Their dole and pity anew find vent,
And Roland maketh his fond lament:
"My Olivier, my chosen one,
Thou wert the noble Duke Renier's son,
Lord of the March unto Rivier vale.
To shiver lance and shatter mail,
The brave in council to guide and cheer,
To smite the miscreant foe with fear,--
Was never on earth such cavalier."
CLXXXV
Dead around him his peers to see,
And the man he loved so tenderly,
Fast the tears of Count Roland ran,
His visage discolored became, and wan,
He swooned for sorrow beyond control.
"Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!"
CLXXXVI
To look on Roland swooning there,
Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare;
He stretched his hand, the horn he took,--
Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,--
A draught to Roland he thought to bring;
But his steps were feeble and tottering,
Spent his strength, from waste of blood,--
He struggled on for scarce a rood,
When sank his heart, and drooped his frame,
And his mortal anguish on him came.
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