"
King Marsil turns him to the wall,
And weeps--his visage darkened all.
He dies for grief--in sin he dies,
His wretched soul the demon's prize.
CCXXII
Dead lay the heathens, or turned to flight,
And Karl was victor in the fight.
Down Saragossa's wall he brake--
Defence he knew was none to make.
And as the city lay subdued,
The hoary king all proudly stood,
There rested his victorious powers.
The queen hath yielded up the towers--
Ten great towers and fifty small.
Well strives he whom God aids withal.
CCXXIII
Day passed; the shades of night drew on,
And moon and stars refulgent shone.
Now Karl is Saragossa's lord,
And a thousand Franks, by the king's award,
Roam the city, to search and see
Where mosque or synagogue may be.
With axe and mallet of steel in hand,
They let nor idol nor image stand;
The shrines of sorcery down they hew,
For Karl hath faith in God the True,
And will Him righteous service do.
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