CLXIX.

The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the field The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds His entrails in the dust, and through his skull The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form Of holy Cross upon his breast Rollánd Disposes both his hands so fair and white, And mourned him in the fashion of his land: "O noble man! O knight of lineage pure! To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend; For ne'er was man who Him more truly served, Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong, To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men. From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!" Aoi.

ROLAND'S DEATH.