Dead around him his peers to see,
And the man he loved so tenderly,
Fast the tears of Count Roland ran,
His visage discolored became, and wan,
He swooned for sorrow beyond control.
"Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!"


CLXXXVI

To look on Roland swooning there,
Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare;
He stretched his hand, the horn he took,--
Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,--
A draught to Roland he thought to bring;
But his steps were feeble and tottering,
Spent his strength, from waste of blood,--
He struggled on for scarce a rood,
When sank his heart, and drooped his frame,
And his mortal anguish on him came.


CLXXXVII

Roland revived from his swoon again;
On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain;
He looked on high, and he looked below,
Till, a space his other companions fro,
He beheld the baron, stretched on sward,