King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,

The cities violated, the castles seized.

Now saith the King his war is at an end,

And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs

His steed.... The Count Rollánd the pennon white

Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.

In all the country round the Franks their tents

Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along

The mighty vales. In hauberk clad—their backs

In armor cased; with helmets clasped—sword girt

On thigh—shields on their necks—each lance in rest,

Within a thicket on the mount they halt.

Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.

The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!


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