Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/93

 Their feet, their fists, their shoulders and their sides, Dismembers them: whoso had seen that sigh, Dead in the field one on another piled, Remember well a vassal brave he might. Charlè’s ensign he’ll not forget it quite; Aloud and clear “Monjoie” again he cries. To call Rollanz, his friend and peer, he tries: “My companion, come hither to my side. With bitter grief we must us now divide.” AOI.

Then Rollant looked upon Olivier’s face; Which was all wan and colourless and pale, While the clear blood, out of his body sprayed, Upon the ground gushed forth and ran away. “God!” said that count, “What shall I do or say? My companion, gallant for such ill fate! Ne’er shall man be, against thee could prevail. Ah! France the Douce, henceforth art thou made waste Of vassals brave, confounded and disgraced! Our Emperour shall suffer damage great.” And with these words upon his horse he faints. AOI.

You’d seen Rollant aswoon there in his seat, And Oliver, who unto death doth bleed, So much he’s bled, his eyes are dim and weak; Nor clear enough his vision, far or near, To recognise whatever man he sees; His companion, when each the other meets, Above the helm jewelled with gold he beats, Slicing it down from there to the nose-piece, But not his head; he’s touched not brow nor cheek. At such a blow Rollant regards him keen, And asks of him, in gentle tones and sweet: