On all who saw came a mighty fear.
They said, "The end of the world is near."
Alas, they spake but with idle breath,--
'Tis the great lament for Roland's death.
CXVIII
Dread are the omens and fierce the storm,
Over France the signs and wonders swarm:
From noonday on to the vesper hour,
Night and darkness alone have power;
Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed,
Who sees it ranks him among the dead.
Well may they suffer such pain and woe,
When Roland, captain of all, lies low.
Never on earth hath his fellow been,
To slay the heathen or realms to win.
CXIX
Stern and stubborn is the fight;
Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite;
Nor is there one but whose blade is red,
"_Montjoie!_" is ever their war-cry dread.
Through the land they ride in hot pursuit,
And the heathens feel 'tis a fierce dispute.
CXX
In wrath and anguish, the heathen race
Turn in flight from the field their face;
The Franks as hotly behind them strain.
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