Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/101

 Stretching his hand, he took that olifant. Through Rencesvals a little river ran; He would go there, fetch water for Rollant. Went step by step, to stumble soon began, So feeble he is, no further fare he can, For too much blood he’s lost, and no strength has; Ere he has crossed an acre of the land, His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and Death comes to him with very cruel pangs.

The count Rollanz wakes from his swoon once more, Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore; Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above; On the green grass, beyond his companions, He sees him lie, that noble old baron; ’Tis the Archbishop, whom in His name wrought God; There he proclaims his sins, and looks above; Joins his two hands, to Heaven holds them forth, And Paradise prays God to him to accord. Dead is Turpin, the warrior of Charlon. In battles great and very rare sermons Against pagans ever a champion. God grant him now His Benediction! AOI.

The count Rollant sees the Archbishop lie dead, Sees the bowels out of his body shed, And sees the brains that surge from his forehead; Between his two arm-pits, upon his breast, Crossways he folds those hands so white and fair. Then mourns aloud, as was the custom there: “Thee, gentle sir, chevalier nobly bred, To the Glorious Celestial I commend; Ne’er shall man be, that will Him serve so well;