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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409658" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Spanish Jew's Second Tale; Scanderbeg</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The battle is fought and won<br>By King Ladislaus, the Hun,<br>In fire of hell and death's frost,<br>On the day of Pentecost.<br>And in rout before his path<br>From the field of battle red<br>Flee all that are not dead<br>Of the army of Amurath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the darkness of the night<br>Iskander, the pride and boast<br>Of that mighty Othman host,<br>With his routed Turks, takes flight<br>From the battle fought and lost<br>On the day of Pentecost;<br>Leaving behind him dead<br>The army of Amurath,<br>The vanguard as it led,<br>The rearguard as it fled,<br>Mown down in the bloody swath<br>Of the battle's aftermath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he cared not for Hospodars,<br>Nor for Baron or Voivode,<br>As on through the night he rode<br>And gazed at the fateful stars,<br>That were shining overhead;<br>But smote his steed with his staff,<br>And smiled to himself, and said;<br>'This is the time to laugh.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the middle of the night,<br>In a halt of the hurrying flight,<br>There came a Scribe of the King<br>Wearing his signet ring,<br>And said in a voice severe:<br>'This is the first dark blot<br>On thy name, George Castriot!<br>Alas! why art thou here,<br>And the army of Amurath slain,<br>And left on the battle plain?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Iskander answered and said:<br>'They lie on the bloody sod<br>By the hoofs of horses trod;<br>But this was the decree<br>Of the watchers overhead;<br>For the war belongeth to God,<br>And in battle who are we,<br>Who are we, that shall withstand<br>The wind of his lifted hand?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then he bade them bind with chains<br>This man of books and brains;<br>And the Scribe said: 'What misdeed<br>Have I done, that, without need,<br>Thou doest to me this thing?'<br>And Iskander answering<br>Said unto him: 'Not one<br>Misdeed to me hast thou done;<br>But for fear that thou shouldst run<br>And hide thyself from me,<br>Have I done this unto thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now write me a writing, O Scribe,<br>And a blessing be on thy tribe!<br>A writing sealed with thy ring,<br>To King Amurath's Pasha<br>In the city of Croia,<br>The city moated and walled,<br>That he surrender the same<br>In the name of my master, the King;<br>For what is writ in his name<br>Can never be recalled.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the Scribe bowed low in dread,<br>And unto Iskander said:<br>'Allah is great and just,<br>But we are as ashes and dust;<br>How shall I do this thing,<br>When I know that my guilty head<br>Will be forfeit to the King?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then swift as a shooting star<br>The curved and shining blade<br>Of Iskander's scimetar<br>From its sheath, with jewels bright,<br>Shot, as he thundered: 'Write!'<br>And the trembling Scribe obeyed,<br>And wrote in the fitful glare<br>Of the bivouac fire apart,<br>With the chill of the midnight air<br>On his forehead white and bare,<br>And the chill of death in his heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then again Iskander cried:<br>'Now follow whither I ride,<br>For here thou must not stay.<br>Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,<br>And honors without end<br>Shall surround thee on every side,<br>And attend thee night and day.'<br>But the sullen Scribe replied<br>'Our pathways here divide;<br>Mine leadeth not thy way.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And even as he spoke<br>Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,<br>When no one else was near;<br>And the Scribe sank to the ground,<br>As a stone, pushed from the brink<br>Of a black pool, might sink<br>With a sob and disappear;<br>And no one saw the deed;<br>And in the stillness around<br>No sound was heard but the sound<br>Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed,<br>As forward he sprang with a bound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then onward he rode and afar,<br>With scarce three hundred men,<br>Through river and forest and fen,<br>O'er the mountains of Argentar;<br>And his heart was merry within,<br>When he crossed the river Drin,<br>And saw in the gleam of the morn<br>The White Castle Ak-Hissar,<br>The city Croia called,<br>The city moated and walled,<br>The city where he was born,--<br>And above it the morning star.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then his trumpeters in the van<br>On their silver bugles blew,<br>And in crowds about him ran<br>Albanian and Turkoman,<br>That the sound together drew.<br>And he feasted with his friends,<br>And when they were warm with wine,<br>He said: 'O friends of mine,<br>Behold what fortune sends,<br>And what the fates design!<br>King Amurath commands<br>That my father's wide domain,<br>This city and all its lands,<br>Shall be given to me again.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then to the Castle White<br>He rode in regal state,<br>And entered in at the gate<br>In all his arms bedight,<br>And gave to the Pasha<br>Who ruled in Croia<br>The writing of the King,<br>Sealed with his signet ring.<br>And the Pasha bowed his head,<br>And after a silence said:<br>'Allah is just and great!<br>I yield to the will divine,<br>The city and lands are thine;<br>Who shall contend with fate?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Anon from the castle walls<br>The crescent banner falls,<br>And the crowd beholds instead,<br>Like a portent in the sky,<br>Iskander's banner fly,<br>The Black Eagle with double head;<br>And a shout ascends on high,<br>For men's souls are tired of the Turks,<br>And their wicked ways and works,<br>That have made of Ak-Hissar<br>A city of the plague;<br>And the loud, exultant cry<br>That echoes wide and far<br>Is: 'Long live Scanderbeg!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was thus Iskander came<br>Once more unto his own;<br>And the tidings, like the flame<br>Of a conflagration blown<br>By the winds of summer, ran,<br>Till the land was in a blaze,<br>And the cities far and near,<br>Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,<br>In his Book of the Words of the Days,<br>'Were taken as a man<br>Would take the tip of his ear.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409658" data-title="Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Spanish Jew's Second Tale; Scanderbeg de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="The battle is fought and won
By King Ladislaus, the Hun,
In fire of hell and death's frost,
On the day of Pentecost.
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 th..."></div>
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