CONRADIN, THE LAST OF THE HOHENSTAUFFENS. On the twenty-ninth of October, one thousand two hundred and sixtyeight, two months after the battle of Scurcola, the condemned were led to the place of execution, where the headsman awaited them with bare feet, and sleeves folded upwards. When King Charles had occupied a place of honor, as it was called, in the window of a neighboring castle, Robert of Bari, that unjust judge, addressed the multitude in compliance with the will of the king. "Ye men assembled here! This Conradin, the son of Conrad, hath come from Germany-a seducer of his people, a reaper of foreign crops -waging an unjust war against legitimate rulers. At first he was victorious by chance, but afterwards by the valor of our monarch the conqueror was overcome; and he who held himself unshackled by any law, is now led in bonds before the tribunal of that king, whom he endeavored to destroy. Therefore by permission of the clergy, and by the advice of wise men and lawyers, sentence of death is pronounced on him and his accomplices, as robbers, mutineers and traitors; and to prevent further danger, his doom will be performed without delay, before the eyes of all." When the multitude heard this sentence, all were astonished, and a stifled murmur arose, testifying the emotion of their minds. But the influence of fear prevailed. Count Robert of Flanders alone, the king's son-in-law, a noble and handsome man, sprang on his feet, giving scope to his just anger, and spoke to Robert of Bari: "How darest thou, unjust and overbearing villain, to doom so great and glorious a knight to death?" and at the same time he smote him with his sword, so that he was borne away lifeless. Charles was compelled to restrain his anger, for he perceived that his knights approved of the count's action: but the doom remained unaltered.

Hereupon Conradin begged yet once more to be permitted to speak, and said with great calmness: "In the sight of God, I have deserved death, as a sinner; but here I am condemned unjustly. I ask all the trusty subjects, for whose welfare my ancestors have toiled with paternal care-I ask all heads and princes of this earth-is he guilty who defends his own and his people's rights? Moreover if I were guilty, how dare they punish the innocent, who, bound in service to no other power, have adhered to me from praiseworthy fidelity ?" These words excited much emotion, but no action; and he, whose emotion could alone produce results, not only remained deaf to the calls of justice, but was hardened against the pity which was excited in all around by the rank, youth, and beauty of the condemned. Then Conradin threw his glove down from the scaffold, in order that it might be brought to King Peter of Aragon, as a token that he transferred to him his rights on Apulia and Sicily. The glove was taken up, and the prince's last wish fulfilled, by Truchsess, a knight of Walburg. The prince now dismissing all hopes of a change in his unjust sentence, embraced his companions in death, especially Frederick of Austria, threw off his upper garment, and stretching out his hands to heaven said, "Jesus Christ, Lord of every being, King of honor, if this chalice is not to pass away from me, into thy hands I commend my spirit." Then he knelt down, but raising himself once again, he cried out, "O my mother, what grief am I preparing to thee!" Then he received the death blow; and Frederick of Austria cried out so loudly in unmeasurable grief, as he saw his friend's head fall, that all wept.-Raumer's History of the Hohenstauffens.

CONRADIN, THE LAST OF THE HOHENSTAUFFENS.

A HUM of gathering multitudes-a crash
Of martial music, and the sun-bright flash
Of knightly arms, pennon, and plume, and spear-
High-crested barons, and the proud career
Of chargers, to the trumpets thrilling blast
Tossing their necks of thunder-slowly passed
Along the strand,-along thy gorgeous strand,
Sweet Naples! Queen of that enchanted land,
Whose gales with melody and perfume rife
Can wake the dying wretch to health and life;
Whose myrtle groves and shades of deathless bay
Inspire the minstrel, and reward the lay;
Whose tideless seas in azure calmness lie
Fraught with the glories of their kindred sky;
Earth, ocean, air, Love's universal shrine
Steeping the soul in ecstasy divine.

A warrior passed-to die!—a knight had met
His latest foe!-a prince's sun was set!—
And never kinglier spirit, soul more high
Curled on the lip, or lightened from the eye,
Than thine, Young Conradin. Not on the day
When first he donned the pomp of war's array,—
Not, when his scattered foes before him driven
Shouting his war cry to the winds of heaven
He charged triumphant,-was the victor seen
Of haughtier port, of bearing more serene.
Dauntless and passionless he rode along,
Threading the mazes of that coward throng
Which cringed and wept around the tyrant's rein,
With the calm smile of pity's cold disdain,
That they, the children of the immortal dead
Who erst for Rome's three hundred triumphs bled,
Should see their monarch by a felon's doom
Led unavenged to an unhallowed tomb.

And lo! the scaffold frowning o'er the flood-
The sable priest-the minister of blood
Bare armed-bare headed-in his ruffian hand
Poising on high the ignominious brand!
Aghast the crowd recoiled,—a stifled groan
Of thousands-dying freedom's latest tone-
A whisper-and deep silence! Can it be
That men-Italians-offspring of the free-
Will tamely stand to see their king struck down
By a slave's weapon, at a tyrant's frown?
Unmoved stood Conradin-unmoved and grave-
While the crowd heaved around him, like the wave
Which rocks, and shudders, to the gale's first sigh,
When night-dews fall, and stars are in the sky;
The mellow radiance of the southern glow
Streamed like a glory o'er his noble brow;
Wrapped his proud features in a veil of light,
Soon to be quenched in cold obstruction's night;

Flashed on the mirror of his cloudless eye,
And tinged his cheek with summer's golden die.
A haughtier, fiercer flash of angry scorn
From every speaking lineament was born,
As rose that dastard judge, that slave of time,
Scorned by the tyrant lord who paid his crime,
Loathed by the good, and hated by the bold,
Proud without rank, whose very thoughts were sold,
Robert de Bari-"Men of Naples, hear-
And knights of France-prince-paladin and peer-
The rebel lord-the traitor-king discrowned-
The vanquished victor-by his realm disowned-
False knight-who o'er his bleeding country poured
The savage thousands of his northern horde-
Burner of churches-with the accursed brand,
Reaping the harvests of a foreign land,—
He that would sweep with war's unchristian sway
All lawful rule from his ambitious way,—
Captive before the king he would have slain,—
Finds for his throne a block-his robes a chain!
This day, this hour-before a nation's eye
The son of Conrad, Conradin shall die!

His knightly shield reversed-his falchion broken!—
Slave, to thy deed of death-his doom is spoken."

Scarce had he said, when with the startling clang
Of iron harness, from his charger sprang
The Count of Flanders, he whose single might
Had turned the tide of many a wavering fight,—
In kingly halls the court's unrivalled star-
In judgment true,-a thunderbolt in war:
"Darest thou," he cried, and every heart beat high,
As though some warlike trumpet flourished nigh;
"Darest thou," he cried, "Thou base and sordid thing
Which men forbear to crush, who feel thy sting-
Darest thou cut short a warrior's glorious race?
A spotless knight condemn to foul disgrace?
Thine be the infamy, as thine shall be

The death, more dreadful to such slaves as thee!
Fall in thy treason, traitor!" As he spoke
Forth from the scabbard, like a sunbeam, broke
The avenging blade.-One instant, to the sky
Stainless it flashed-another, and the die

Of life's dark flood had dimmed its shine in gore,-
Its shine, ne'er stained by coward's blood before.

Unmoved stood Conradin,-hope's flattering ray
Gleamed not to shake his spirit's changeless sway.
He knew the tyrant's impotence of hate,
But trembled not. He knew that all too late
The chord was struck, to wake a kindred tone
In hearts debased by an usurper's throne.
He knew that life's career of pride was o'er,
All save the latest struggle on her shore.
Hope-glory-love-ambition-country-gone,
Where kings derive no lustre from their crown.—
Calmly he gazed, where stretched before him lay
The enchanting circle of earth's brightest bay,-

Portici's groves of verdure,-Caprea's pile
Of shivered rocks, the Roman's lonely isle,-
Castellamare,-and the eternal height

Of dark Vesuvius frowning on the sight,-
The liquid depths of the unfathomed air-
The billows sparkling to the noontide glare,-
The quiet mountains, and the vine-clad plain,—
The thousand snowy sails that gemmed the main,—
Gleamed on his soul in nature's fairest guise,
With song, and sunshine, and the unearthly dies
Of southern summer;-the Sirocco's gale,
Ruffling the deep, and murmuring in the vale,
Poured o'er his brow its last, its freshest, dew,—
Greener the woodlands shone, the skies more blue,-
Sweeter the songs,-more beautiful the shore,-
Lovelier his kingdom showed, though loved before.
Oft had he watched, beneath the silvery moon,
Or the parched stillness of Italian noon,
The varying splendors of that earthly heaven-
Foretaste of Paradise to mortals given;-
Yet never had he felt so softly calm
Its voice of melody, its breath of balm-
Never so fair and glorious-as when now

He viewed to view no more-his country's glow.
Forward he strode, he raised his soul on high
To meet his God beyond the boundless sky.
"LORD of all flesh, before тHY throne I stand
Condemned,-for who shall meet the avenging hand
Of the ETERNAL, self-absolved, and strong
In the all-righteous ignorance of wrong?"
His words came forth harmonious, clear, and slow,
Like some unceasing river's copious flow,-

No inward strife convulsed his frame,-no throb
Heaved his proud breast's control,-no faltering sob
Told of dissembled fear, or lurking shame,

In the last warrior of a noble name.

"But ye-the lords-the kings-the gods, of earth,-
I stand before ye, firm in conscious worth!
Erect in native fearlessness of mood!
Pure in the might of virtue's hardihood!
Say-did I sin, when I unsheathed the brand,
A freeman's weapon, for a freeman's land?
Say-did I sin, when for my father's crown
I ventured love, and life, and-not renown!
No! Death may reign in all his shapes accursed
Till the eyes dazzle, and the heart-strings burst,
May quench the pulse in gore-may sear in flame--
May blight the clay-but cannot blast the name !--
And mine shall ring, as with an earthquake's peal,
Till realms shall break their chains, and tyrants feel--
Feel, that their despot sway, their iron might,
Are straw to fire-before the People's right!
If it be sin to shield a birthright's cause--
Against unlawful rule to guard the laws--
Such sin be mine. For on Platea's plain

Such was the Athenian's crime, the Persian's bane--
Such were the crimes of all, whose titles shine
In the high place of fame's immortal shrine !

And shall I fear to climb the deathless road--
The road, my MASTER, and my SAVIOR trod?
Bring forth your torments!-Glut your savage eyes!-
I scorn your mercy, and your doom despise !--
But were the depths of guilt, and madness mine,
The crimes of Nero--rage of Cataline--
Dare ye to harm the innocent, the free,-
Slaves to no mortal,--for their faith to me?---
I speak in vain, for your cold hearts are dead
To virtuous warmth, your very souls are red
With the unhallowed taint of murderous wrong!
My words are bitter, but my heart is strong!"

Sternly he paused, as from his hand he drew
The embroidered glove, and from the scaffold threw.
"Bear it," he cried, "If one true heart be near,
To whom his prince's parting charge is dear-
Bear it to Aragon; say that I fell

As Conrad's son should fall, my last farewell
To him---to him, before the block of death,
Mine and my father's kingdoms, I bequeath---
Mine and my father's vengeance! I have said!
Tyrant THINE ax is ready, and my head!"
He ceased, and on the crowd a shuddering gloom
Sank heavily,---a breath as from the tomb
O'ercame the boldest heart with deep despair---
Glazed the stern eye, and roused the bristling hair.
He clasped the comrades to his dauntless heart,
Whom life had joined, nor death itself could part;
To Austria's loved embrace a moment clung,
Then from his godlike limbs the mantle flung,---
Bound from his neck his ringlets waving shroud,---
Stretched forth his arms to heaven, and prayed aloud.
"MAKER of all things---King of might and power---
If the dark cup for me is filled, this hour
Receive my soul," without a thrill of dread,
A throb of wo, he bowed his glorious head
In pride of calm submission. Yet once more
His tuneful accents pealed along the shore,---
"My mother, oh! my mother, must I heap
Eternal misery on thy heart, and steep

Thine age in anguish ?" With the lightning's gleam
Down came the ax, and gushed the crimson stream,---
And all was ended---save the unearthly scream

Of reft affection,---impotent despair, ---
That yelled aloft, high o'er the seraph's prayer,
Heard at the throne of grace Young Austria's cry,
As he beheld his lord, his kinsman die.

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