Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/347

314 Flames burst from his eyes,—'No sire,—no cursed unbelievers, Shall bear off your virgins, we'll hunt the bereavers,
 * If your Majesty but allows.'

Charlemagne, Roland, Renaud of Montauban, Are mounted, stout Turpin calls out for his foeman,
 * They scud like the sleet o'er the plain,

They've touched humbly the bones of Saint Rocamadour, But from Canigou white to the willows of Adour,
 * The Moors have departed to Spain.

No! They are on the heights, that menace denoteth! Like a round tower, they deck each peak, and there floateth
 * Their banner from each, white and blue,

Bristles the granite with ramparts bright crested, They cry—'Dogs, bite not the ears of leopards rough-breasted,
 * Nor trouble the lions, though few.'

And Roland roared fierce, and vultures gigantic, And troops of brown eagles, like waves of th' Atlantic,
 * With cries piercing wheeled round and around.

'Wait a moment, my birds,'—said Roland the peerless, 'And the tongues shall be still that gibe us now fearless,
 * And your food shall bestrew the ground.'

A month hewed he, leaping from mountain to mountain, Throwing corpses to eagles, and then to the fountain
 * Repairing at eve with wild laughter;

Souls filled the air like a black thunder-cloud scowling, They went to the Demon, mewling, yelping and howling,
 * Who knows of their dark hereafter!