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When the Emperour his justice hath achieved, His mighty wrath's abated from its heat, And Bramimunde has christening received; Passes the day, the darkness is grown deep, And now that King in 's vaulted chamber sleeps. Saint Gabriel is come from God, and speaks: "Summon the hosts, Charles, of thine Empire, Go thou by force into the land of Bire, King Vivien thou'lt succour there, at Imphe, In the city which pagans have besieged. The Christians there implore thee and beseech." Right loth to go, that Emperour was he: "God!" said the King: "My life is hard indeed!" Tears filled his eyes, he tore his snowy beard.

SO ENDS THE TALE WHICH TUROLD HATH CONCEIVED.

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