ROMANCES. 



377 



trrnu'd the highest and most touching specimen of early French poetry. The 

 predominant feature in it is attachment to the Catholic faith and to gentle 

 France. When Roland is expiring from the effect of his wounds in the defile 

 of Ronceraux (Fig. 308), his last look and his last thought are for France. 

 Assuredly there is nothing German or Teutonic in this the oldest of the 

 French romances, second in order to which was, we may fairly suppose, the 

 original version of "Aliscans." These romances of the first epoch often 

 began abruptly ; as, for instance, the " Chanson de Roland," the first two lines 

 of which run 



" Carles li reis, nostre emperere magne, 

 Set anz tuz pleing ad ested en Espaigne." 



This is a very characteristic opening for a popular song, in which it was 

 necessary to explain the subject matter in a very few words. It is the poet, 

 not the juggler, who has to make a direct appeal to the public whom he 

 addresses, that speaks in these two lines. 



But nothing can give so good an idea of the early chansons de geste as a 

 few quotations, and appended is the narrative of the death of Roland at 

 Ronceraux (Fig. 308), where the nephew of Charlemagne was skin by the 

 Saracens : 



" Roland sent que la mort lui est proche : 

 Sa cervelle s'en va par les oreilles. 



Le voili qui prie pour sea pairs d'abord, afin que Dieu les appelle ; 

 Puis, il se reoommande st 1'ange Gabriel. 

 II prend 1'olifant d'une main, pour n'en pas avoir de reproche, 

 Et de 1'autre saisit Durendal, son epee. 

 II s'avance plus loin qu'une portee d'arbalete, 

 Fait quelques pas sur la terre d'Espagne, entre en un champ de ble, 

 Monte sur un tertre. Sous deux beaux arbres, 

 II y a Ik quatre perrons de marbre. 

 Roland tombe a 1'envers sur 1'herbe verte 

 Et se pame : car la mort lui est proche. . . . 



A trois reprises, Roland frappe sur le rocher pour briser son epee : 



Plus en nl wit que je ne saurais dire. 



L'acier grince : il ne rompt pas : 



L'epee remonte en amont vers le ciel. 



Quand le comte s'aper^oit qu'il ne la peut briser, 



Tout doucement il la plaint en lui-meme : 



' Ma Durendal, comme tu es belle et sainte ! 



3 c 



