Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best summer reads .txt) 📗

the golden South,— Ho, fair one from the North; Ho, coat of mail and spear of sheen— Ho, wherefore ride ye forth? “We come from mount, we come from cave, We come across the sea, In long array, in bright array, To Montreal’s Companie.” Oh, the merry, merry band. Light heart, and heavy hand— Oh, the Lances of the Free! 2. Ho, Princes of the castled height— Ho, Burghers of the town; Apulia’s strength, Romagna’s pride, And Tusca’s old renown! Why quail ye thus? why pale ye thus? What spectre do ye see? “The blood-red flag, and trampling march, Of Montreal’s Companie.” Oh, the sunshine of your life— Oh, the thunders of your strife! Wild Lances of the Free! 3. Ho, scutcheons o’er the vaulted tomb Where Norman valour sleeps, Why shake ye so? why quake ye so! What wind the trophy sweeps? “We shake without a breath—below, The dead are stirred to see, The Norman’s fame revived again In Montreal’s Companie.” Since Roger won his crown, Who hath equalled your renown, Brave Lances of the Free? 4. Ho, ye who seek to win a name, Where deeds are bravest done— Ho, ye who wish to pile a heap, Where gold is lightest won; Ho, ye who loathe the stagnant life, Or shun the law’s decree, Belt on the brand, and spur the steed, To Montreal’s Companie. And the maid shall share her rest, And the miser share his chest, With the Lances of the Free! The Free! The Free! Oh! the Lances of the Free!

Then suddenly, as if inspired to a wilder flight by his own minstrelsy, the jongleur, sweeping his hand over the chords, broke forth into an air admirably expressive of the picture which his words, running into a rude, but lively and stirring doggerel, attempted to paint.

The March of the Grand Company.

Tira, tirala—trumpet and drum— Rising bright o’er the height of the mountain they come! German, and Hun, and the Islandrie, Who routed the Frenchman at famed Cressie, When the rose changed its hue with the fleur-de-lis; With the Roman, and Lombard, and Piedmontese, And the dark-haired son of the southern seas. Tira, tirala—more near and near Down the steep—see them sweep;—rank by rank they appear! With the Cloud of the Crowd hanging dark at their rear— Serried, and steadied, and orderlie, Like the course—like the force—of a marching sea! Open your gates, and out with your gold, For the blood must be spilt, or the ransom be told! Woe, Burghers, woe! Behold them led By the stoutest arm and the wisest head, With the snow-white cross on the cloth of red;— With the eagle eye, and the lion port, His barb for a throne, and his camp for a court: Sovereign and scourge of the land is he— The kingly Knight of the Companie! Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah! Hurrah for the army—hurrah for its lord— Hurrah for the gold that is got by the sword— Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah! For the Lances of the Free!

Shouted by the full chorus of those desperate boon-companions, and caught up and re-echoed from side to side, near and far, as the familiar and well-known words of the burthen reached the ears of more distant groups or stragglers, the effect of this fierce and licentious minstrelsy was indescribable. It was impossible not to feel the zest which that daring life imparted to its daring followers, and even the gallant and stately Knight who listened to it, reproved himself for an involuntary thrill of sympathy and pleasure.

He turned with some impatience and irritation to his companion, who had taken a part in the chorus, and said, “Sir, to the ears of an Italian noble, conscious of the miseries of his country, this ditty is not welcome. I pray you, let us proceed.”

“I humbly crave your pardon, Signor,” said the Free Companion; “but really so attractive is the life led by Free Lances, under Fra Moreale, that sometimes we forget the—; but pardon me—we will on.”

A few moments more, and bounding over a narrow circumvallation, the party found themselves in a quarter, animated indeed, but of a wholly different character of animation. Long lines of armed men were drawn up on either side of a path, conducting to a large marquee, placed upon a little hillock, surmounted by a blue flag, and up this path armed soldiers were passing to and fro with great order, but with a pleased and complacent expression upon their swarthy features. Some that repaired to the marquee were bearing packets and bales upon their shoulders—those that returned seemed to have got rid of their burthens, but every now and then, impatiently opening their hands, appeared counting and recounting to themselves the coins contained therein.

The Knight looked inquiringly at his companion.

“It is the marquee of the merchants,” said the captain; “they have free admission to the camp, and their property and persons are rigidly respected. They purchase each soldier’s share of the plunder at fair prices, and either party is contented with the bargain.”

“It seems, then, that there is some kind of rude justice observed amongst you,” said the Knight.

“Rude! Diavolo! Not a town in Italy but would be glad of such even justice, and such impartial laws. Yonder lie the tents of the judges, appointed to try all offences of soldier against soldier. To the right, the tent with the golden ball contains the treasurer of the army. Fra Moreale incurs no arrears with his soldiery.”

It was, indeed, by these means that the Knight of St. John had collected the best equipped and the best contented force in Italy. Every day brought him recruits. Nothing was spoken of amongst the mercenaries of Italy but the wealth acquired in his service, and every warrior in the pay of Republic or of Tyrant sighed for the lawless standard of Fra Moreale. Already had exaggerated tales of the fortunes to be made in the ranks of the Great Company passed the Alps; and, even now, the Knight, penetrating farther into the camp, beheld from many a tent the proud banners and armorial blazon of German nobility and Gallic knighthood.

“You see,” said the Free Companion, pointing to these insignia, “we are not without our different ranks in our wild city. And while we speak, many a golden spur is speeding hitherward from the North!”

All now in the quarter they had entered was still and solemn; only afar came the mingled hum, or the sudden shout of the pandemonium in the rear, mellowed by distance to a not unpleasing sound. An occasional soldier, crossing their path, stalked silently and stealthily to some neighbouring tent, and seemed scarcely to regard their approach.

“Behold! we are before the General’s pavilion,” said the Free Lance.

Blazoned with purple and gold, the tent of Montreal lay a little apart from the rest. A brooklet from the stream they had crossed murmured gratefully on the ear, and a tall and wide-spreading beech cast its shadow over the gorgeous canvass.

While his troop waited without, the knight was conducted at once to the presence of the formidable adventurer.