Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/100

 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.”

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 Runïer; 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.”

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!”

When the Archbishop beheld him swoon, Rollant, Never before such bitter grief he’d had;