Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade,
Which changes thirty times a day
The brightness of its varying ray.
Nor may the lance unspoken be
Which pierced our Saviour on the tree;
Karl hath its point--so God him graced--
Within his golden hilt enchased.
And for this honor and boon of heaven,
The name Joyeuse to the sword was given;
The Franks may hold it in memory.
Thence came "_Montjoie_," their battle-cry,
And thence no race with them may vie.


CCV

Clear was the night, and the fair moon shone.
But grief weighed heavy King Karl upon;
He thought of Roland and Olivier,
Of his Franks and every gallant peer,
Whom he left to perish in Roncesvale,
Nor can he stint but to weep and wail,
Imploring God their souls to bless,--
Till, overcome with long distress,
He slumbers at last for heaviness.
The Franks are sleeping throughout the meads;
Nor rest on foot can the weary steeds--
They crop the herb as they stretch them prone.--
Much hath he learned who hath sorrow known.