Scanderbeg

The battle is fought and wonBy King Ladislaus the Hun,In fire of hell and death's frost,On the day of Pentecost.And in rout before his pathFrom the field of battle redFlee all that are not deadOf the army of Amurath.

In the darkness of the nightIskander, the pride and boastOf that mighty Othman host,With his routed Turks, takes flightFrom the battle fought and lostOn the day of Pentecost;Leaving behind him deadThe army of Amurath,The vanguard as it led,The rearguard as it fled,Mown down in the bloody swathOf the battle's aftermath.

But he cared not for Hospodars,Nor for Baron or Voivode,As on through the night he rodeAnd gazed at the fateful stars,That were shining overheadBut smote his steed with his staff,And smiled to himself, and said;"This is the time to laugh."

In the middle of the night,In a halt of the hurrying flight,There came a Scribe of the KingWearing his signet ring,And said in a voice severe:"This is the first dark blotOn 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:"They lie on the bloody sodBy the hoofs of horses trod;But this was the decreeOf the watchers overhead;For the war belongeth to God,And in battle who are we,Who are we, that shall withstandThe wind of his lifted hand?"

Then he bade them bind with chainsThis man of books and brains;And the Scribe said: "What misdeedHave I done, that, without need,Thou doest to me this thing?"And Iskander answeringSaid unto him: "Not oneMisdeed to me hast thou done;But for fear that thou shouldst runAnd hide thyself from me,Have I done this unto thee.

"Now write me a writing, O Scribe,And a blessing be on thy tribe!A writing sealed with thy ring,To King Amurath's PashaIn the city of Croia,The city moated and walled,That he surrender the sameIn the name of my master, the King;For what is writ in his nameCan never be recalled."

And the Scribe bowed low in dread,And unto Iskander said:"Allah is great and just,But we are as ashes and dust;How shall I do this thing,When I know that my guilty headWill be forfeit to the King?"

Then swift as a shooting starThe curved and shining bladeOf Iskander's scimetarFrom its sheath, with jewels bright,Shot, as he thundered: "Write!"And the trembling Scribe obeyed,And wrote in the fitful glareOf the bivouac fire apart,With the chill of the midnight airOn 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.Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,And honors without endShall surround thee on every side,And attend thee night and day."But the sullen Scribe replied"Our pathways here divide;Mine leadeth not thy way."

And even as he spokeFell a sudden scimetar-stroke,When no one else was near;And the Scribe sank to the ground,As a stone, pushed from the brinkOf a black pool, might sinkWith a sob and disappear;And no one saw the deed;And in the stillness aroundNo sound was heard but the soundOf the hoofs of Iskander's steed,As forward he sprang with a bound.

Then onward he rode and afar,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,And saw in the gleam of the mornThe White Castle Ak-Hissar,The city Croia called,The city moated and walled,The city where he was born,--And above it the morning star.

Then his trumpeters in the vanOn their silver bugles blew,And in crowds about him ranAlbanian and Turkoman,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,And what the fates design!King Amurath commandsThat my father's wide domain,This city and all its lands,Shall be given to me again."

Then to the Castle WhiteHe rode in regal state,And entered in at the gateIn all his arms bedight,And gave to the PashaWho ruled in CroiaThe writing of the King,Sealed with his signet ring.And the Pasha bowed his head,And after a silence said:"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 wallsThe crescent banner falls,And the crowd beholds instead,Like a portent in the sky,Iskander's banner fly,The Black Eagle with double head;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-HissarA city of the plague;And the loud, exultant cryThat echoes wide and farIs: "Long live Scanderbeg!"

It was thus Iskander cameOnce more unto his own;And the tidings, like the flameOf a conflagration blownBy the winds of summer, ran,Till the land was in a blaze,And the cities far and near,Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,In his Book of the Words of the Days,"Were taken as a manWould take the tip of his ear."