Roland feels that his death is near;
Through his ears his brains are seeping.
To prevent any reproach he took the oliphant
And seized Durendal in his other hand.
Further than a crossbow can shoot an arrow
He goes over toward Spain, into a fallow field;
He climbs on to a mound, beneath a beautiful tree.
Four great marble blocks are there
And on the green grass he fell
for death is close to him.
He places his sword and the oliphant beneath him;
Toward the pagan host he turned his head,
Because it was his earnest wish that
Charles and all his men should say
That he, the noble count, had died victoriously.
Many things began to pass through his mind:
All the lands which he conquered as a warrior,
The fair land of France, the men of his lineage,
Charlemagne, his lord, who raised him.
He proffered his right glove to God;
Saint Gabriel took it from his hand.
Roland laid his head down over his arm;
With his hands joined he went to his end.
God sent down his angel Cherubin
And with him Saint Michael of the Peril.
With them both came Saint Gabriel.
They bear the count's soul to paradise.
–– The Song of Roland (Translated by G.S. Burgess. London: Penguin, 1990, excerpt edited and abridged by Bard)