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CONRADIN.
It was about the end of the year 1267, that the young Conradin, aged only
sixteen years, arrived at Verona with ten thousand cavalry, to claim the
inheritance of which the popes had despoiled his family. Conradin entered
the kingdom of his fathers, and met Charles of Anjou in the plain of Tagliacozzo,
on the 23rd of August, 1268. A desperate battle ensued: victory long
remained doubtful. Two divisions of the army of Charles were already
destroyed; and the Germans, who considered themselves the victors, were
dispersed in pursuit of the enemy, when the French prince fell on them with
his body of reserve, and completely routed them. Conradin was brought to
Charles, who, without pity for his youth, esteem for his courage, or respect
for his just right, sentenced him to death. He was beheaded in the market-place
at Naples, on the 26th of October, 1268.
Sismondi.
The harvest fields shone bright
'Neath the blue Italian sky;
And clustering vines in purple light
From the western hills waved high:
When a distant sound, like gathering seas,
Swept o'er the mild, autumnal breeze.
'Neath the blue Italian sky;
And clustering vines in purple light
From the western hills waved high:
When a distant sound, like gathering seas,
Swept o'er the mild, autumnal breeze.
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Again! and, like the blast
Through forests old and drear,
That startling sound in wildness pass'd—
'Twas the rush of shield and spear,
The heavy march of warlike men,
Deep echoing through the narrow glen.
Through forests old and drear,
That startling sound in wildness pass'd—
'Twas the rush of shield and spear,
The heavy march of warlike men,
Deep echoing through the narrow glen.
O'er stern Abruzzo's height,
A martial horn peals far;
'Tis the signal shrill of deadly fight,
The iron voice of war!
Scarf, plume, and banner, wave around:
Fierce helmets gleam, and chargers bound.
A martial horn peals far;
'Tis the signal shrill of deadly fight,
The iron voice of war!
Scarf, plume, and banner, wave around:
Fierce helmets gleam, and chargers bound.
Who cheers the warriors on?
What chief of glorious deeds?
Ah! where's the light of Valour gone,
That a crested stripling leads?
Away! the hour of hope redeem;
Lo! here the spears of Anjou gleam!
What chief of glorious deeds?
Ah! where's the light of Valour gone,
That a crested stripling leads?
Away! the hour of hope redeem;
Lo! here the spears of Anjou gleam!
And yet, that youthful knight
Owns no dishonour'd line;
For, if the Victory crowned the right,
Young Conradin, 'twere thine!
Sound, warriors, sound your battle strain!
Ye stand on Tagliacozzo's plain!
Owns no dishonour'd line;
For, if the Victory crowned the right,
Young Conradin, 'twere thine!
Sound, warriors, sound your battle strain!
Ye stand on Tagliacozzo's plain!
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Grasp, grasp your brands, and slay!
Hark! like a tempest's roar,
The fiend of battle shrieks for prey,
Bathes his wild sword in gore!
And many a fair and stately head
Lies crushed beneath the chargers' tread.
Hark! like a tempest's roar,
The fiend of battle shrieks for prey,
Bathes his wild sword in gore!
And many a fair and stately head
Lies crushed beneath the chargers' tread.
Where rolls the reddest sea,
Still Conradin speeds there,
To champion immortality,
To triumph o'er despair!
Brave youth! thy foes, the Gauls, give way:
Thine, thine's the hottest sword to-day!
Still Conradin speeds there,
To champion immortality,
To triumph o'er despair!
Brave youth! thy foes, the Gauls, give way:
Thine, thine's the hottest sword to-day!
Ho! Anjou to the van!—
Thy veterans yield before
This boy, this mockery of a man,
Who tames thy scorn with gore:
Better for thee had older hand
Met thy all-famed, all-conquering band.
Thy veterans yield before
This boy, this mockery of a man,
Who tames thy scorn with gore:
Better for thee had older hand
Met thy all-famed, all-conquering band.
Ho! Anjou to the van!—
The soul of combat warm;
Or home! and own thy chieftains ran
From Conradin's young arm!
'Twill be a warlike deed to tell,
And suit thine ancient minstrel well!
The soul of combat warm;
Or home! and own thy chieftains ran
From Conradin's young arm!
'Twill be a warlike deed to tell,
And suit thine ancient minstrel well!
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Back! back! the clarions ring!
'Tis sword to sword—and see!
A thousand gallant lances spring
For Gaul and Victory!
What power may turn the conflict now?
Lost—lost!—where, Conradin, art thou?
'Tis sword to sword—and see!
A thousand gallant lances spring
For Gaul and Victory!
What power may turn the conflict now?
Lost—lost!—where, Conradin, art thou?
The first upon the field—
The last to quit the fight—
I mark thee all too brave to yield,
Still battling 'midst the flight:
And many a haughty crest is lower'd
Beneath the lightning of thy sword!
The last to quit the fight—
I mark thee all too brave to yield,
Still battling 'midst the flight:
And many a haughty crest is lower'd
Beneath the lightning of thy sword!
The heavy morn rose red
O'er the sorrowing and the slain;
Where thousands found a gory bed,
On Tagliacozzo's plain:
And cloven shield, and shatter'd crest,
The havoc of the brand confess'd.
O'er the sorrowing and the slain;
Where thousands found a gory bed,
On Tagliacozzo's plain:
And cloven shield, and shatter'd crest,
The havoc of the brand confess'd.
Where droops that flower of might,
Young Conradin the brave?
Not where the bugle sounds to fight;
Where rival standards wave:
He moves where frowns the fatal wheel,
The chain, the rack, the headsman's steel!
Young Conradin the brave?
Not where the bugle sounds to fight;
Where rival standards wave:
He moves where frowns the fatal wheel,
The chain, the rack, the headsman's steel!
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And shall Earth breathe no more
Her hope, her joy, for him?
Is the bright spring of glory o'er;
His morn of manhood dim?
Hath Tyranny no milder doom
Than traitor's death, than felon's tomb?
Her hope, her joy, for him?
Is the bright spring of glory o'er;
His morn of manhood dim?
Hath Tyranny no milder doom
Than traitor's death, than felon's tomb?
I saw him in that hour
Of battle's fierce alarm;
When banner'd legions own'd his power,
And quail'd beneath his arm;
But prouder glance, nor statelier brow,
Nor firmer front, were his, than now.
Of battle's fierce alarm;
When banner'd legions own'd his power,
And quail'd beneath his arm;
But prouder glance, nor statelier brow,
Nor firmer front, were his, than now.
Mark, Anjou! the stern gleam
Of that avenging eye
Shall be to thee a living dream,
A curse that may not die:
'Twill haunt the midnight of thy mind—
A foe thou canst not slay or bind!
Of that avenging eye
Shall be to thee a living dream,
A curse that may not die:
'Twill haunt the midnight of thy mind—
A foe thou canst not slay or bind!
'Tis o'er! one startling glare,
One deep and deadly blow,
And headless falls the royal heir
Of Hohenstauffen low!
Wake, Vengeance! nerve thy heart and hand!
Strike, Freedom, for thy native land!
One deep and deadly blow,
And headless falls the royal heir
Of Hohenstauffen low!
Wake, Vengeance! nerve thy heart and hand!
Strike, Freedom, for thy native land!
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