Song and Legend from the Middle Ages Part 2

These epic poems number more than one hundred. They vary in length from one thousand to thirty thousand lines. The whole ma.s.s is said to contain between two and three million lines. Like all folk epics, they are based upon earlier ballads composed by many different poets. These ballads were never written down and are completely lost. The epic is a compilation and adaptation, presumably by a single poet, of the material of the ballads. In every case the names of the poets of the French epics are lost.

They were trouveres and their poems were carried about in memory or in ma.n.u.script by the jongleurs or minstrels, and sung from castle to castle and in the market places. The best of them are: "The Song of Roland"; "Amis et Amiles"; "Aliscans"; "Gerard de Roussillon"; "Raoul de Cambrai". Of these the oldest and confessedly the greatest is The Song of Roland, from which our extracts are taken.

The Song of Roland is based upon the following events (the events as narrated in the poem differ widely from those of the actual history): Charlemagne has warred seven years in Spain, when Marsile, king of Saragossa, the only city that has withstood the emperor, sends a feigned submission. Roland, the king's nephew, offers to go to Saragossa to settle the terms of the treaty. He is rejected as too impetuous, when he suggests that Ganelon go.

This bitterly annoys Ganelon, and when he meets Marsile he makes a treacherous plot by which Charlemagne is to be induced to go back to France, with Roland in command of the rear guard. The plan works, and when the advanced party of the French army is out of reach, the Saracens fall upon the rear guard in the pa.s.s of Roncevalles and completely destroy it. The death of Roland, the return and grief of the king, and his vengeance on the pagans form the central incident of the poem. Ganelon is afterwards tried for his treachery, condemned, and executed.

THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Stanza I.-- The king, our Emperor Carlemaine, Hath been for seven full years in Spain.

From highland to sea hath he won the land; City was none might his arm withstand; Keep and castle alike went down-- Save Saragossa, the mountain town.

The King Marsilius holds the place, Who loveth not G.o.d, nor seeks His grace: He prays to Apollin, and serves Mahound; But he saved him not from the fate he found.

King Marsile held a council and decided to offer Charlemagne a feigned submission. Karl summons his council to consider this.

Stanza 8.-- King Karl is jocund and gay of mood, He hath Cordres city at last subdued; Its shattered walls and turrets fell By catapult and mangonel; Not a heathen did there remain But confessed himself Christian or else was slain.

The Emperor sits in an orchard wide, Roland and Olivier by his side: Samson the duke, and Anseis proud; Geoffrey of Anjou, whose arm was vowed The royal gonfalon to rear; Gereln, and his fellow in arms, Gerier: With them many a gallant lance, Full fifteen thousand of gentle France.

The cavaliers sit upon carpets white Playing at tables for their delight; The older and sager sit at chess, The bachelors fence with a light address.

Seated underneath a pine, Close beside an eglantine, Upon a throne of beaten gold, The lord of ample France behold; White his hair and beard were seen, Fair of body, and proud of mien, Who sought him needed not ask, I ween.

The ten alight before his feet, And him in all observance greet.

The treacherous plot has succeeded. Charles, with the main part of his army, has gone ahead, the Saracens have fallen on the rear-guard, and are destroying it. Oliver begs Roland to sound his wonderful horn and summon aid.

Stanza 87.-- "O Roland, sound on your ivory horn, To the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne: He will bid his legions backward bend, And all his barons their aid will lend."

"Now G.o.d forbid it, for very shame, That for my kindred were stained with blame, Or that gentle France to such vileness fell: This good sword that hath served me well, My Durindana such strokes shall deal, That with blood encrimsoned shall be the steel.

By their evil star are the felons led; They shall all be numbered among the dead!"

Stanza 88.-- "Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast!

Karl will hear ere the gorge be pa.s.sed, And the Franks return on their path fall fast!

"I will not sound on mine ivory horn: It shall never be spoken of me in scorn, That for heathen felons one blast I blew; I may not dishonour my lineage true.

But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er, A thousand strokes and seven hundred more, And my Durindana will drip with gore.

Our Franks shall bear them like va.s.sals brave.

The Saracens shall flock but to find a grave."

Stanza 89.-- "I deem of neither reproach nor stain.

I have seen the Saracen host of Spain, Over plain and valley and mountain spread, And the regions hidden beneath their tread.

Countless the swarm of the foe, and we A marvellous little company."

Roland answered him, "All the more My spirit within me burns therefore.

G.o.d and the angels of heaven defend That France through me from her glory bend.

Death were better than fame laid low.

Our Emperor loveth a downright blow."

At last Roland blows his horn, but it is too late. All the Moors are slain or routed, but so are all the Franks save Roland, and he has received his death blow.

Stanza 195-- That Death was on him he knew full well; Down from his head to his heart it fell.

On the gra.s.s beneath a pinetree's shade, With face to earth his form he laid, Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, And turned his face to the heathen horde.

Thus hath he done the sooth to show, That Karl and his warriors all may know, That the gentle count a conqueror died.

Mea Culpa full oft he cried; And, for all his sins, unto G.o.d above, In sign of penance, he raised his glove.

Stanza 197.-- Beneath a pine was his resting-place, To the land of Spain hath he turned his face.

On his memory rose full many a thought Of the lands he won and the fields he fought; Of his gentle France, of his kin and line; Of his nursing father King Karl benign; He may not the tear and sob control, Nor yet forgets he his parting soul.

To G.o.d's compa.s.sion he makes his cry: "O Father true, who canst not lie, Who didst Lazarus raise unto life again, And Daniel s.h.i.+eld in the lions' den; s.h.i.+eld my soul from its peril, due For the sins I sinned my lifetime through."

He did his right hand glove upliftst.

Gabriel took from his hand the gift; Then drooped his head upon his breast, And with clasped hands he went to rest.

G.o.d from on high sent down to him One of his angel cherubim-- Saint Michael of Peril of the sea, Saint Gabriel in company-- From heaven they came for that soul of price, And they bore it with them to Paradise.

The king hears Roland's horn and hurries back, only to find him and all his knights slain. He swoons, revives, but swoons again.

Stanza 212.-- As Karl the king revived once more, His hands were held by barons four.

He saw his nephew, cold and wan; Stark his frame, but his hue was gone; His eyes turned inward, dark and dim; And Karl in love lamented him: "Dear Roland, G.o.d thy spirit rest In paradise, amongst His blest!

In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: No day shall dawn but sees my pain, And me of strength and pride bereft, No champion of mine honour left; Without a friend beneath the sky; And though my kindred still be nigh, Is none like thee their ranks among."

With both his hands his beard he wrung.

The Franks bewailed in unison; A hundred thousand wept like one.

Stanza 213.-- "Dear Roland, I return again To Laon, to mine own domain; Where men will come from many a land, And seek Count Roland at my hand.

A bitter tale must I unfold-- 'In Spanish earth he lieth cold.'

A joyless realm henceforth I hold, And weep with daily tears untold.

Stanza 214-- "Dear Roland, beautiful and brave, All men of me will tidings crave, When I return to La Chapelle.

Oh, what a tale is mine to tell!

That low my glorious nephew lies.

Now will the Saxon foeman rise; Palermitan and Afric bands, And men from fierce and distant lands.

To sorrow sorrow must succeed; My hosts to battle who shall lead, When the mighty captain is overthrown?

Ah! France deserted now, and lone.

Come, death, before such grief I bear."

Began he with his hands to tear; A hundred thousand fainted there.

Stanza 215.-- "Dear Roland, and was this thy fate?

May Paradise thy soul await.

Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane: I cannot live so deep my pain.

For me my kindred lie undone; And would to Holy Mary's Son, Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight, My soul may take its parting flight: My spirit would with theirs abide; My body rest their dust beside."

With sobs his h.o.a.ry beard he tore.

"Alas!" said Naimes, "for the Emperor."

The Franks take terrible vengeance on the Moors who survive. Then they bury their dead comrades and all return to France.

Stanza 225.

--From Spain the Emperor made retreat, To Aix in France, his kingly seat; And thither, to his halls, there came, Alda, the fair and gentle dame.

"Where is my Roland, sire," she cried, "Who vowed to take me for his bride?

O'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept; He tore his beard and loud he wept.

"Dear Sister, gentle friend," he said, "Thou seekest one who lieth dead: I plight to thee my son instead,-- Louis, who lord of my realm shall be."

"Strange," she said, "this seems to me.

G.o.d and his angels forbid that I Should live on earth if Poland die."

Pale grow her cheek--she sank amain, Down at the feet of Carlemaine.

So died she. G.o.d receive her soul!

The Franks bewail her in grief and dole.

Stanza 226.-- So to her death went Alda fair.

The king but deemed she fainted there.

While dropped his tears of pity warm, He took her hands and raised her form.