Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends

Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.

All night beside his head the Angel stands,

And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French

A battle is prepared, and its portent

Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle

Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms

And wond'rous tempests—smould'ring fire and flames

Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all

His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts

Of apple-tree or ash—those shields ablaze

Unto their golden rings—shafts from their points

Break off—Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.

He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime

Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes

And vipers—dragons, fiends—and with them more

Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French

None can escape this hideous horde.—"Carlemagne,

Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,

Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:

Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.

The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,

And, springing, seeks his very body out.

Each wrestles with the other in his arms;

But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.

Never a jot the Emperor awakes.

Aoi.