National Epics by Kate Milner Rabb

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"Ah! that to me this favour heaven would be pleas'd to yield,
That I might to defend me bear so well-prov'd a shield
As that, right noble Ruedeger, before thee now display'd!
No more should I in battle need then the hauberk's aid."

"Fain with the same I'd serve thee to th' height of thy desire,
But that I fear such proffer might waken Kriemhild's ire.
Still, take it to thee, Hagan, and wield it well in hand.
Ah! might'st thou bring it with thee to thy Burgundian land!"

While thus with words so courteous so fair a gift he sped,
The eyes of many a champion with scalding tears were red,
'T was the last gift, that buckler, e'er given to comrade dear
By the lord of Bechelaren, the blameless Ruedeger.

However stern was Hagan, and of unyielding mood,
Still at the gift he melted, which one so great and good
Gave in his last few moments, e'en on the eve of fight,
And with the stubborn warrior mourn'd many a noble knight.

"Now God in heaven, good Ruedeger, thy recompenser be!
Your like on earth, I'm certain, we never more shall see,
Who gifts so good and gorgeous to homeless wanderers give.
May God protect your virtue, that it may ever live!

"Alas! this bloody bus'ness!" Sir Hagan then went on,
"We have had to bear much sorrow, and more shall have anon.
Must friend with friend do battle, nor heaven the conflict part?"
The noble margrave answer'd, "That wounds my inmost heart."

"Now for thy gift I'll quit thee, right noble Ruedeger!
What e'er may chance between thee and my bold comrades here,
My hand shall touch thee never amidst the heady fight,
Not e'en if thou shouldst slaughter every Burgundian knight."

For that to him bow'd courteous the blameless Ruedeger.
Then all around were weeping for grief and doleful drear,
Since none th' approaching mischief had hope to turn aside.
The father of all virtue in that good margrave died.

* * * * * * *

What a fearful clatter of clashing blades there rang!
From shields beneath the buffets how the plates they sprang,
And precious stones unnumber'd rain'd down into the gore!
They fought so fell and furious as man will never more.

The lord of Bechelaren went slashing here and there,
As one who well in battle knew how himself to bear.
Well prov'd the noble Ruedeger in that day's bloody fight,
That never handled weapon a more redoubted knight.

* * * * * * *

Loud o'er the din of battle stout Gernot shouted then,
"How now, right noble Ruedeger? not one of all my men
Thou 'lt leave me here unwounded; in sooth it grieves me sore
To see my friends thus slaughter'd; bear it can I no more.

"Now must thy gift too surely the giver harm to-day,
Since of my friends so many thy strength has swept away.
So turn about and face me, thou bold and high-born man!
Thy goodly gift to merit, I'll do the best I can."

Ere through the press the margrave could come Sir Gernot nigh,
Full many a glittering mail-coat was stain'd a bloody die.
Then those fame-greedy champions each fierce on th' other leapt,
And deadly wounds at distance with wary ward they kept.

So sharp were both their broadswords, resistless was their dint,
Sudden the good Sir Ruedeger through th' helmet hard as flint
So struck the noble Gernot, that forth the blood it broke;
With death the stern Burgundian repaid the deadly stroke.

He heaved the gift of Ruedeger with both his hands on high,
And to the death though wounded, a stroke at him let fly
Right through both shield and morion; deep was the gash and wide.
At once the lord of Gotelind beneath the swordcut died.

In sooth a gift so goodly was worse requited ne'er.
Down dead dropp'd both together, Gernot and Ruedeger.
Each slain by th' other's manhood, then prov'd, alas! too well.
Thereat first Sir Hagan furious wax'd and fell.

Then cried the knight of Trony, "Sure we with ills are cross'd;
Their country and their people in both these chiefs have lost
More than they'll e'er recover;--woe worth this fatal day!
We have here the margrave's meiny, and they for all shall pay!"

All struck at one another, none would a foeman spare.
Full many a one, unwounded, down was smitten there,
Who else might have 'scap'd harmless, but now, though whole and sound,
In the thick press was trampled, or in the blood was drown'd.

"Alas! my luckless brother who here in death lies low!
How every hour I'm living brings some fresh tale of woe!
And ever must I sorrow for the good margrave too.
On both sides dire destruction and mortal ills we rue."

Soon as the youthful Giselher beheld his brother dead,
Who yet within were lingering by sudden doom were sped.
Death, his pale meiny choosing, dealt each his dreary dole.
Of those of Bechelaren 'scaped not one living soul.

King Guenther and young Giselher, and fearless Hagan too,
Dankwart as well as Folker, the noble knights and true,
Went where they found together out-stretched the valiant twain.
There wept th' assembled warriors in anguish o'er the slain.

"Death fearfully despoils us," said youthful Giselher,
"But now give over wailing, and haste to th' open air
To cool our heated hauberks, faint as we are with strife.
God, methinks, no longer, will here vouchsafe us life."

This sitting, that reclining, was seen full many a knight;
They took repose in quiet; around (a fearful sight!)
Lay Ruedeger's dead comrades; all was hush'd and still;
From that long dreary silence King Etzel augur'd ill.

"Alas for this half friendship!" thus Kriemhild frowning spake,
"If it were true and steadfast, Sir Ruedeger would take
Vengeance wide and sweeping on yonder murderous band;
Now back he'll bring them safely to their Burgundian land.

"What boot our gifts, King Etzel? was it, my lord, for this
We gave him all he asked us? The chief has done amiss.
He, who should have reveng'd us, will now a treaty make."
Thereto in answer Folker, the gallant minstrel, spake,

"Not so the truth is, lady! the more the pity too!
If one the lie might venture to give a dame like you,
Most foully against the margrave you've lied, right noble queen!
Sore trick'd in that same treaty he and his men have been.

"With such good will the margrave his king's commands obey'd,
That he and all his meiny dead on this floor are laid.
Now look about you, Kriemhild! for servants seek anew;
Well were you served by Ruedeger; he to the death was true.

"The fact if still you're doubting, before your eyes we'll bring."
'T was done e'en of set purpose her heart the more to wring.
They brought the mangled margrave, where Etzel saw him well.
Th' assembled knights of Hungary such utter anguish ne'er befell.

When thus held high before them they saw the margrave dead,
Sure by the choicest writer could ne'er be penn'd nor said
The woeful burst of wailing from woman and eke from man,
That from the heart's deep sorrow to strike all ears began.

Above his weeping people King Etzel sorrow'd sore;
His deep-voic'd wail resounded loud as the lion's roar
In the night-shaded desert; the like did Kriemhild too;
They mourn'd in heart for Ruedeger, the valiant and the true.

_Lettsom's Translation, Thirty-seventh Adventure._

THE SONG OF ROLAND.

The Song of Roland is one of the many mediaeval romances that celebrate
the deeds of Charlemagne.

The oldest text now in existence was written about 1096, but the poem was
current in other forms long before this.

The author was a Norman, for the poem is written in the Norman dialect;
but it is uncertain whether the Turoldus or Theroulde named in the last
line of the poem, "Thus endeth here the geste Turoldus sang," was the
author, a copyist, or a _jongleur_.

It is said that Taillefer, the minstrel of Normandy, sang the Song of
Roland at the battle of Hastings. "Taillefer, who right well sang, mounted
on his rapid steed, went before them singing of Charlemagne, and of
Roland, and Olivier, and of the vassals who died in Roncesvalles."

The only text of the poem now in existence is one of the thirteenth
century, preserved in the Bodleian library at Oxford.

On the fifteenth of August, 778, in the valley of Roncesvalles, in the
Pyrenees, Charlemagne's rear guard, left under the command of Roland,
Prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was attacked and slaughtered by a
large army of Gascons.

This incident forms the historical basis of the poem; but the imagination
of the poet has made of Charlemagne, then a young man, the old emperor,
with "beard all blossom white," and transformed his Gascon foes to
Saracens.

The Song of Roland is written in the heroic pentameter; it is divided into
"laisses," or stanzas, of irregular length, and contains about three
thousand seven hundred and eight lines. It is written in the assonant, or
vowel rhyme, that was universal among European nations in the early stage
of their civilization.

Each stanza ends with the word "aoi," for which no satisfactory
translation has yet been offered, although "away" and "it is done" have
been suggested.

The author of the Song of Roland undertook, like Homer, to sing of one
great event about which all the interest of the poem centres; but unlike
Homer, his poem is out of all proportion, the long-drawn out revenge being
in the nature of an anti-climax. The Song of Roland is a fair exponent of
the people among whom it originated. It contains no ornament; it is a
straightforward relation of facts; it lacks passion, and while it
describes fearful slaughter, it never appeals to the emotions. Though the
French army shed many tears, and fell swooning to the ground at the sight
of the fearful slaughter at Roncesvalles, we are rather moved to smile at
the violence of their emotion than to weep over the dead, so little power
has the poet to touch the springs of feeling. However, there are passages
in which the poem rises to sublimity, and which have been pronounced
Homeric by its admirers.

BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE SONG OF ROLAND.

J. Banquier's Bibliographie de la Chanson de Roland, 1877;

T. Bulfinch's Legends of Charlemagne, 1863;

Sir G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871,
pp. 320-347;

Leon Gautier's Les epopees francaises, vol. i., 1878;

J. Malcolm Ludlow's Story of Roland (see his Popular Epics of the Middle
Ages, 1865, vol. i., pp. 362-427);

Gaston Paris's La poesie epique (see his Histoire poetique de Charlemagne,
1865, pp. 1-33);

Gaston Paris's Les Chansons de Gestes francaises (see his Histoire
poetique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 69-72);

George Saintsbury's The Chansons de Gestes (see his Short History of
French Literature, 1892, pp. 10-25);

Henri Van Laun's The Carlovingian Cycle (see his History of French
Literature, 1876, vol. i., pp. 141-148);

Ancient Literature of France, Quarterly Review, 1866, cxx. 283-323;

The Chanson de Roland, Westminster Review, 1873, c. 32-44;

M. Hayden's The Chansons de Geste, Dublin Review, 1894, cxiv. 346-357;

Charles Francis Keary's The Chansons de Geste:
the Song of Roland, Fraser's Magazine, 1881, civ. 777-789;

J. M. L.'s The Song of Roland, Macmillan's Magazine, 1862, vi. 486-501;

Agnes Lambert's The oldest epic of Christendom, Nineteenth Century, 1882,
xi. 77-101;

Andrew Lang's The Song of Roland and the Iliad, National Review, 1892, xx.
195-205;

Legend of Roland, Encyclopaedia Britannica, vol. xx.;

Gustave Masson's The Chanson de Roland, Leisure Hour, 1877, xxvi. 618-620;

The Song of Roland, Catholic World, 1873 and 1874, xviii. 378-388,
488-500;

The Song of Roland, Harper's Monthly, 1882, lxiv. 505-515;

The Month, 1880, xl. 515-527; Temple Bar, 1886, lxxviii. 534-540.

STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE SONG OF ROLAND.

The Song of Roland, as chanted before the Battle of Hastings by the
Minstrel Taillefer, Tr. from the French translation of Vitet by Mrs. Anne
Caldwell Marsh, 1854;

The Song of Roland, Tr. into English verse by John O'Hagan, ed. 2, 1883;

La Chanson de Roland, Tr. from the seventh ed. of Leon Gautier, by Leonce
Rabillon, 1885.

THE STORY OF THE SONG OF ROLAND.

For full seven years had Charlemagne tarried in Spain, and all the land
lay conquered save the city of Saragossa. There, in an orchard, upon a
terrace paved with blue marble, sat its king, Marsile, taking counsel with
his lords.

"No army have I," said the king; "no people to array against the hosts of
the great emperor. Advise me, my lords, what I shall do to save ourselves
from disgrace and shame."

The wily Blancandrin, wisest and greatest among the pagans, advanced
before him. "Where might cannot prevail, often craft gains the day. My
lord, send gifts to mighty Carle. Drive forth a long train of camels; heap
many mules with gold; send chariots filled with precious gifts. Advise him
that on the day of Saint Michael's feast you will seek him at Aix, and
there become a Christian, and his vassal. Yea, even send hostages; my own
son shall go, even though he lose his head. Then will Carle depart for
France. The day set by you will come, but he will hear naught from us. The
hostages' heads will fall. What of it? Better this than for us to lose
forever Spain the fair."

The king, pleased with the craft of Blancandrin, dismissed his council,
and ordered ten of his fiercest barons to seek Charlemagne at Cordova,
bearing the olive-branch, and make the offer suggested by Blancandrin.

Cordova, filled with rich spoils, had been taken, and its surviving
inhabitants given the choice of the sword or Christian baptism. Therefore
the happy emperor sat at his ease in a wide-spreading orchard. Around him
stood Roland, Olivier, Samsun the duke, Anseis, Gefrei d'Anjou, and
Gerier. At least fifteen thousand French knights were diverting themselves
with different games in the beautiful orchard, where, under a pine-tree,
the great King of France sat upon a golden chair. His white hair and
flowing white beard added majesty to his already majestic figure, so that
the olive-bearing messengers needed not to have great Carle pointed out to
them.

The emperor heard the message of Marsile in silence, and dismissing the
pagans for the night to a pavilion, called together in council his wisest
barons, Duke Ogier, Archbishop Turpin, Gerier, Roland, Olivier, a thousand
Franks, among them Ganelon, the step-father of Roland, and laid before
them the message of Marsile.

"Rich gifts he offers me, but he demands that I return to France; thither
will he follow me, and at Aix will become a Christian and a vassal. A fair
promise, but what is in his heart I cannot tell."

After a moment's silence Roland stood forth.

"Sire, have no faith in the words of Marsile. When have we found aught but
treachery in the Saracen? For seven years I have been winning victories
for you here in Spain. Once before you yielded to such a message as this,
from this same Marsile, and lost, in consequence, the heads of your Counts
Bazan and Bazile. War on as you have begun. Besiege his city! subdue
Saragossa!"

Then strode forth the angry Ganelon. "My king, this young hot-head is a
fool; hearken not unto him. Accept the offer of Marsile, and lose no more
lives by the foolhardiness of one who cares more for his own glory than
for human life."

The voice of the others, among them Duke Naimes, Charlemagne's wisest
counsellor and truest vassal, was with Ganelon. The emperor stroked his
white beard. "My lords, whom shall we send to meet Marsile at Saragossa?"

"I will go," said Duke Naimes.

"Nay, I cannot spare you from my councils," replied the king.

"I am here!" cried Roland.

"Not you! You are too hot-headed to venture into the court of the enemy!"
cried his friend Olivier. "Let me go instead, sire!"

"Nay!" cried the king. "Silence! Not one of the twelve peers sets his foot
in the kingdom of the Moors."

"Then let my step-father go," suggested Roland. "No wiser man than he can
be found."

"Come forward," said the king, as the Franks murmured assent, "and receive
the staff and glove. The Franks have chosen you."

Ganelon rose, wrathful, casting off his fur robe. His eyes were gray, his
face fierce, his form noble.

"This is Roland's work. I shall hate him forever, and Olivier, and the
twelve peers, because they love him. Ne'er shall I return; full well I
know it. If e'er I do, it will be to wreak vengeance on my enemy."

"Go!" said the king. "You have said enough!"

As Ganelon went forward, full of rage, to receive the king's glove, it
fell ere he touched it. "A bad omen!" exclaimed the French.

"Sirs, ye shall hear of this!" said Ganelon.

On his way to Saragossa with the legates of Marsile, Ganelon laid the
impious plot that was to result in the destruction of Roland and the
peers. It saved his life at Saragossa, where Marsile threatened to kill
him on reading Charlemagne's message. He explained carefully to the
Saracens how the rear guard, left at Roncesvalles under the command of
Roland and the twelve peers, could be destroyed by the pagan forces before
the knowledge of the battle could reach Charlemagne, and that, with these
props of his kingdom gone, the king's power would be so diminished that
Marsile could easily hold out against him. Then the traitor hastened back
to Cordova, laden with rich gifts.

When Ganelon rode back, the emperor was preparing to return to sweet
France. "Barons," said Carle, "whom shall I leave in charge of these deep
defiles and narrow passes?"

"My step-son Roland is well able to take the command," said Ganelon; "he
your nephew, whom you prize most of all your knights."

Rage filled the hearts of both Roland and Carle; but the word was spoken,
and Roland must remain. With him remained the twelve peers, his friends,
Olivier, his devoted comrade, the gallant Archbishop Turpin, and twenty
thousand valiant knights.

While Charlemagne's army toiled over the terrible gorges and high
mountains into Gascony, the emperor, ever grieving over the untimely death
his nephew might meet in the defiles of Spain, down came the pagans, who
had been gathering on the high mountains and in the murky valleys,--emirs,
sons of noble counts were they, brave as the followers of Charlemagne.

When Olivier descried the pagan horde he at once exclaimed,--

"This is the work of Ganelon!"

"Hush!" replied Roland. "He is my step-father. Say no more."

Then Olivier, when from the hill he saw the one hundred thousand Saracens,
their helmets bedecked with gold, their shields shining in the sun,
besought his friend to sound his horn, the olifant, and summon the king to
their aid.

"Never will I so disgrace myself!" exclaimed Roland. "Never shall sweet
France be so dishonored. One hundred thousand blows shall I give with my
sword, my Durendal, and the Moors will fall and die!"

When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his steed and rode with
Roland to the front of the lines.

Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength sat with the
twelve peers and their followers, they were with their opponents as well.
No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of
a Moorish knight down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his
helmet broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe. The
nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who taunted him as he lay in
death; Olivier struck down Marsile's brother. "A noble stroke!" cried
Roland.

"A baron's stroke!" exclaimed the archbishop, as Samsun pierced the
Almazour with his lance and he fell dead. Olivier spurred over the field,
crushing the pagans and beating them down with his broken lance.

"Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere?" called Roland to his
friend.

"Here, but I lack time to draw it," replied the doughty Olivier.

More than a thousand blows struck Turpin; the pagans fell by hundreds and
by thousands, and over the field lay scattered those who would nevermore
see sweet France.

Meanwhile, in France, hail fell and rain; the sky was vivid with lightning
bolts. The earth shook, and the land lay in darkness at noonday. None
understood the portent. Alas! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count
Roland.

When Roland perceived that in spite of their mighty efforts the passes
were still filled with heathen knights, and the French ranks were fast
thinning, he said to Olivier, "What think you if we call the king?"

"Never!" exclaimed Olivier. "Better death now than shame!"

"If I blow, Carle will hear it now and return. I shall blow my olifant,"
cried Roland.

"When I begged you to blow it," said Olivier, "you refused, when you could
have saved the lives of all of us. You will show no valor if you blow it
now."

"Great is the strife," said Roland. "I will blow that Carle may come."

"Then," said Olivier, "if I return to France, I pledge you my word my
sister Aude shall never be your wife. Your rashness has been the cause of
our destruction. Now you shall die here, and here ends our friendship."

Across the field the archbishop spurred to reconcile the friends. "Carle
will come too late to save our lives," said he, "but he will reach the
field in time to preserve our mangled bodies and wreak vengeance on our
foes."

Roland put his horn to his lips and blew with such force that his temples
burst and the crimson blood poured forth from his mouth. Three times he
sounded his horn, and each time the sound brought anguish to the heart of
Carle, who heard it, riding thirty leagues away. "Our men make battle!"
cried he; but this Ganelon hastened to deny, insisting that Roland was but
hunting and blowing the horn, taking sport among the peers. But Duke
Naimes exclaimed, "Your nephew is in sore distress. He who would deceive
you is a traitor. Haste! Shout your war-cry, and let us return to the
battle-field. You yourself hear plainly his call for help!"

Commanding Ganelon to be seized and given to the scullions of his house to
be kept for punishment until his return, Carle ordered his men to arm and
return to Roncesvalles, that they might, if possible, save the lives of
the noble peers. All the army wept aloud as they thought of the doom of
Roland. High were the mountains, deep the valleys, swift the rushing
streams. The French rode on, answering the sound of the olifant; the
emperor rode, filled with grief and rage; the barons spurred their horses,
but in vain.

After Roland had sounded the horn he again grasped Durendal, and, mounted
on his horse Veillantif, scoured the battle-field, cutting down the
heathen. But still their troops pressed him, and when he saw the Ethiopian
band led by the uncle of Marsile, he knew his doom had come. Olivier,
riding forth to meet the accursed band, received his death-wound from the
Kalif, but lived to cut his enemy down, and call Roland to him. Alas!
sight had forsaken his eyes, and as he sat on his steed he lifted his
bright sword Halteclere, and struck Roland a fearful blow that clove his
crest but did not touch his head. "Was the blow meant for me, my comrade?"
asked Roland softly. "Nay, I can see no more. God pity me! Pardon me, my
friend!" and as the two embraced each other, Olivier fell dead.

Then, in the agony of his grief, Roland fainted, sitting firm in his
saddle, and again recovering consciousness, became aware of the terrible
losses of the French. Only himself, the archbishop, and the gallant
Gaultier de l'Hum were left to defend the honor of the French. After
Gaultier fell, Roland, unassisted save by Turpin, who fought transfixed by
four spear shafts, put the enemy to flight. Feeling his death wounds,
Roland besought Turpin to let him bring together the bodies of his fallen
comrades that they might receive the blessing of the archbishop. Weak and
trembling from loss of blood, Roland passed to and fro over the
corpse-bestrewn field, and gathered together his comrades: here, Gerin and
Gerier, Berengier and Otun; there, Anseis, Samsun, and Gerard de
Roussillon, and last of all, his beloved Olivier, and placing them before
the knees of Turpin, he saw them receive his blessing.

In his great grief at the sight of the dead Olivier, Roland again fainted,
and Turpin hastened to a little brook near by for water to revive him. But
the strain was too great for his already weakened body, and, when Roland
revived, it was to find the archbishop dead.

Then Roland, realizing that his hour, too, had come, sought out a place in
which to die. Upon a hill between two lofty trees, where was a marble
terrace, he placed himself with his head towards the enemy's country; and
there a Saracen, who had feigned death to escape it, tried to wrest from
him his beloved Durendal.

Roland crushed the pagan's head with his olifant, but now he was troubled,
for he feared that his sword would fall into other than Christian hands.
Ill could he bear to be parted from his beloved sword. Its golden hilt
contained rare relics,--a tooth of Saint Peter, blood, hair, and bones of
other saints, and by the strength of these holy relics it had conquered
vast realms. Ten and more mighty blows he struck with Durendal upon the
hard rock of the terrace, in the endeavor to break it; but it neither
broke nor blunted. Then, counting over his great victories, he placed it
and the olifant beneath him, and committed his soul to the Father, who
sent down his angels to bear it to Paradise.

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