The Song of Roland. UnknownЧитать онлайн книгу.

        An almacour is there of Moriane,

        More felon none in all the land of Spain.

        Before Marsile his vaunting boast hath made:

        "To Rencesvals my company I'll take,

        A thousand score, with shields and lances brave.

        Find I Rollanz, with death I'll him acquaint;

        Day shall not dawn but Charles will make his plaint."

                            AOI.

        From the other part, Turgis of Turtelose,

        He was a count, that city was his own;

        Christians he would them massacre, every one.

        Before Marsile among the rest is gone,

        Says to the King: "Let not dismay be shewn!

        Mahum's more worth than Saint Peter of Rome;

        Serve we him well, then fame in field we'll own.

        To Rencesvals, to meet Rollanz I'll go,

        From death he'll find his warranty in none.

        See here my sword, that is both good and long

        With Durendal I'll lay it well across;

        Ye'll hear betimes to which the prize is gone.

        Franks shall be slain, whom we descend upon,

        Charles the old will suffer grief and wrong,

        No more on earth his crown will he put on."

        From the other part, Escremiz of Valtrenne,

        A Sarrazin, that land was his as well.

        Before Marsile he cries amid the press:

        "To Rencesvals I go, pride to make less;

        Find I Rollanz, he'll not bear thence his head,

        Nor Oliver that hath the others led,

        The dozen peers condemned are to death;

        Franks shall be slain, and France lie deserted.

        Of good vassals will Charles be richly bled."

                            AOI.

        From the other part, a pagan Esturganz;

        Estramariz also, was his comrade;

        Felons were these, and traitors miscreant.

        Then said Marsile: "My Lords, before me stand!

        Into the pass ye'll go to Rencesvals,

        Give me your aid, and thither lead my band."

        They answer him: "Sire, even as you command.

        We will assault Olivier and Rollant,

        The dozen peers from death have no warrant,

        For these our swords are trusty and trenchant,

        In scalding blood we'll dye their blades scarlat.

        Franks shall be slain, and Chares be right sad.

        Terra Major we'll give into your hand;

        Come there, Sir King, truly you'll see all that

        Yea, the Emperour we'll give into your hand."

        Running there came Margariz of Sibile,

        Who holds the land by Cadiz, to the sea.

        For his beauty the ladies hold him dear;

        Who looks on him, with him her heart is pleased,

        When she beholds, she can but smile for glee.

        Was no pagan of such high chivalry.

        Comes through the press, above them all cries he,

        "Be not at all dismayed, King Marsilie!

        To Rencesvals I go, and Rollanz, he

        Nor Oliver may scape alive from me;

        The dozen peers are doomed to martyry.

        See here the sword, whose hilt is gold indeed,

        I got in gift from the admiral of Primes;

        In scarlat blood I pledge it shall be steeped.

        Franks shall be slain, and France abased be.

        To Charles the old, with his great blossoming beard,

        Day shall not dawn but brings him rage and grief,

        Ere a year pass, all France we shall have seized,

        Till we can lie in th' burgh of Saint Denise."

        The pagan king has bowed his head down deep.

                            AOI.

        From the other part, Chemubles of Muneigre.

        Right to the ground his hair swept either way;

        He for a jest would bear a heavier weight

        Than four yoked mules, beneath their load that strain.

        That land he had, God's curse on it was plain.

        No sun shone there, nor grew there any grain,

        No dew fell there, nor any shower of rain,

        The very stones were black upon that plain;

        And many say that devils there remain.

        Says Chemubles "My sword is in its place,

        At Rencesvals scarlat I will it stain;

        Find I Rollanz the proud upon my way,

        I'll fall on him, or trust me not again,

        And Durendal I'll conquer with this blade,

        Franks shall be slain, and France a desert made."

        The dozen peers are, at this word, away,

        Five score thousand of Sarrazins they take;

        Who keenly press, and on to battle haste;

        In a fir-wood their gear they ready make.

        Ready they make hauberks Sarrazinese,

        That folded are, the greater part, in three;

        And they lace on good helms Sarragucese;

        Gird on their swords of tried steel Viennese;

        Fine shields they have, and spears Valentinese,

        And white, blue, red, their ensigns take the breeze,

        They've left their mules behind, and their palfreys,

        Their chargers mount, and canter knee by knee.

        Fair shines the sun, the day is bright and clear,

        Light bums again from all their polished gear.

        A thousand horns they sound, more proud to seem;

        Great is the noise, the Franks its echo hear.

        Says Oliver: "Companion, I believe,

        Sarrazins