A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,

A distant land, is there.—The Pagan host

He calls;—"The field is ours with ease: the French

So few in numbers we may well disdain,

Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.

To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin

The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth

He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks

His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,

And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.

The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke

Of the long lance into his body driven,

Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;

Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:

"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl

My lord, was ever and will ever be

Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.

As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;

I tell you, each this day shall die.—Strike, Franks,

Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,

Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.

Aoi.