Classic Poem

" St. Michael stands upon my right,
Therefore I have no fear;
When he shall cease his holy fight
My end will then be near. "
Thus spake the brave George Castriot
Albania's Christian knight,
Who once with Moslems cast his lot,
(With those who love our Jesu not).

They called him by another name —
The hateful Moslem crew! —
Iscander-Beg! They knew his fame,
And deep that fame they rue.
To-day, beside the Golden Horn,
Full many a Moslem dame
Most sore affrights her latest born
With that bright name that Christians mourn.

His father was a noble good,
His mother, sweet and fair,
Who loved our Jesu's holy rood
And breathed forth many a prayer
For those who with the infidel
In need of Christian solace stood,
And in their sins were forced to dwell
(Her prayers, O Castriot, served thee well!).

The Turkish hordes swept down one day,
Ferocious and armed well,
Four little boys that were at play
A hostage to them fell;
For Christians could not hold their own —
They were the Moslem's prey.
Three of them had to Heaven flown
Before the fourth was fully grown.

Albania's blood flowed swift and true
Within his princely veins;
The Sultan learned to know it, too,
And kept in golden chains
The soul of him that was Christ's child,
Baptized as he knew well;
But conscience-stifled, soul-beguiled,
His heart and strength grew fierce and wild.

" Weak are the corselets you have brought! "
The fearful Sultan said
Unto the armorers, who wrought
Strong shields for heart and head.
" My bold Albanian's naked skin,
His arms when clothed with naught,
Will let no arrow enter in;
To him your thickest steel is thin.

Hail, Alexander, lord and prince! "
The fearful Sultan cried,
Not dreaming that his hosts would wince
Before that name of pride.
Iscander-Beg is Castriot,
(How deep his great sword dints!)
Though for a time he cast his lot
With those who loved our Jesu not.

II.

He reveled with the Moslem swine,
Pierced many a true man's heart;
He spilled our Christian blood like wine,
And fought with skillful art;
But the Good Shepherd sought for him,
From him God would not part,
For " Salve " ('t was his childish hymn)
Stopped many a sinful thought and whim.

For childish thoughts are lifetime's dreams
Within us unto death,
They come upon us when pain seems
To stop our very breath.
And so Iscander-Beg, the strong,
At least the legend saith,
Was led by childish thoughts along
By music of the " Salve " song.

And mothers' prayers work wonders strange,
They never are in vain;
No earthly power can check their range,
No heavenly will. 'T is plain
Christ's Mother loves all mothers well,
Can She be deaf to mothers' pain?
So 'Scander-Beg, an infidel,
Apostate came from Moslem hell.

There shone a day for Christian lands,
A wonder-working day,
When Castriot looked at his hands,
All soiled with bloody clay:
" My soul's like this, God's mark is there,
No sin can hide that mark away!
My sins are scarlet; can I dare
To ask the Christ to make me fair? "

A mother's prayers all battles win!
He left his worthless gold,
He cast aside the nets of sin
That chained him in their hold.
He tore away the crescent moon
Which fast was growing (Moslems told
How it would swing 'er Europe soon).
It waned! — this was a mother's boon.

" Iscander-Beg! " he cried, " to hell
I cast that title vile;
I spit upon thee, infidel;
At all thy honors false, I smile.

Poor as a monk, I choose the cross;
Ah! never shall vain things beguile
Me to the loving of base dross;
These honors to the fiends I toss! "

We know the rest: he saved the world,
Our world, from Moslems' rule,
And on their running ranks he hurled
(This man who had been Moslems' tool!)
His mighty strength. Brave Castriot
Became a child in Jesu's school;
Knelt weeping that he cast his lot
With those who loved our Lady not.

Oh! thoughts of childhood do not die
Like thoughts of man and youth;
They change not like an April sky
They live in lies or truth,
And, be they false or be they true,
They work us good or ruth;
And well George Castriot's mother knew
That Jesu grants when mothers sue.

" St. Michael stands upon my right,
My own right arm I bare;
While he is with me in the fight,
I need no armor there.
My sword, best tempered blade of all,
Will cleave a yielding hair!
But if Lord Jesu will, I fall —
Maria! hear a sinner's call! "