“I have dreamed a dream,” cried Rienzi, leaping from his bed. “The
lion-hearted Boniface, foe and victim of the Colonna, hath appeared
to me, and promised victory. (“In questa notte mi e apparito Santo
Bonifacio Papa,” &c.--“Vita di Cola di Rienzi” cap. 32.) Nina, prepare
the laurel-wreath: this day victory shall be ours!”
“O, Rienzi! today?”
“Yes! hearken to the bell--hearken to the trumpet. Nay, I hear even now
the impatient hoofs of my white warsteed! One kiss, Nina, ere I arm for
victory,--stay--comfort poor Irene; let me not see her--she weeps that
my foes are akin to her betrothed; I cannot brook her tears; I watched
her in her cradle. Today, I must have no weakness on my soul! Knaves,
twice perjured!--wolves, never to be tamed!--shall I meet ye at last
sword to sword? Away, sweet Nina, to Irene, quick! Adrian is at Naples,
and were he in Rome, her lover is sacred, though fifty times a Colonna.”
With that, the Tribune passed into his wardrobe, where his pages and
gentlemen attended with his armour. “I hear, by our spies,” said he,
“that they will be at our gates ere noon--four thousand foot, seven
hundred horsemen. We will give them a hearty welcome, my masters. How,
Angelo Villani, my pretty page, what do you out of your lady’s service?”
“I would fain see a warrior arm for Rome,” said the boy, with a boy’s
energy.
“Bless thee, my child; there spoke one of Rome’s true sons!”
“And the Signora has promised me that I shall go with her guard to the
gates, to hear the news--”
“And report the victory?--thou shalt. But they must not let thee come
within shaft-shot. What! my Pandulfo, thou in mail?”
“Rome requires every man,” said the citizen, whose weak nerves were
strung by the contagion of the general enthusiasm.
“She doth--and once more I am proud to be a Roman. Now, gentles, the
Dalmaticum: (A robe or mantle of white, borne by Rienzi; at one time
belonging to the sacerdotal office, afterwards an emblem of empire.)
I would that every foe should know Rienzi; and, by the Lord of Hosts,
fighting at the head of the imperial people, I have a right to the
imperial robe. Are the friars prepared? Our march to the gates shall be
preceded by a solemn hymn--so fought our sires.”
“Tribune, John di Vico is arrived with a hundred horse to support the
Good Estate.”
“He hath!--The Lord has delivered us then of a foe, and given our
dungeons a traitor!--Bring hither yon casket, Angelo.--So--Hark thee!
Pandulfo, read this letter.”
The citizens read, with surprise and consternation, the answer of the
wily Prefect to the Colonna’s epistle.
“He promises the Baron to desert to him in the battle, with the
Prefect’s banner,” said Pandulfo. “What is to be done?”
“What!--take my signet--here--see him lodged forthwith in the prison
of the Capitol. Bid his train leave Rome, and if found acting with the
Barons, warn them that their Lord dies. Go--see to it without a moment’s
delay. Meanwhile, to the chapel--we will hear mass.”
Within an hour the Roman army--vast, miscellaneous--old men and boys,
mingled with the vigour of life, were on their march to the Gate of San
Lorenzo; of their number, which amounted to twenty thousand foot,
not one-sixth could be deemed men-at-arms; but the cavalry were well
equipped, and consisted of the lesser Barons and the more opulent
citizens. At the head of these rode the Tribune in complete armour,
and wearing on his casque a wreath of oak and olive leaves, wrought in
silver. Before him waved the great gonfalon of Rome, while in front of
this multitudinous array marched a procession of monks, of the order of
St. Francis, (for the ecclesiastical body of Rome went chiefly with
the popular spirit, and its enthusiastic leader,)--slowly chanting the
following hymn, which was made inexpressibly startling and imposing at
the close of each stanza, by the clash of arms, the blast of trumpets,
and the deep roll of the drum; which formed, as it were, a martial
chorus to the song:--
Roman War-song.
1.
March, march for your hearths and your altars!
Cursed to all time be the dastard that falters,
Never on earth may his sins be forgiven
Death on his soul, shut the portals of heaven!
A curse on his heart, and a curse on his brain!--
Who strikes not for Rome, shall to Rome be her Cain!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
(Rienzi’s word of battle was “Spirito Santo Cavaliere”, i.e.
Cavalier in the singular number. The plural number has been
employed in the text, as somewhat more animated, and
therefore better adapted to the kind of poetry into the
service of which the watchword has been pressed.)
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gaily to glory we come;
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
2.
March, march for your Freedom and Laws!
Earth is your witness--all Earth’s is your cause!
Seraph and saint from their glory shall heed ye,
The angel that smote the Assyrian shall lead ye;
To the Christ of the Cross man is never so holy
As in braving the proud in defence of the lowly!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gaily to glory we come;
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
3.
March, march! ye are sons of the Roman,
The sound of whose step was as fate to the foeman!
Whose realm, save the air and the wave, had no wall,
As he strode through the world like a lord in his hall;
Though your fame hath sunk down to the night of the grave,
It shall rise from the field like the sun from the wave.
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Blow, trumpets, blow,
Gaily to glory we come;
Like a king in his pomp,
To the blast of the tromp,
And the roar of the mighty drum!
Breeze fill our banners, sun gild our spears,
Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!
In this order they reached the wide waste that ruin and devastation
left within the gates, and, marshalled in long lines on either side,
extending far down the vistaed streets, and leaving a broad space in the
centre, awaited the order of their leader.
“Throw open the gates, and admit the foe!” cried Rienzi, with a loud
voice; as the trumpets of the Barons, announced their approach.
Meanwhile the insurgent Patricians, who had marched that morning from a
place called the Monument, four miles distant, came gallantly and boldly
on.
With old Stephen, whose great height, gaunt frame, and lordly air,
shewed well in his gorgeous mail, rode his sons,--the Frangipani and the
Savelli, and Giordano Orsini, brother to Rinaldo.
“Today the tyrant shall perish!” said the proud Baron; “and the flag of
the Colonna shall wave from the Capitol.”
“The flag of the Bear,” said Giordano Orsini, angrily.--“The victory
will not be yours alone, my Lord!”
“Our house ever took precedence in Rome,” replied the Colonna,
haughtily.
“Never, while one stone of the palaces of the Orsini stands upon
another.”
“Hush!” said Luca di Savelli; “are ye dividing the skin while the lion
lives? We shall have fierce work today.”
“Not so,” said the old Colonna; “John di Vico will turn, with his
Romans, at the first onset, and some of the malcontents within have
promised to open the gates.--How, knave?” as a scout rode up breathless
to the Baron. “What tidings?”
“The gates are opened--not a spear gleams from the walls!”
“Did I not tell ye, Lords?” said the Colonna, turning round
triumphantly. “Methinks we shall win Rome without a single
blow.--Grandson, where now are thy silly forebodings?” This was said to
Pietro, one of his grandsons--the first-born of Gianni--a comely youth,
not two weeks wedded, who made no reply. “My little Pietro here,”
continued the Baron, speaking to his comrades, “is so new a bridegroom,
that last night he dreamed of his bride; and deems it, poor lad, a
portent.”
“She was in deep mourning, and glided from my arms, uttering, ‘Woe, woe,
to the Colonna!” said the young man, solemnly.
“I have lived nearly ninety years,” replied the old man, “and I may have
dreamed, therefore, some forty thousand dreams; of which, two came true,
and the rest were false. Judge, then, what chances are in favour of the
science!”
Thus conversing, they approached within bow-shot of the gates, which
were still open. All was silent as death. The army, which was composed
chiefly of foreign mercenaries, halted in deliberation--when, lo!--a
torch was suddenly cast on high over the walls; it gleamed a moment--and
then hissed in the miry pool below.
“It is the signal of our friends within, as agreed on,” cried old
Colonna. “Pietro, advance with your company!” The young nobleman closed
his visor, put himself at the head of the band under his command; and,
with his lance in his rest, rode in a half gallop to the gates. The
morning had been clouded and overcast, and the sun, appearing only at
intervals, now broke out in a bright stream of light--as it glittered
on the waving plume and shining mail of the young horseman, disappearing
under the gloomy arch, several paces in advance of his troop. On swept
his followers--forward went the cavalry headed by Gianni Colonna,
Pietro’s father.--there was a minute’s silence, broken only by the
clatter of the arms, and tramp of hoofs,--when from within the walls
rose the abrupt cry--“Rome, the Tribune, and the People! Spirito Santo,
Cavaliers!” The main body halted aghast. Suddenly Gianni Colonna was
seen flying backward from the gate at full speed.
“My son, my son!” he cried, “they have murdered him;”--he halted abrupt
and irresolute, then adding, “But I will avenge!” wheeled round, and
spurred again through the arch,--when a huge machine of iron, shaped as
a portcullis, suddenly descended upon the unhappy father, and crushed
man and horse to the ground--one blent, mangled, bloody mass.
The old Colonna saw, and scarce believed his eyes; and ere his troop
recovered its stupor, the machine rose, and over the corpse dashed
the Popular Armament. Thousands upon thousands, they came on; a wild,
clamorous, roaring stream. They poured on all sides upon their enemies,
who drawn up in steady discipline, and clad in complete mail, received
and broke their charge.
“Revenge, and the Colonna!”--“The Bear and the Orsini!”--“Charity and
the Frangipani!” (Who had taken their motto from some fabled ancestor
who had broke bread with a beggar in a time of famine.) “Strike for
the Snake (The Lion was, however, the animal usually arrogated by the
heraldic vanity of the Savelli.) and the Savelli!” were then heard on
high, mingled with the German and hoarse shout, “Full purses, and the
Three Kings of Cologne.” The Romans, rather ferocious than disciplined,
fell butchered in crowds round the ranks of the mercenaries: but as one
fell, another succeeded; and still burst with undiminished fervour
the countercry of “Rome, the Tribune, and the People!--Spirito Santo,
Cavaliers!” Exposed to every shaft and every sword by his emblematic
diadem and his imperial robe, the fierce Rienzi led on each assault,
wielding an enormous battle-axe, for the use of which the Italians were
celebrated, and which he regarded as a national weapon. Inspired by
every darker and sterner instinct of his nature, his blood heated, his
passions aroused, fighting as a citizen for liberty, as a monarch
for his crown, his daring seemed to the astonished foe as that of one
frantic; his preservation that of one inspired: now here, now there;
wherever flagged his own, or failed the opposing, force, glittered his
white robe, and rose his bloody battle-axe; but his fury seemed rather
directed against the chiefs than the herd; and still where his charger
wheeled was heard his voice, “Where is a Colonna?”--“Defiance to the
Orsini!”--“Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!” Three times was the sally led from
the gate; three times were the Romans beaten back; and on the third, the
gonfalon, borne before the Tribune, was cloven to the ground. Then, for
the first time, he seemed amazed and alarmed, and, raising his eyes to
heaven, he exclaimed, “O Lord, hast thou then forsaken me?” With that,
taking heart, once more he waved his arm, and again led forward his wild
array.
At eve the battle ceased. Of the Barons who had been the main object of
the Tribune’s assault, the pride and boast was broken. Of the princely
line of the Colonna, three lay dead. Giordano Orsini was mortally
wounded; the fierce Rinaldo had not shared the conflict. Of the
Frangipani, the haughtiest signors were no more; and Luca, the dastard
head of the Savelli, had long since saved himself by flight. On the
other hand, the slaughter of the citizens had been prodigious;--the
ground was swamped with blood--and over heaps of slain, (steeds and
riders,) the twilight star beheld Rienzi and the Romans returning
victors from the pursuit. Shouts of rejoicing followed the Tribune’s
panting steed through the arch; and just as he entered the space within,
crowds of those whose infirmities, sex, or years, had not allowed them
to share the conflict,--women, and children, and drivelling age, mingled
with the bare feet and dark robes of monks and friars, apprised of the
victory, were prepared to hail his triumph.
Rienzi reined his steed by the corpse of the boy Colonna, which lay
half immersed in a pool of water, and close by it, removed from the arch
where he had fallen, lay that of Gianni Colonna,--(that Gianni Colonna
whose spear had dismissed his brother’s gentle spirit.) He glanced over
the slain, as the melancholy Hesperus played upon the bloody pool and
the gory corselet, with a breast heaved with many emotions; and turning,
he saw the young Angelo, who, with some of Nina’s guard, had repaired to
the spot, and had now approached the Tribune.
“Child,” said Rienzi, pointing to the dead, “blessed art thou who hast
no blood of kindred to avenge!--to him who hath, sooner or later comes
the hour; and an awful hour it is!”
The words sank deep into Angelo’s heart, and in after life became words
of fate to the speaker and the listener.
Ere Rienzi had well recovered himself, and as were heard around him
the shrieks of the widows and mothers of the slain--the groans of the
dying--the exhortations of the friars--mingled with sounds of joy
and triumph--a cry was raised by the women and stragglers on the
battle-field without, of “The foe!--the foe!”
“To your swords,” cried the Tribune; “fall back in order;--yet they
cannot be so bold!”
The tramp of horses, the blast of a trumpet, were heard; and presently,
at full speed, some thirty horsemen dashed through the gate.
“Your bows,” exclaimed the Tribune, advancing;--“yet hold--the leader
is unarmed--it is our own banner. By our Lady, it is our ambassador of
Naples, the Lord Adrian di Castello!”
Panting--breathless--covered with dust--Adrian halted at the pool red
with the blood of his kindred--and their pale faces, set in death,
glared upon him.
“Too late--alas! alas!--dread fate!--unhappy Rome!”
“They fell into the pit they themselves had digged,” said the Tribune,
in a firm but hollow voice.--“Noble Adrian, would thy counsels had
prevented this!”
“Away, proud man--away!” said Adrian, impatiently waving his
hand,--“thou shouldst protect the lives of Romans, and--oh,
Gianni!--Pietro!--could not birth, renown, and thy green years, poor
boy--could not these save ye?”
“Pardon him, my friends,” said the Tribune to the crowd,--“his grief is
natural, and he knows not all their guilt.--Back, I pray ye--leave him
to our ministering.”
It might have fared ill for Adrian, but for the Tribune’s brief speech.
And as the young Lord, dismounting, now bent over his kinsmen--the
Tribune also surrendering his charger to his squires, approached, and,
despite Adrian’s reluctance and aversion, drew him aside,--
“Young friend,” said he, mournfully, “my heart bleeds for you; yet
bethink thee, the wrath of the crowd is fresh upon them: be prudent.”
“Prudent!”
“Hush--by my honour, these men were not worthy of your name. Twice
perjured--once assassins--twice rebels--listen to me!”
“Tribune, I ask no other construing of what I see--they might have died
justly, or been butchered foully. But there is no peace between the
executioner of my race and me.”
“Will you, too, be forsworn? Thine oath!--Come, come, I hear not these
words. Be composed--retire--and if, three days hence, you impute any
other blame to me than that of unwise lenity, I absolve you from your
oath, and you are free to be my foe. The crowd gape and gaze upon us--a
minute more, and I may not avail to save you.”
The feelings of the young patrician were such as utterly baffle
description. He had never been much amongst his house, nor ever received
more than common courtesy at their hands. But lineage is lineage still!
And there, in the fatal hazard of war, lay the tree and sapling, the
prime and hope of his race. He felt there was no answer to the Tribune,
the very place of their death proved they had fallen in an assault upon
their countrymen. He sympathised not with their cause, but their fate.
And rage, revenge alike forbidden--his heart was the more softened
to the shock and paralysis of grief. He did not therefore speak, but
continued to gaze upon the dead, while large and unheeded tears flowed
down his cheeks, and his attitude of dejection and sorrow was so moving,
that the crowd, at first indignant, now felt for his affliction.
At length his mind seemed made up. He turned to Rienzi, and said,
falteringly, “Tribune, I blame you not, nor accuse. If you have been
rash in this, God will have blood for blood. I wage no war with you--you
say right, my oath prevents me; and if you govern well, I can still
remember that I am Roman. But--but--look to that bleeding clay--we meet
no more!--your sister--God be with her!--between her and me flows a dark
gulf!” The young noble paused some moments, choked by his emotions,
and then continued, “These papers discharge me of my mission.
Standard-bearers, lay down the banner of the Republic. Tribune, speak
not--I would be calm--calm. And so farewell to Rome.” With a hurried
glance towards the dead, he sprung upon his steed, and, followed by his
train, vanished through the arch.
The Tribune had not attempted to detain him--had not interrupted him.
He felt that the young noble had thought--acted as became him best. He
followed him with his eyes.
“And thus,” said he gloomily, “Fate plucks from me my noblest friend and
my justest counsellor--better man Rome never lost!”
Such is the eternal doom of disordered states. The mediator between rank
and rank,--the kindly noble--the dispassionate patriot--the first to
act--the most hailed in action--darkly vanishes from the scene. Fiercer
and more unscrupulous spirits alone stalk the field; and no neutral and
harmonizing link remains between hate and hate,--until exhaustion, sick
with horrors, succeeds to frenzy, and despotism is welcomed as repose!