# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Enciklopedia letrare >  Longfellow, poeti amerikan qe shkroi per Gjergj Kastriotin.

## Sokoli

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 the night
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;
Leaving behind him dead
The army of Amurath,
The vanguard as it led,
The rearguard as it fled,
Mown down in the bloody swath
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 fateful stars,
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,
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
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:
"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,
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;
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
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,
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,
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,
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 head
Will be forfeit to the King?" 

Then swift as a shooting star
The curved and shining blade
Of Iskander's scimetar
From its sheath, with jewels bright,
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
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.
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
"Our pathways here divide;
Mine leadeth not thy way." 

And even as he spoke
Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,
When no one else was near;
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;
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,
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 morn
The 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 van
On their silver bugles blew,
And in crowds about him ran
Albanian 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 commands
That my father's wide domain,
This city and all its lands,
Shall be given to me again." 

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
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:
"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
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;
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;
And the loud, exultant cry
That echoes wide and far
Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!" 

It was thus Iskander came
Once more unto his own;
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,
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." 



_
Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tales of a Wayside Inn
1863
_

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## erzeni

Ne  permbledhjen me poezi te Fan Nolit  me titull "ALBUMI" botuar ndoshta ne vitet 60 me parathenie te Vehbi Bales ne mos gaboj eshte mes tjerash dhe Poezia e Longfellout mbi Skenderbeun e shqiperuar nga Fan Noli.

Lufton luften dhe fiton
Mbreti Vladislav gjemon...etj.


Po aty ne Album krahas poezive te njohura atdhetare  si Anes Lumenjve..Hymni Flamurit ..Elegji per gurakuqin... Shpella dragobise etj jane dhe lirikat e Nolit..si Plak Topall dhe ashik..si dhe  Rubairat e khajamit..si dhe KORBI i Edgar Poes..etj.


Sokol  pergezime !

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## MI CORAZON

Perseri nga Longfellow...

      Shigjeta dhe kenga

  Shigjeten hodha ne qiell dikur
  E ra ajo. Po s'di se ku.
  Se kush mund t'kete sy kaq te shpejte
  Sa pas te ndjekin nje shigjete?

  Embel kendova nje kenge dikur
  E shkoi ajo. Po s'di se ku.
  Se kush ka aq veshtrim te shpejte
  Sa n'fluturim kengen te ndjeke?

  Ngulur ne lis vite me pas
  Shigjeten une papritmas pashe
  E kengen qe atehere me iku
  E gjeta ne zemren e nje miku. 

    ........ How romantic!!!!!.........thote nje personazh tek "Aristocats"   :buzeqeshje:

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## Vajzë_Mistrece

Pershendetje te gjitheve,
Sokol, me vjen mire qe ke sjelle kete poezi te mrekullueshme nga nje poet amerikan per heroin e kombit tone me shume per faktin se ne forum ka disa postime nga "shqipetare" qe nuk jane shume te familjarizuar me figuren e Skenderbeut.
Fakti qe nje poet i huaj shkruan per figuren e Skenderbeut tregon qe figura e Gjergj Kastriotit eshte po aq e njohur ne bote sa dhe vepra e tij ne historine e kombit tone.

P.S.( Kam versionin ne shqip te Fan Nolit  do te mundohem ta postoj keto dite tek letersia shqiptare, e postoj dhe ketu po s'dua te thote Sokoli "nuk e kam harruar shqipen une" :buzeqeshje: )


Te fala,
vajze_mistrece

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