As a stag flees before the chasing hounds.

Cried the archbishop: ‘Well fought, indeed!

Such valour each true knight should reveal,

That carries arms, and sits a decent horse.

In battle he should show strong and proud,

Otherwise, he’s scarce worth four deniers,

And better had been a monk in his cloister,

Praying, all his days, for us poor sinners!’

Answered Roland: ‘Strike on, sparing none!’

At his words, the Franks set to, once more,

Yet suffered many a loss, those Christians.

The man who swears that he’ll not be taken,

Is fierce in his own defence, in such a battle.

And so, the Franks showed fierce as lions.

Marsilius too, fought bravely, like a baron,

Astride his charger, that he called Gaignun.

Spurring hard, he charged and struck Bevon,

He that was lord of Beane, and fair Dijon.

He shattered his shield, pierced his hauberk,

And flung him dead, as easily as one might.

Then took the lives of Yvoeries and Ivon,

Together with that of Gerart of Rossillon.

Count Roland, who was fighting nearby,

Cried to the pagan: ‘God confound you!

Wrong you do in slaying my comrades!

A blow you shall receive ere we, two, part,

And you may learn the weight of my sword.’

He charged at the man, like a brave baron.

The Count sliced his right hand clean away.

Then cut the head from Jursaleu the Blond,

That was the son of the king, Marsilius.

The pagans cried: ‘Mahomet, be our aid!’

Our god take vengeance on Charlemagne,

That has sent these wretches to our land,

Who would rather die than quit the fight!’

They shouted, together: ‘Let us begone!’

And, with that, a hundred thousand fled,

Ne’er to return, summon them who might.

Verses 143-147: Marganices wounds Oliver fatally

What matter? Though Marsilius had fled,

He’d left behind his uncle, Marganices,

Who held Carthage, Alfrere, Garmalie,

With Ethiopia, a most accursed country.

He ruled that land’s tribes; black of skin,

Broad-nosed, and flat-eared, were they.

Fifty thousand of them, made up his host.

They rode forth, proudly, and full of wrath,

Calling out their pagan leader’s war-cry.

Roland spoke and said: ‘Martyrs, we’ll be.

I see we can but live a short while longer,

But wretched he that sells his life cheaply.

Strike hard my lords, with those keen blades.

Fight hard for your lives, and to the death,

So fair France shall not be shamed by us!

When Charlemagne reaches this battlefield,

And views the fallen ranks of Saracens,

For one us of, of them he’ll find fifteen,

And will not fail to grant us benediction.’

Looking upon those misbegotten people,

Whose faces were as black as blackest ink,

And only their teeth the brightest white,

The Count said: ‘I see that we must die,

Their numbers are immeasurably great.

On, Franks; and to God, I commend you.’

Cried Oliver: ‘Shame be to the slowest!’

At these words, the Franks laid on again.

When the pagans saw the Franks were few,

They were full of pride, and waxed content.

Saying to one another: ‘Their emperor erred.’

Caliph Marganices, riding a sorrel steed,

Pricking it hard with his golden spurs,

Struck Oliver, from behind, on the spine,

Pushing the white hauberk into the flesh,

And driving his lance-tip through the chest.

Then cried he: ‘There’s a harsh blow for you!

Charlemagne should not have left you here.

He wronged us, and so we owe him naught.

Through you alone, I avenge our people.’

Oliver knew that he was bound for death.

Gripping Haltclere, his bloodied blade,

He struck Marganices on his gilded helm,

And its gems and flowers fell to the field.

He split his head, down to the very teeth,

Brandished his blade, and flung him dead.

Crying: ‘All woes, be yours, now, pagan!

You’ll not speak ill of Charlemagne now.

Nor shall you boast to your wife, or lady,

That you’ve done a denier’s harm to me,

Nor brought misery on me, or any other.’

Then he cried aloud to Roland for aid.

Oliver, feeling himself not far from death,

Had little time now to avenge himself.

Midst the press he struck, proudly, fiercely,

Shattering lances, and rounded shields,

Slicing fists and feet, sides and shoulders.

Who saw those Saracens thus dismembered,

The corpses piled, there, one upon another,

Retained the memory of a faithful knight,

He forgot not the war-cry of Charlemagne:

‘Montjoie!’ he called out, high and clear,

Summoning Roland, his friend and peer.

‘Comrade,’ he cried, ‘hasten to my side,

For, in bitter sorrow, we two must part.’

Verses 148-150: The death of Oliver

When Count Roland gazed on Oliver’s face,

The colour draining, the flesh grown pale,

The crimson blood spurting from his body,

Down to the ground, and flowing in streams,

‘Lord,’ cried he, ‘what can a man do here?

Fatal your valour proves, my companion.

Ne’er before did knight prevail against you.

Ah, fair France, now you are rendered waste,

Shorn of brave souls, shamed and confounded.

Great now is the harm our emperor sustains.’

And with these words, he swayed in the saddle.

Roland swayed there, a moment, on his steed,

Alike to Oliver, who was now bound for death,

So great his loss of blood, his eyes dimming.

He could see neither near nor far, so clearly

As to know the visage of any mortal man,

And so, when his companion knelt beside him,

He struck at Roland’s helmet set with gold,

The blade sliding down o’er the nose-piece,

But harming not the head, nor Roland’s face.

After that blow, Roland gazed at him keenly,

And asked of him, in sweet and gentle voice:

‘Did you mean that blow, dear companion?

Roland is here, that e’er holds love for you;

No mistrust was there ever twixt we two!

Said Oliver: ‘I see you not, yet hear you.

The Lord, keep you; my eyes grow dim!

I have struck you, and I ask your pardon!’

Roland replied: ‘I have received no harm.

I forgive you, here, in the sight of God.’

With these words, each leant on the other,

And their love was seen in such parting.

Count Oliver thus felt the pangs of death;

His eyes were rolling, now, in their sockets,

Naught could he see; his hearing was lost.

Dismounting, he knelt there on the ground.

Declaring his sinfulness, firmly and aloud,

Clasping his hands towards the sky above,

Praying God to grant him sight of paradise,

And blessing Charlemagne, and fair France,

And above all men, Roland his companion.

His heart failed him, his helmed head bowed,

And so, upon the earth, full length he lay.

Dead was the Count, who breathed no more.

Roland, the brave, mourned, sighing deeply;

Ne’er, on earth, did ever a man grieve more!

The End of ‘La Chanson de Roland: Part III’