Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;

The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;

Then seeing that he can not break his sword,

Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:

"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against

The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!

When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,

The God of Heaven by his Angel sent

Command that he should give thee to a Count,

A valiant captain; it was then the great

And gentle King did gird thee to my side.—

With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;

For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine

And Normandie the free; I won Provence

And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all

The Romanie; I won for him Bavière,

All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie,

Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,

And Saxonie submitted to his power;

For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande

And Engleterre he made his royal seat;

With thee I conquered all the lands and realms

Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.

Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die

Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!

May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"


Share on Twitter Share on Facebook