Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/105

 But Rollant felt that death had made a way Down from his head till on his heart it lay; Beneath a pine running in haste he came, On the green grass he lay there on his face; His olifant and sword beneath him placed, Turning his head towards the pagan race, Now this he did, in truth, that Charles might say (As he desired) and all the Franks his race;— “Ah, gentle count; conquering he was slain!”— He owned his faults often and every way, And for his sins his glove to God upraised. AOI.

But Rollant feels he’s no more time to seek; Looking to Spain, he lies on a sharp peak, And with one hand upon his breast he beats: “Mea Culpa! God, by Thy Virtues clean Me from my sins, the mortal and the mean, Which from the hour that I was born have been Until this day, when life is ended here!” Holds out his glove towards God, as he speaks; Angels descend from heaven on that scene. AOI.

The count Rollanz, beneath a pine he sits, [sic]; Turning his eyes towards Spain, he begins Remembering so many divers things: So many lands where he went conquering, And France the Douce, the heroes of his kin, And Charlemagne, his lord who nourished him. Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this. But his own self, he’s not forgotten him, He owns his faults, and God’s forgiveness bids: “Very Father, in Whom no falsehood is, Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst remit, And Daniel save from the lions’ pit; My soul in me preserve from all perils And from the sins I did in life commit!”