Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob

Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word

He spoke:—"I trow, not one of us art thou!"

Then with his olifant from which he parts

Never, he smites the golden studded helm,

Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes

Are from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrown

Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:—"O wretch,"

He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,

Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this

Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,

Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."


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