branches sprung,
Frightened by his horse's hoofs, that like the Cyclop's anvil rung--
Like a hurricane on he hurried, wood and valley gliding past,
While around him, o'er him, on him, burst the sudden autumn blast.

Down upon him, in a deluge, rushed the cold November rain;
But the wind about him whistled, and the tempest swept in vain.
What to him was wind or tempest, when his brain was seared with flame?
What to him was earth or heaven, when his soul was sick with shame?

In the dreary, desolate desert on his ears had burst a tale,
That, like falling thunder, stunned and left him terrified and pale;
How, while he was battling bravely, like a true and holy knight,
For the sacred tomb of Christ, against the swarthy Moslemite;

How, while round him lances shivered, armor rang, and arrows fell,
And the air was mad with noises--Arab shout and Paynim yell--
She, the partner of his heart, descended (so the legend said)
From the ancient Saxon monarchs, sank in shame her sunny head.

From his friends--his growing glory--over dark and dangerous seas--
From his red-cross banner proudly flowing, floating on the breeze--
Over field and flood he traveled, flinging fame and honor by,
With a heart as full of hell as full of glory was the sky.

All his mind became a chaos; but along its waste there stole
What his bloody purpose shook, and what was manna to his soul,--
Memories of his youthful moments, when through grassy glen and wood
He wandered with the Lady Gwineth, dreaming none so fair and good;

And he saw her sweetly smiling, as when at her feet he knelt,
And with bold but modest manner on his burning passion dwelt--
Felt her fall upon his bosom--felt her tears upon his cheek,
As he felt them when his tongue was all too full of joy to speak!

And his heart was slowly softening--when a hoarse voice bade him "yield!"
And a claymore clanked and clattered on the bosses of his shield;--
Rising round him, closing on him, sprang an ambush of his foe,
The despoiler of his honor! All his answer was a blow!

All his soul was in his arm; and, as his foemen closed around,
Vassal after vassal, wounded, yelling, fell and bit the ground;
But when through the wood there rushed an hundred thronging to the fight,
Charging through them, still defying, Roland safety sought in flight.

When the crimson sun descended, as the yellow moon arose,
Far and faint behind Sir Roland sank the slogan of his foes--
Far and faint, and waxing fainter,