Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand

And struggles up with all his force; his face

Grows livid;—[Durendal, his naked sword]

He holds;—beside him rises a gray rock

On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief

And rage—The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor

Is notched; then cries the Count:—"Saint Mary, help!

O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!

Though we two part, I care not less for thee.

What victories together thou and I,

Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds

White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp

Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,

Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"


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