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Sleeping, waking, 'tis the same,

My dream, my thought will only give.
The form of her for whom I die,
Of her for whom alone I'd live.

Deep in love, 8c.




Let every valiant son of Gaul
Sing Roland's deeds, her greatest glory.
Whose name will stoutest foes appal,
And feats inspire for future story.

Roland in childhood had no fears,

Was full of tricks, nor knew a letter,
Which, though it cost his mother tears,

His father cry'd, “ So much the better;

* This admirable song, in praise of Roland, was translated from the French of the Marquis de Paulmy, by Dr. Burney, and inserted in the second volume of his History of Music.

« We'll have him for a soldier bred,

“ His strength and courage let us nourisht, “ If bold the heart, tho’ wild the head, • In war he'll but the better flourish.”

Let every, fc.

Roland arriv'd at man's estate,

Prov'd that his father well admonish’d,
For then his prowess was so great,

That all the world became astonish'd,
Battalions, squadrons, he could break,

And singly give them such a beating,
That, seeing him, whole armies quake,
And nothing think of but retreating.

· Let every, fc.

Few heroes have been so fortunate as Roland,

Vixere fortes ante Agememnona."
“ The brave conquered before Agememnon."

but then their very names have ingloriously perished. The military renown and amorous adventures of Roland have been consecrated to Fame, by the immortal poems of Ariosto and Berni. His daring courage in battle, his gentleness and courtesy after victory, and his enthusiastic love, are still familiar to every reader; and we have only to regret the loss of his Chanson, or military song, which formerly inspirited whole armies to the most perilous exploits. This song would have been a singular curiosity to Englishmen, as it was sung to animate the invading Normans at the battle of Hastings, by Taillefer, one of their minstrels, riding on horseback at the

head of their army.

In single combat 'twas the same;

To him all foes were on a level, For ev'ry one he overcame,

If giant, sorc'rer, monster, devil.
His arm no danger e'er could stay,

Nor was the goddess, fortune, fickles
For if his foes he did not slay,
He left them in a rueful pickle.

Let every, fc.

In scaling walls with highest glee,

He first the ladder fixt, then mounted; Let him, my boys, our model be,

Who men or perils never counted. At night with scouts he watch would keep,

With heart more gay than one in million, Or else on knapsack sounder sleep, Than general in his proud pavilion,

Let every, fc.

On stubborn foes he vengeance wreak'd,

And laid about him like a tartar, But if for mercy once they squeak’d,

He was the first to grant them quarter. The battle won, of Roland's soul

Each milder virtue took possession ;
To vanquish'd foes he, o'er a bowl,
His heart surrender'd at discretion.

Let every, for

When ask'd why Frenchmen wield the brand,

And dangers new each day solicit, He said, 'tis Charlemagne's command,

To whom our duty is implicit : His ministers and chosen few,

No doubt have weigh'd these things in private, Let us his enemies subdue, 'Tis all that soldiers e'er should drive at.

Let every, fc.

Roland like christian true would live,

Was seen at mass, and in procession; And freely to the poor would give,

Nor did he always shun confession.
But Bishop Turpin had decreed

His council in such weighty matter,
That 'twas a good and pious matter,
His country's foes to drub and scatter.

Let every, fc.

At table Roland, ever gay,

Would eat, and drink, and laugh, and rattle, But all was in a prudent way,

On days of guard, or eve of battle.
For still to king and countıy true,

He held himself their constant debtor,
And only drank in season due,
When to transact he'd nothing better.

Let every, 8c,

To captious blade he ne'er would bend,

Who quarrels sought on slight pretences; Though he to social joys a friend,

Was slow to take or give offences. None e'er had cause his arm to dread,

But those who wrong'd his prince, or nation, On whom, whene'er to combat led, He dealt out death and devastation,

Let every, fc.

Roland too much ador'd the fair,

From whom e'en heroes are defenceless, And by a queen of beauty rare,

He all at once was render'd senseless. One hapless morn she left the knight,

Who, when he miss'd her, grew quite frantica Our pattern, let him be in fight; His love was somewhat top romantie.

Let every, fc.

His mighty uncle, Charles the Great,

Who Rome's imperial sceptre wielded, Both early dignity and state,

With high command to Roland yielded. Yet tho' a General, Count, and Peer,

Roland's kind heart all pride could smother, For each brave man from van to rear, He treated like a friend and brother,

Let every, &ca

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