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National Epics by Rabb, Kate Milner



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Upon the gray rock mightily he smites,
Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword
But grinds. It breaks not--nor receives a notch,
And upward springs more dazzling in the air.
When sees the Count Rolland his sword can never break,
Softly within himself its fate he mourns:
"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!
In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth
Of great Saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile,
A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,
A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.
It is not right that pagans should own thee;
By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms
I shall have conquered once that now are ruled
By Carle, the king with beard all blossom-white,
And by them made great emperor and lord.
May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."
Aoi.
The Count Rolland feels through his limbs the grasp
Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart
A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine
He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.
Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,
And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,
That Carle and all his knightly host may say:
"The gentle count a conqueror has died. . . ."
Then asking pardon for his sins, or great
Or small, he offers up his glove to God.
Aoi.
The Count Rolland feels now his end approach.
Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,
He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:
"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,
Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,
Until this hour committed since my birth!"
Then his right glove he offers up to God,
And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.
Aoi.
Beneath a pine Rolland doth lie, and looks
Toward Spain. He broods on many things of yore:
On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,
On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord
Who nurtured him;--he sighs, nor can restrain
His tears, but cannot yet himself forget;
Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God
He prays: "Our Father, never yet untrue,
Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved
Thy Daniel from the lions' claws,--oh, free
My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"
His right hand glove he offered up to God;
Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined
Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined
He breathed his last. God sent his cherubim,
Saint-Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril_.
Together with them Gabriel came. All bring
The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise.
Aoi.
_Rabillon's Translation_

THE SHAH-NAMEH.

The monarchs of ancient Persia made several attempts to collect the historic annals of their country, but both people and traditions were scattered by the Arabian conquest. The manuscript annals were carried to Abyssinia, thence to India, and were taken back to Persia just when the weakness of the conquerors was beginning to show itself. The various members of the Persian line, who had declared themselves independent of their conquerors, determined to rouse the patriotism of their countrymen by the recital of the stirring deeds of the warriors of old Persia.