Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks

Toward Spain—He broods on many things of yore:

On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,

On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord

Who nurtured him;—he sighs—nor can restrain

His tears, but can not yet himself forget;

Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God

He prays:—"Our Father, never yet untrue,

Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved

Thy Daniel from the lions' claws—Oh, free

My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"

His right hand glove he offered up to God;

Saint Gabriel took the glove.—With head reclined

Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined

He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,

Saint-Raphaël, Saint Michiel del Peril.

Together with them Gabriel came.—All bring

The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....

Aoi.