Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:

From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.

For all his peers he prays that God may call

Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel

He recommends his spirit. In one hand

He takes the olifant, that no reproach

May rest upon him; in the other grasps

Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,

Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across

A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.

Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,

Four terraces of marble spread:—he falls

Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.


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