THE BRAVE ROLAND.

THE brave Roland!—the brave Roland!—
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allémayne!
For the loss of thine own true knight.

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Yale Center for British Art, 2013

212

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ?

For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung—

'Twas her own dear warrior's horn !

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break !
She would have hung upon his neck,

Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms,
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in Heaven.

Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu ;

It was dear still 'midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she bless'd him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.

There's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nuns' green isle ;

Thence sad and oft look'd he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,

For herself he might not see.

She died !—He sought the battle-plain;
Her image fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell and wish'd to fall :
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.

212

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu;

There's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nuns' green isle;