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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409413" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Death Of Archbishop Turpin. (From The French)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, <br>Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; <br>And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, <br>And a faint shudder through his members ran. <br>Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; <br>Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, <br>Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, <br>And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. <br>Then raising in his arms the man of God, <br>Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. <br>Rest, Sire,' he cried,--'for rest thy suffering needs.' <br>The priest replied, 'Think but of warlike deeds! <br>The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! <br>But death steals on,--there is no hope of life; <br>In paradise, where Almoners live again, <br>There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! <br>That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. <br>When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, <br>'O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! <br>Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! <br>Beloved France! how have the good and brave <br>Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!' <br>Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er <br>His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, <br>'My gentle friend!--what parting full of woe! <br>Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;-- <br>Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee! <br>Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, <br>The Hebrew Prophets from the second death.' <br>Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, <br>He went, and one by one unaided drew <br>To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore;-- <br>No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, <br>He blessed them in God's name, with faith that He <br>Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, <br>Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-- <br>His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, <br>And many a wound his swollen visage bore. <br>Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, <br>Death comes apace,--no hope of cure relieves. <br>Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed <br>That God, who for our sins was mortal made, <br>Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, <br>In paradise would place him by His side. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, <br>In battle great and eke great orison;-- <br>'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; <br>God grant to him His holy benison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409413" data-title="Death Of Archbishop Turpin. (From The French) de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; 
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, 
And a faint shudder through his members ran. 
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; 
Brave Roland saw..."></div>
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