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CLXXXIX
Roland feeleth his death is near，
His brain is oozing by either ear.
For his peers he prayed — God keep them well；
Invoked the angel Gabriel.
That none reproach him，
his horn he clasped；
His other hand Durindana grasped；
Then，far as quarrel from crossbow sent，
Across the march of Spain he went，
Where，on a mound，two trees between，
Four flights of marble steps were seen；
Backward he fell，on the field to lie；
And he swooned anon，
For the end was nigh.