# Tales and Historic Scenes/The Death of Conradin

THE
DEATH OF CONRADIN.
FROM SISMONDI'S "REPUBLIQUES ITALIENNES."
"La défaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni à ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d'Anjou). L'amour du peuple pour l'héritier légitime du trône, avoit éclaté d'une manière effrayante; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles révolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie; et Charles, revêtant sa défiance et sa cruauté des formes de la justice, resolut de faire périr sur l'échafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, l'unique espérance de son parti. Un seul juge provençal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n'ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d'autres se renfermèrent dans un timide et coupable silence; et Charles, sur l'autorité de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sentence fut communiquée à Conradin, comme il jouoit aux échecs; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer à son exécution, et le 26 d'Octobre, il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marché de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles étoit présent, avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamné. Conradin étoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il détacha lui-même son manteau, et s'étant mis à genoux pour prier, il se releva en s'écriant: 'Oh, ma mère, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on va te porter de moi!" Puis il ​tourna les yeux sur la foule qui l'entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple; alors, détachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tête au bourreau. Après lui, sur le même echafaud, Charles fit trancher la tête au Duc d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un rafinement de cruauté, Charles voulut que le premier, fils du sécond, précédât son père, et mourût entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'après ses ordres, furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumés sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II., cependant fit dans la suite, bâtir sur le même lieu, une église de Carmelites, comme pour appaiser ces ombres irritées."
THE
DEATH OF CONRADIN.
No cloud to dim the splendor of the day Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm'd the great of yore; Th' imperial ones of earth—who proudly bade Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm invade.
That race is gone—but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires past away.
The beam of Heaven expands—its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle,
Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breast. Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray,
On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, With all Italia's sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow'd and dark with many a lava streak.
O ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues; Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err'd to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide. Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside, And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air.
What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,$^1$ Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o'er th'enchanted ground; His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves. His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o'er myrtle-shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still.
Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness'd many a dark reality. Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles, never to return.$^2$ There with the whisper of Campania's gale Hath mingled oft affection's funeral-wail, Mourning for buried heroes—while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.$^3$ And there of old, the dread, mysterious moan Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float
Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide,$^4$
Past are those ages—yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th' Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore— It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er! There is a throne in regal pomp array'd,— A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. Mark'd ye the rushing throngs?—each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale; But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force, For tyranny is near—and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look.
Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,$^5$ And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror!—vainly in his face, Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace;
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament; And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence—to despair!
But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die
Hath grown too full for utterance—can it be? And is this pomp of death prepared for thee? Young, royal Conradin! who should'st have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone! Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array'd thus richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep-swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne'er control? Bright victim! to ambition's altar led, Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy—if to thee denied?
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves—the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage Is passing to his fate—the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him: He mounts the scaffold—doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him, if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed, And all th' affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life's young day-spring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death!
But no!—the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow—that youthful face
Beams with heroic beauty—and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels—but not to man—his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him in fate's dread hour? How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope, when hope on earth is gone?
That solemn pause is o'er—the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven; The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, Life all around him glows—and he must die! Yet 'midst his people, undismay'd, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; Vengeance, that like their own volcano's fire, May sleep suppress'd awhile—but not expire. One softer image rises o'er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! "Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?"—that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still.
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun— It falls—the race of Conradin is run! Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven—and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!—but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee!
The scene of death is closed—the throngs depart, A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bath'd by ocean's wave, Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour'd, unadorn'd—but unforgot; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering—never to forgive!
The sunset fades from purple heavens away,— A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay; Thence on the beach descends a female form,$^6$ Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm;
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak, Inured to woes—yet what were all the past! She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, While one bright hope remain'd—who now shall tell Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved-one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came—and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief, Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief, Awhile she kneels—till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother's cry, is heard—"My Conradin! my child!"
NOTES.