Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/347

Flames burst from his eyes,—'No sire,—no cursed unbelievers,
Shall bear off your virgins, we'll hunt the bereavers,
If your Majesty but allows.'

Charlemagne, Roland, Renaud of Montauban,
Are mounted, stout Turpin calls out for his foeman,
They scud like the sleet o'er the plain,
They've touched humbly the bones of Saint Rocamadour,
But from Canigou white to the willows of Adour,
The Moors have departed to Spain.

No! They are on the heights, that menace denoteth!
Like a round tower, they deck each peak, and there floateth
Their banner from each, white and blue,
Bristles the granite with ramparts bright crested,
They cry—'Dogs, bite not the ears of leopards rough-breasted,
Nor trouble the lions, though few.'

And Roland roared fierce, and vultures gigantic,
And troops of brown eagles, like waves of th' Atlantic,
With cries piercing wheeled round and around.
'Wait a moment, my birds,'—said Roland the peerless,
'And the tongues shall be still that gibe us now fearless,
And your food shall bestrew the ground.'

A month hewed he, leaping from mountain to mountain,
Throwing corpses to eagles, and then to the fountain
Repairing at eve with wild laughter;
Souls filled the air like a black thunder-cloud scowling,
They went to the Demon, mewling, yelping and howling,
Who knows of their dark hereafter!