Letërsi - LONGFELLOW, Henry W. Scanderbeg

	The battle is fought and won
	By King Ladislaus the Hun,
	In fire of hell and death’s frost,
	On the day of Pentecost;
5	And in rout before his path
	From the field of battle red
	Flee all that are not dead
	Of the army of Amurath.

	In the darkness of the night
10	Iskander, the pride and boast
	Of that mighty Othman host,
	With his routed Turks, takes flight
	From the battle fought and lost
	On the day of Pentecost;
15	Leaving behind him dead
	The army of Amurath,
	The vanguard as it led,
	The rearguard as it fled,
	Mown down in the bloody swath
20	Of the battle’s aftermath.

	But he cared not for Hospodars,
	Nor for Baron or Voivode,
	As on through the night he rode,
	And gazed at the fatal stars
25	That were shining overhead;
	But smote his steed with his staff,
	And smiled to himself, and said:
	“This is the time to laugh.”

	In the middle of the night,
30	In a halt of the hurrying flight,
	There came a Scribe of the King
	Wearing his signet ring,
	And said in a voice severe:
	“This is the first dark blot
35	On thy name, George Castriot!
	Alas ! why art thou here,
	And the army of Amurath slain,
	And left on the battle plain?”

	And Iskander answered and said:
40	“They lie on the bloody sod
	By the hoofs of horses trod;
	But this was the decree
	Of the watchers overhead ;
	For the war belongeth to God,
45	And in battle who are we,
	Who are we, that shall withstand
	The wind of his lifted hand?”

	Then he bade them bind with chains
	This man of books and brains;
50	And the Scribe said: “What misdeed
	Have I done, that without need,
	Thou doest to me this thing?”
	And Iskander answering
	Said unto him: “Not one
55	Misdeed to me hast thou done;
	But for fear that thou shouldst run
	And hide thyself from me,
	Have I done this unto thee.”

	“Now write me a writing, O Scribe,
60	And a blessing be on thy tribe !
	A writing sealed with thy ring,
	To King Amurath’s Pasha
	In the city of Croia,
	The city moated and walled,
65	That he surrender the same
	In the name of my master, the King;
	For what is writ in his name
	Can never be recalled.”

	And the Scribe bowed low in dread,
70	And unto Iskander said :
	“Allah is great and just,
	We are but ashes and dust!
	How shall I do this thing,
	When I know that my guilty head
75	Will be forfeit to the King?”

	Then swift as a shooting star
	The curved and shining blade
	Of Iskander’s scimitar
	From its sheath, with jewels bright,
80	Shot, as he thundered: “Write!”
	And the trembling Scribe obeyed,
	And wrote in the fitful glare
	Of the bivouac fire apart,
	With the chill of the midnight air
85	On his forehead white and bare,
	And the chill of death in his heart.

	Then again Iskander cried:
	“Now follow whither I ride,
	For here thou must not stay.
90	Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,
	And honors without end
	Shall surround thee on every side,
	And attend thee night and day.”
	But the sullen Scribe replied:
95	“Our pathways here divide;
	Mine leadeth not thy way.”

	And even as he spoke
	Fell a sudden scimitar stroke,
	When no one else was near;
100	And the Scribe sank to the ground,
	As a stone, pushed from the brink
	Of a black pool, might sink
	With a sob and disappear;
	And no one saw the deed;
105	And in the stillness around
	No sound was heard but the sound
	Of the hoofs of Iskander’s steed,
	As forward he sprang with a bound.

	Then onward he rode and afar,
110	With scarce three hundred men,
	Through river and forest and fen,
	O’er the mountains of Argentar;
	And his heart was merry within
	When he crossed the river Drin,
115	And saw in the gleam of the morn
	The White Castle Ak-Hissar,
	The city Croia called,
	The city moated and walled,
	The city where he was born,—
120	And above it the morning star.

	Then his trumpeters in the van
	On their silver bugles blew,
	And in crowds about him ran
	Albanian and Turkoman,
125	That the sound together drew.
	And he feasted with his friends,
	And when they were warm with wine,
	He said: “O friends of mine,
	Behold what fortune sends,
130	And what the fates design!
	King Amurath commands
	That my father’s wide domain,
	This city and all its lands,
	Shall be given to me again,”

135	Then to the Castle White
	He rode in regal state,
	And entered in at the gate
	In all his arms bedight,
	And gave to the Pasha
140	Who ruled in Croia
	The writing of the King,
	Sealed with his signet ring.
	And the Pasha bowed his head.
	And after a silence said:
145	“Allah is just and great!
	I yield to the will divine,
	The city and lands are thine;
	Who shall contend with fate?”

	Anon from the castle walls
150	The crescent banner falls,
	And the crowd beholds instead,
	Like a portent in the sky,
	Iskander’s banner fly,
	The Black Eagle with double head;
155	And a shout ascends on high,
	For men’s souls are tired of the Turks,
	And their wicked ways and works,
	That have made of Ak-Hissar
	A city of the plague ;
160	And the loud, exultant cry
	That echoes wide and far
	Is: “Long live Scanderbeg!”

	It was thus Iskander came
	Once more unto his own;
165	And the tidings, like the flame
	Of a conflagration blown
	By the winds of summer, ran,
	Till the land was in a blaze,
	And the cities far and near,
170	Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,
	In his Book of the Words of the Days,
	“Were taken as a man
	Would take the tip of his ear.”

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