When Turpin felt him flung to ground,
     And four lance wounds within him found,
     He swiftly rose, the dauntless man,
     To Roland looked, and nigh him ran. 
     Spake but, “I am not overthrown—­
     Brave warrior yields with life alone.” 
     He drew Almace’s burnished steel,
     A thousand ruthless blows to deal. 
     In after time, the Emperor said
     He found four hundred round him spread,—­
     Some wounded, others cleft in twain;
     Some lying headless on the plain. 
     So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells,
     For whom High God wrought miracles. 
     In Laon cell the scroll he wrote;
     He little weets who knows it not.

     CLXXVII

     Count Roland combateth nobly yet,
     His body burning and bathed in sweat;
     In his brow a mighty pain, since first,
     When his horn he sounded, his temple burst;
     But he yearns of Karl’s approach to know,
     And lifts his horn once more—­but oh,
     How faint and feeble a note to blow! 
     The Emperor listened, and stood full still. 
     “My lords,” he said, “we are faring ill. 
     This day is Roland my nephew’s last;
     Like dying man he winds that blast. 
     On!  Who would aid, for life must press. 
     Sound every trump our ranks possess.” 
     Peal sixty thousand clarions high,
     The hills re-echo, the vales reply. 
     It is now no jest for the heathen band. 
     “Karl!” they cry, “it is Karl at hand!”

     CLXXVIII

     They said, “’Tis the Emperor’s advance,
     We hear the trumpets resound of France. 
     If he assail us, hope in vain;
     If Roland live, ’tis war again,
     And we lose for aye the land of Spain.” 
     Four hundred in arms together drew,
     The bravest of the heathen crew;
     With serried power they on him press,
     And dire in sooth is the count’s distress.

     CLXXIX

     When Roland saw his coming foes,
     All proud and stern his spirit rose;
     Alive he shall never be brought to yield: 
     Veillantif spurred he across the field,
     With golden spurs he pricked him well,
     To break the ranks of the infidel;
     Archbishop Turpin by his side. 
     “Let us flee, and save us,” the heathen cried;
     “These are the trumpets of France we hear—­
     It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near.”

     CLXXX

     Count Roland never hath loved the base,
     Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,—­
     Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,—­
     And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood;
     “On foot are you, on horseback I;
     For your love I halt, and stand you by. 
     Together for good and ill we hold;
     I will not leave you for man of mould. 
     We will pay the heathen their onset back,
     Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack.” 
     “Base,” said Turpin, “who spares to smite: 
     When the Emperor comes, he will all requite.”