Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/75

 Now marvellous and weighty the combat, Right well they strike, Olivier and Rollant, A thousand blows come from the Archbishop’s hand, The dozen peers are nothing short of that, With one accord join battle all the Franks. Pagans are slain by hundred, by thousand, Who flies not then, from death has no warrant, Will he or nill, foregoes the allotted span. The Franks have lost the foremost of their band, They’ll see no more their fathers nor their clans, Nor Charlemagne, where in the pass he stands. Torment arose, right marvellous, in France, Tempest there was, of wind and thunder black, With rain and hail, so much could not be spanned; Fell thunderbolts often on every hand, And verily the earth quaked in answer back From Saint Michael of Peril unto Sanz, From Besençun to the harbour of Guitsand; No house stood there but straight its walls must crack: In full mid-day the darkness was so grand, Save the sky split, no light was in the land. Beheld these things with terror every man, And many said: “We in the Judgement stand; The end of time is presently at hand.” They spake no truth; they did not understand; ’Twas the great day of mourning for Rollant.

The Franks strike on; their hearts are good and stout. Pagans are slain, a thousandfold, in crowds, Left of five score are not two thousands now. Says the Archbishop: “Our men are very proud, No man on earth has more nor better found. In Chronicles of Franks is written down, What vassalage he had, our Emperour.”