CXCIII

He smote anew on the marble stair.

It grated，

But breach nor notch was there.

When Roland found that it would not break，

Thus began he his plaint to make.

“Ah，Durindana，

How fair and bright Thou sparklest，

Flaming against the light！

When Karl in Maurienne valley lay，

God sent his angel from heaven to say

‘This sword shall a valorous captain’s be，’

And he girt it，the gentle king，on me.

With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine，

Provence I conquered and Aquitaine；

I conquered Normandy the free，

Anjou，and the marches of Brittany；

Romagna I won，and Lombardy，Bavaria，

Flanders from side to side，

And Burgundy，and Poland wide；

Constantinople affiance vowed，

And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed；

Scotia，and Wales，and Ireland’s plain，

Of England made he his own domain.

What might，regions I won of old，

For the hoary-headed Karl to hold！

But there presses on me a grievous pain，

Lest thou in heathen hands remain.

O God our Father，

Keep France from stain”！ SaGkSORATmm52+wdgSs5n0O4EZ9E6zrpPHkNVQewakHdbjpHqqGFIpTbHAfenwcx