m his lips;
The blood from bursten temple drips;
But far, oh, far, the echoes ring,
And in the defiles reach the king,
Reach Naymes and the French array;
''Tis Roland's horn,' the king doth say;
'He only sounds when brought to bay,'
How huge the rocks! how dark and steep
The streams are swift; the valleys deep!
Out blare the trumpets, one and all,
As Charles responds to Roland's call.
Round wheels the king, with choler mad
The Frenchmen follow, grim and sad;
No one but prays for Roland's life,
Till they have joined him in the strife.
But, ah! what prayer can alter fate?
The time is past; too late! too late!"

The fight goes on. More of the warriors fall. Oliver dies. Roland and
Turpin continue the fight. Once more a blast is sent from the magic
horn.

"Then Roland takes his horn once more;
His blast is feebler than before,
But still it reaches the emperor;
He hears it, and he halts to shout,
'Let clarions, one and all, ring out!'
Then sixty thousand clarions ring,
And rocks and dales set echoing.
And they, too, hear,--the pagan pack;
They force the rising laughter back:
'Charles, Charles,' they cry, 'is on our track!'
They fly; and Roland stands alone,--
Alone, afoot; his steed is gone."

Turpin dies. Roland remains the sole survivor of the host, and he hurt
unto death. He falls on the field in a swoon. A wounded Saracen rises,
and, seeing him, says,--

"Vanquished, he is vanquished, the nephew of Charles! There is his
sword, which I will carry off to Arabia." He knew not the power of the
dying hero.

"And as he makes to draw the steel,
A something does Sir Roland feel;
He opes his eyes, says nought but this,
'Thou art not one of us, I wis,'
Raises the horn he could not quit,
And cracks the pagan's skull with it....
And then the touch of death that steals
Down, down from head to heart he feels;
Under yon pine he hastes away
On the green turf his head to lay;
Placing beneath him horn and sword,
He turns towards the Paynim horde,
And there, beneath the pine, he sees
A vision of old memories;
A thought of realms he helped to win,
Of his sweet France, of kith and kin,
And Charles, his lord, who nurtured him."

And here let us take our leave of Roland the brave, whose brief story of
fact has been rounded into so vast a stor