Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/348

Rh But thou fell'st at last, Roland: the hills keep—oh, wonder!— Thy bones, thy steps, thy voice, thy horn's deepest thunder,
 * And on their summits always new,

They show with clouds turbaned a Saracen gory, His belt the cascade, and the scarf of his glory,
 * In sunshine the streamlet bright blue.

Our fathers bronzed by suns, by dust and gunpowder, Died sword in hand, as cannon louder and louder,
 * Rolled wild o'er these rocks of old Spain!

Tell me, thou who saw'st them when they died side by side, Were they great? Was our Emperor great, and allied
 * In fame to thy great Charlemagne?

Ah, if towards Eber some day passed over the border, Our soldiers, guns, drums and steeds marching in order,
 * With our songs loud thundering in space,

Thou must rise up, old lion,—now be it, or later. Great was Napoleon and thine uncle, but greater
 * Is Freedom with fair open face.