High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,

The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.

In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,

Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look

Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,

Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,

Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until

They reach the battle-field. With him what blows

Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?

Too late they are and can not come in time.

Aoi.