Olivier feels the agony of death;

His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,

And all his hearing and his sight are lost.

Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites

His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;

With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up

He prays to God to give him Paradise,

To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond

All other men, Rollánd, his compagnon.

His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—prone

Upon the earth he lies—'tis over now....

The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns

And weeps as never mortal mourned before.

Aoi.