LXIX

     High were the peaks, and the valleys deep,
     The mountains wondrous dark and steep;
     Sadly the Franks through the passes wound,
     Full fifteen leagues did their tread resound. 
     To their own great land they are drawing nigh,
     And they look on the fields of Gascony. 
     They think of their homes and their manors there,
     Their gentle spouses and damsels fair. 
     Is none but for pity the tear lets fall;
     But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all. 
     His sister’s son at the gates of Spain
     Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain.

     LXX

     On the Spanish marches the twelve abide,
     With twice ten thousand Franks beside. 
     Fear to die have they none, nor care: 
     But Karl returns into France the fair;
     Beneath his mantle his face he hides. 
     Naimes, the duke, at his bridle rides. 
     “Say, sire, what grief doth your heart oppress?”
     “To ask,” he said, “brings worse distress;
     I cannot but weep for heaviness. 
     By Gan the ruin of France is wrought. 
     In an angel’s vision, last night, methought
     He wrested forth from my hand the spear: 
     ’Twas he gave Roland to guard the rear. 
     God! should I lose him, my nephew dear,
     Whom I left on a foreign soil behind,
     His peer on earth I shall never find!”

     LXXI

     Karl the Great cannot choose but weep,
     For him hath his host compassion deep;
     And for Roland, a marvellous boding dread. 
     It was Gan, the felon, this treason bred;
     He hath heathen gifts of silver and gold,
     Costly raiment, and silken fold,
     Horses and camels, and mules and steeds.—­
     But lo!  King Marsil the mandate speeds,
     To his dukes, his counts, and his vassals all,
     To each almasour and amiral. 
     And so, before three suns had set,
     Four hundred thousand in muster met. 
     Through Saragossa the tabors sound;
     On the loftiest turret they raise Mahound: 
     Before him the Pagans bend and pray,
     Then mount and fiercely ride away,
     Across Cerdagna, by vale and height,
     Till stream the banners of France in sight,
     Where the peers of Carlemaine proudly stand,
     And the shock of battle is hard at hand.

     LXXII

     Up to King Marsil his nephew rode,
     With a mule for steed, and a staff for goad: 
     Free and joyous his accents fell,
     “Fair Sir King, I have served you well. 
     So let my toils and my perils tell. 
     I have fought and vanquished for you in field. 
     One good boon for my service yield,—­
     Be it mine on Roland to strike the blow;
     At point of lance will I lay him low;
     And so Mohammed to aid me deign,
     Free will I sweep the