We too, we too, descending once
The hills of our own land, we too have
Far off —- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine —-The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
The first, the second blast, the failing third,
And with the third turned back and climbed once
The steep road southward, and heard faint the
Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,
And crossed the dark defile at last, and
At Roncevaux upon the darkening
The dead against the dead and on the silent
The silent slain—-
