DR. K.M. KHANTAMOUR 
 ARMENIAN COLLECTION 
 
 University of California Library , Los Angeles
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS 
 
 RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 ALICE STONE BLACKWELL 
 
 FOR SALE BY 
 
 ROBERT CHAMBERS 
 
 Room 610, Ford Building 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 1917 
 
 <""-" -V 
 > ' v '
 
 ATLANTIC PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 201 SOUTH STREET 
 
 BOSTON, MASS.
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 | WO considerations led to the publication of this 
 book. The first was the belief that the sym- 
 pathy felt for the Armenians in their unspeak- 
 able sufferings at the hands of the Turks would be 
 deepened by an acquaintance with the temper and 
 genius of the people, as shown in their poetry. 
 
 The second was the fact that Armenian poetic 
 literature, while well worthy to be known, was prac- 
 tically inaccessible to English-speaking readers. Its 
 treasures are locked up in an almost unknown language. 
 
 Each of these translations in verse has been made 
 from a literal translation in prose, furnished to me in 
 English or French by my Armenian friends. Among 
 those who rendered this help were the late Mr. Ohannes 
 Chatschumian of Leipzig University, Professor Minas 
 Tcheraz of King's College, London, editor of "L'Ar- 
 menie;" the late Kevork Tourian, the martyred Bishop 
 of Trebizond: Archag Tchobanian, Garabed H. Papa- 
 zian, Haroutune Asian, Arsen Dirari, Avedis B. Selian,
 
 ii PREFACE. 
 
 Sahag Chuchian,AramTorossian,Karekin Manoukian, 
 O. H. Ateshian, Arshag D. Mahdesian, editor of "The 
 New Armenia," Bedros A. Keljik and D. K. Varzha- 
 bedian. 
 
 The poems that make up the first part of this volume 
 were published by Roberts Brothers in 1896. They 
 were well received, as the press comment in the Appen- 
 dix will show. The book has been long out of print. 
 This new and enlarged edition has been privately 
 printed in order that the entire proceeds might go to 
 the relief fund. 
 
 ALICE STONE BLACK WELL. 
 
 3 MONADNOCK STREET, DORCHESTER, MASS.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 [RMENIAN poetry is so full of allusions to 
 Vartan, Avarair, Haig, and Thorkom or 
 Togarmah, as well as to the Garden of 
 Eden, that a few preliminary notes are 
 necessary by way of explanation. 
 
 Armenia is a mountainous region of Western Asia, 
 lying around Mount Ararat, and containing the sources 
 of the Tigris, Euphrates, and Araxes rivers. It is 
 south of the Caucasus Mountains, between the Black, 
 Caspian, and Mediterranean seas. According to tra- 
 dition, it was the site of the Garden of Eden. 
 
 Armenia was the seat of one of the most ancient 
 civilizations of the globe. Its people were contem- 
 porary with the Assyrians and Babylonians. They 
 are of Aryan race, and of pure Caucasian blood. 
 
 Their origin is lost in the mists of antiquity. Ac- 
 cording to their own tradition, they are the descendants 
 of Thorkom, or Togarmah, a grandson of Japhet, who 
 settled in Armenia after the Ark rested on Ararat; 
 They call themselves Haik, and their country Haias : 
 dan, after Haig, the son of Togarmah. one of their 
 greatest kings. In the earliest days of recorded his-
 
 iv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tory, we find them occupying their present home. 
 They are referred to by Herodotus. Xenophon de- 
 scribes their manners and customs much as they still 
 exist. In the Bible it is mentioned that the sons of 
 Sennacherib escaped "into the land of Armenia." 
 Kzekiel also refers to Armenia, under the name of 
 Togarmah, as furnishing Tyre with horses and mules, 
 animals for which it is still famous; and "the King- 
 dom of Ararat " is one of the nations summoned by 
 Jeremiah to aid in the destruction of Babylon. 
 
 Tradition relates that Christianity was preached in 
 Armenia early in the first century, by the Apostles 
 Thaddeus and Bartholomew. It is historic fact that 
 in A. D. 276 the king and the whole nation became 
 Christian, under the preaching of Saint Gregory, called 
 "the Illuminator." The Armenian Church is thus 
 the oldest national Christian church in the world. 
 
 As a Christian nation whose lot has been cast be- 
 yond the frontiers of Christendom, the Armenians 
 have had to suffer constant persecution, in early times 
 from the Persian fire-worshippers, in later centuries 
 from the Mohammedans. Since the withdrawal of 
 the Crusaders, to whom they alone of Asiatic nations 
 gave aid and co-operation, the Armenians have been 
 at the mercy of the surrounding heathen peoples. 
 Their country has been invaded successively by the 
 Caliphs of Bagdad, the Sultans of Egypt, the Khans 
 of Tartary, the Shahs of Persia, and the Ottoman 
 Turks. All these invasions were accompanied by 
 fierce persecutions and great barbarities ; but the Ar- 
 menians have held tenaciously to their faith for more 
 than fifteen hundred years.
 
 INTRODUCTION. v 
 
 In the middle of the fifth century Armenia had 
 already lost its national independence. It was ruled 
 by feudal chiefs and princes who were subject to the 
 King of Persia. The Persians at this time were aim- 
 ing at the conquest and conversion of the world. In 
 A. D. 450 the Persian King sent a letter to the Arme- 
 nian princes, setting forth the excellence of fire-wor- 
 ship and the foolishness of Christianity, and formally 
 summoning Armenia to embrace fire-worship. A great 
 council was called, in which bishops and laymen sat 
 together, and a reply of unanimous refusal was drawn 
 up. Eghiche, an Armenian historian of the fifth cen- 
 tury, one of the bishops who signed the refusal, has 
 preserved in his history the text of this remarkable 
 document. First they answered at considerable length 
 the arguments of the Persian King against Christianity. 
 In conclusion they said : 
 
 " From this faith no one can move us, neither angels 
 nor men ; neither sword, nor fire, nor water, nor any 
 deadly punishment. If you leave us our faith, we will 
 accept no other lord in place of you ; but we will 
 accept no God in place of Jesus Christ : there is no 
 other God beside him. If, after this great confession, 
 you ask anything more of us, lo, we are before you, 
 and our lives are in your power. From you, torments ; 
 from us, submission ; your sword, our necks. We are 
 not better than those who have gone before us, who 
 gave up their goods and their lives for this testimony." 
 
 The King of Persia was as much amazed as enraged 
 by the boldness of this reply ; for Armenia was a small 
 country, and stood alone, without allies, against the vast 
 power of Persia. A Persian army of 200,000 men was
 
 vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sent into Armenia. The battle was fought on the plain 
 of Avarair, under Mount Ararat. The much smaller force 
 of the Armenians was defeated, and their leader, Var- 
 tan, was killed. But the obstinate resistance offered by- 
 rich and poor men ; women, and children convinced 
 the King of Persia that he could never make fire- 
 worshippers of the Armenians. As the old historian 
 quaintly expresses it, " The swords of the slayers grew 
 dull, but their necks were not weary." Even the high- 
 priest of fire saw that the Persians had undertaken an 
 impossibility, and said to the Persian King : 
 
 "These people have put on Christianity, not like a 
 garment, but like their flesh and blood. Men who do 
 not dread fetters, nor fear torments, nor care for their 
 property, and, what is worst of all, who choose death 
 rather than life, who can stand against them?" 
 
 This battle was the Armenian Marathon, and the 
 national songs are full of allusions to it. To-day, after 
 fifteen hundred years, the mountaineers of the Cauca- 
 sus, at their festivals, still drink the health of Vartan 
 next after that of the Catholicos, or head of their 
 church. From time immemorial it has been the cus- 
 tom in Armenian schools to celebrate the anniversary 
 of the battle with songs and recitations, and to wreathe 
 the picture of Vartan with red flowers. Of late years 
 this celebration has been forbidden by the Russian and 
 Turkish governments. 
 
 In the minds of the common people, all sorts of pic- 
 turesque superstitions still cluster around that battle- 
 field. A particular kind of red flowers grow there, 
 that are found nowhere else, and it is believed that 
 they sprang from the blood of the Christian army. A
 
 INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 species of antelope, with a pouch on its breast secret- 
 ing a fragrant musk, is supposed to have acquired this 
 peculiarity by browsing on grass wet with the same 
 blood. It is also believed that at Avarair the nightin- 
 gales all sing, "Vartan, Vartan!" 
 
 The Armenians, according to their own histories 
 and traditions, enjoyed four periods of national inde- 
 pendence, under four different dynasties, extending 
 over about 3,000 years. The ruins of Ani and other 
 great cities still testify to their former power and 
 splendor. It is now many centuries, however, since 
 they lost their political independence; and their 
 country has been little more than a battle-ground for 
 rival invaders. Armenia, an Asiatic Poland, was long 
 ago divided between Russia, Persia and Turkey. 
 
 By Article 61 of the Treaty of Berlin, in 1878, the 
 Armenians in Turkey were placed under the pro- 
 tection of the European powers; but the jealousy of 
 the powers among themselves has prevented any 
 effective protection from being given. There were 
 frightful massacres of the Armenians in 1894-96 by 
 order of the Sultan Abdul Hamid. In 1908, the 
 Armenians, in common with the other subject na- 
 tionalities in Turkey, enjoyed a brief time of sunshine 
 when constitutional government was proclaimed; but 
 the old oppressions soon began again, and they cul- 
 minated in the unparalleled cruelties of 1915-16. It 
 is not necessary here to go into the harrowing details; 
 they have been spread broadcast in the press. 
 
 The excuse put forward by the Turks the claim 
 that there was a dangerous Armenian revolution 
 impending was a mere pretext. Turkish oppression
 
 viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was such that it would have justified a revolution 
 a thousand times over, if there had been any chance 
 of success; but there was none. The Turks knew it; 
 most of the Armenians knew it; and therefore the 
 Patriarch of Constantinople and the representative 
 Armenians in Turkey disapproved of the revolutionary 
 propaganda that was carried on by some of the younger 
 men, mainly in America and Europe. Only a handful 
 of the Armenians in Turkey had anything to do with 
 it. And this was made the pretext for giving the 
 men of a whole nation over to slaughter, and the 
 women to outrage and starvation! 
 
 It was no outburst of popular fanaticism, but a 
 coldly premeditated crime, carried out by orders 
 from Constantinople, ruthlessly and systematically, as 
 a political measure. In the midst of the massacre, 
 when a Red Cross nurse begged a high Turkish 
 official to spare the children, his answer was, "Women 
 have no business to meddle in politics!" 
 
 And what kind of people were thus given over to 
 destruction? Dr. James L. Barton, secretary of the 
 American Board of Foreign Missions, and former 
 president of Euphrates College in Turkey, says: 
 
 "I know the Armenians to be, by inheritance, re- 
 ligious, industrious and faithful. They are the Anglo- 
 Saxons of Eastern Turkey. They are not inferior in 
 mental ability to any race on earth. I say this after 
 eight years' connection with Euphrates College, which 
 has continually from 550 to 62=5 Armenians upon its 
 list of students, and after superintending schools which 
 have 4,000 more of them."
 
 INTRODUCriOX. ix 
 
 The Hon. Andrew D. White says: "It is one of the 
 finest races in the world, physically, morally and 
 intellectually. If I were asked to name the most 
 desirable races to be added by immigration to the 
 American population, I would name among the very 
 first the Armenian." 
 
 Lord Bryce says: "They are a strong race, not only 
 with vigorous nerves and sinews, physically active and 
 energetic, but also of conspicuous brain power. Among 
 all those who dwell in Western Asia they stand first, with 
 a capacity for intellectual and moral progress, as well as 
 with a natural tenacity of will and purpose, beyond 
 that of all their neighbors not merely of Turks, 
 Tartars, Kurds and Persians, but also of Russians. 
 
 "Thus they have held a very important place 
 among the inhabitants of Western Asia ever since the 
 sixth century. If you look into the annals of the 
 East Roman or Byzantine Empire, you will find that 
 most of the men who rose to eminence in its service 
 as generals or statesmen during the early middle 
 ages were of Armenian stock. So was it also after the 
 establishment of the Turkish dominion in Europe. 
 Many of the ablest men in the Turkish service have 
 been Armenians by birth or extraction. The same is 
 true of the Russian service." 
 
 Lamartine calls the Armenians "the Swiss of the 
 East." Dulaurier compares them to the Dutch. 
 
 Mrs. Isabella Bird Bishop, the famous traveler, 
 says: "They are the most capable, energetic, enter- 
 prising and pushing race in Western Asia, physically 
 superior and intellectually acute, and, above all, 
 they are a race which can be raised in all respects
 
 x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to our own level. . . . Their shrewdness and apti- 
 tude for business are remarkable, and whatever exists 
 of commercial enterprise in Asia Minor is almost 
 altogether in their hands." 
 
 After teaching among them for thirty-five years, 
 Dr. Cyrus Hamlin wrote: "The Armenians are a 
 noble race." Dr. Grace N. Kimball, who lived for 
 years in the heart of Armenia, calls them "a race full 
 of enterprise and the spirit of advancement, much 
 like ourselves in characteristics, and full of possibili- 
 ties of every kind." So says the Rev. Frederick D. 
 Greene, who was born and brought up among them. 
 
 Miss Florence E. Fensham, Dean for years of the 
 American College for Girls at Constantinople, told me 
 that she had found the Armenian girls among 
 her students not only able, but very faithful and 
 trustworthy. 
 
 H. F. B. Lynch says: "The Armenian people 
 may be included in the small number of races who have 
 shown themselves capable of the highest culture." 
 
 Speaking of the importance of spreading Western 
 progressive ideas in the East, he says: 
 
 "In the Armenians we have a people who are pecul- 
 iarly adapted to be the intermediaries of the new 
 dispensation. They profess our religion, are familiar 
 with some of our best ideals, and assimilate each new 
 product of European culture with an avidity and 
 thoroughness which no other race between India and 
 the Mediterranean has given any evidence of being 
 able to rival. These capacities they have made 
 manifest under the greatest disadvantages. . . .
 
 INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 "If I were asked what characteristics distinguish 
 the Armenians from other Orientals, I should be dis- 
 posed to lay most stress on a quality known in popular 
 speech as grit. It is this quality to which they owe 
 their preservation as a people, and they are not sur- 
 passed in this respect by any European nation. Their 
 intellectual capacities are supported by a solid founda- 
 tion of character, and, unlike the Greeks, but like the 
 Germans, their nature is averse to superficial methods; 
 they become absorbed in their tasks and plumb them 
 deep. . . . These tendencies are naturally accom- 
 panied by forethought and balance; and they have 
 given the Armenian his pre-eminence in commercial 
 affairs. He is not less clever than the Greek; but he 
 sees farther." 
 
 Rev. Edwin M. Bliss says, with truth: "Those who 
 know the race most widely and most intimately esteem 
 it the most highly." 
 
 Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, who was president of the 
 Friends of Armenia, wrote: 
 
 "Some Americans have been prejudiced against 
 Armenians by contact with the demoralized Armenians 
 of Constantinople. But in Constantinople corrup- 
 tion extends to all nationalities. Ubicini draws a very 
 just distinction between the Armenians of Con- 
 stantinople and the Levantine ports and the Arme- 
 nians of Tauris or Erzerum, the cradle of the race, 
 where the independent and chivalrous character 
 of the people has remained comparatively little changed 
 by the lapse of ages. The contrast is as great as be- 
 tween the enervated Greeks of Phanar and the hardy 
 Greek mountaineers of Epirus and Macedonia. The
 
 zii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 bulk of the Armenians are primitive and hard-working 
 agriculturists, living in the interior, and what Lord 
 Byron said of them years ago holds good to-day: 'It 
 would perhaps be difficult to find in the annals of a 
 nation less crime than in those of this people, whose 
 virtues are those of peace, and whose vices are the 
 result of the oppression it has undergone.' " 
 
 When the recent terrible events began, the Arme- 
 nians who could fled over the frontier. Refugees by 
 hundreds of thousands are crowded together in Rus- 
 sia, in Egypt, in Greece, destitute of everything, and 
 perishing like flies. The need is desperate, and on a 
 colossal scale. Contributions for the relief fund 
 should be sent to Charles R. Crane, 70 Fifth Avenue, 
 New York City.
 
 LITTLE LAKE. 
 
 BEDROS TOURIAN, the son of an Armenian blacksmith of 
 Scutari, was born in 1851. He lived in great poverty, and died 
 of consumption in 1872. He left a number of dramas and 
 poems that enjoy a great popularity among his countrymen. 
 
 HY dost thou lie in hushed surprise, 
 
 Thou little lonely mere ? 
 Did some fair woman wistfully 
 Gaze in thy mirror clear? 
 
 Or are thy waters calm and still 
 
 Admiring the blue sky, 
 Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, 
 
 Are drifting softly by? 
 
 Sad little lake, let us be friends ! 
 
 I too am desolate ; 
 I too would fain, beneath the sky, 
 
 In silence meditate.
 
 I 4 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 As many thoughts are in my mind 
 As wavelets o'er thee roam ; 
 
 As many wounds are in my heart 
 As thou hast flakes of foam. 
 
 But if heaven's constellations all 
 Should drop into thy breast, 
 
 Thou still wouldst not be like my soul, 
 A flame-sea without rest. 
 
 There, when the air and thou are calm, 
 
 The clouds let fall no showers ; 
 The stars that rise there do not set,- 
 
 And fadeless are the flowers. 
 
 Thou art my queen, O little lake ! 
 
 For e'en when ripples thrill 
 Thy surface, in thy quivering depths 
 
 Thou hold'st me, trembling, still. 
 
 Full many have rejected me : 
 
 " What has he but his lyre? " 
 " He trembles, and his face is pale ; 
 
 His life must soon expire ! " 
 
 None said, " Poor child, why pines he thus ? 
 
 If he beloved should be, 
 Haply he might not die, but live, 
 
 Live, and grow fair to see."
 
 LITTLE LAKE. 
 
 None sought the boy's sad heart to read, 
 
 Nor in its depths to look. 
 They would have found it was a fire, 
 
 And not a printed book ! 
 
 Nay, ashes now ! a memory ! 
 
 Grow stormy, little mere, 
 For a despairing man has gazed 
 
 Into thy waters clear !
 
 1 6 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 WISHES FOR ARMENIA. 
 
 HEN bright dews fall on leaf and flower, 
 
 And stars light up the skies, 
 Then tears and sparks commingled 
 
 Burst forth from my dim eyes. 
 Forget thee, O Armenia ! 
 
 Nay, rather may I be 
 Transformed into a cypress dark, 
 And so give shade to thee ! 
 
 The starry sky no comfort brings : 
 
 To me it seems a veil 
 Strewn with the tears that Ararat 
 
 Sheds from his summit pale. 
 O graves ! O ruins ! to my soul 
 
 Your memory is as dear 
 As to the lover's thirsting heart 
 
 The maiden's first love-tear. 
 And shall my spirit after death 
 
 Oblivious be of you ? 
 Nay, but become a flood of tears. 
 
 And cover you with dew ! 
 
 Not sword nor chains, abysses deep 
 
 Nor precipices fell, 
 Not thunder's roll, nor lightning's flash, 
 
 Nor funeral torch and knell
 
 WISHES FOR ARMENIA. 
 
 Not all of these, 'neath death's dark stone 
 
 Can ever hide from me 
 The glowing memories of the past, 
 
 Our days of liberty. 
 Forget you? Ne'er will I forget, 
 
 O glorious days of yore ! 
 Rather may I be changed to fire 
 
 And bring you back once more ! 
 
 When twinkle pale the stars at dawn, 
 
 When dewy buds unclose, 
 And tenderly the nightingale 
 
 Is singing to the rose, 
 All Nature's harmonies, alas ! 
 
 Can ne'er give back to me 
 The sighs that sound where cypress boughs 
 
 Are moaning like the sea. 
 Forget you, black and bitter days? 
 
 No, never ! but instead 
 Rather may I be turned to blood, 
 
 And make your darkness red ! 
 
 Armenia's mountains dark may smile, 
 
 Siberia's ice may smoke, 
 But stern, unbending spirits still 
 
 Press on my neck the yoke. 
 Inflexible and cold are they ; 
 
 When feeling surges high, 
 And I would speak, they stifle down 
 
 My free soul's bitter cry.
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Forget thee, justice ? Never ! 
 
 But ere my life departs, 
 Rather may I become a sword, 
 
 And make thee pierce men's hearts! 
 
 When e'en the rich man and the priest 
 
 A patriot's ardor feel, 
 And when Armenian hearts at length 
 
 Are stirred with love and zeal 
 When free-souled sons Armenia bears, 
 
 These days of coldness past, 
 And fires of love and brotherhood 
 
 Are lighted up at last 
 Shall I forget thee then, my lyre ? 
 
 Ah, no ! but when I die 
 Rather may I become thy voice, 
 
 And o'er Armenia sigh !
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 GALAXY of glances bright, 
 A sweet bouquet of smiles, 
 
 A crucible of melting words 
 Bewitched me with their wiles ! 
 
 I wished to live retired, to love 
 
 The flowers and bosky glades, 
 The blue sky's lights, the dew of morn, 
 
 The evening's mists and shades ; 
 
 To scan my destiny's dark page, 
 
 In thought my hours employ, 
 And dwell in meditation deep 
 
 And visionary joy. 
 
 Then near me stirred a breath that seemed 
 
 A waft of Eden's air, 
 The rustle of a maiden's robe, 
 
 A tress of shining hair. 
 
 I sought to make a comrade dear 
 
 Of the transparent brook. 
 It holds no trace of memory ; 
 
 When in its depths I look.
 
 20 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 I find there floating, clear and pale, 
 My face ! Its waters hold 
 
 No other secret in their breast 
 Than wavelets manifold. 
 
 I heard a heart's ethereal throb ; 
 
 It whispered tenderly : 
 ' Dost thou desire a heart? " it said. 
 
 " Beloved, come to me ! " 
 
 I wished to love the zephyr soft 
 That breathes o'er fields of bloom ; 
 
 It woundeth none, a gentle soul 
 Whose secret is perfume. 
 
 So sweet it is, it has the power 
 To nurse a myriad dreams ; 
 
 To mournful spirits, like the scent 
 Of paradise it seems. 
 
 Then from a sheaf of glowing flames 
 
 To me a whisper stole : 
 It murmured low, " Dost thou desire 
 
 To worship a pure soul ? " 
 
 I wished tft make the lyre alone 
 My heart's companion still, 
 
 To know it as a loving friend, 
 And guide its chords at will.
 
 TO LOVE. 21 
 
 But she drew near me, and I heard 
 
 A whisper soft and low: 
 "Thy lyre is a cold heart," she said, 
 
 "Thy love is only woe." 
 
 My spirit recognized her then; 
 
 She beauty was, and fire, 
 Pure as the stream, kind as the breeze, 
 
 And faithful as the lyre. 
 
 My soul, that from the path had erred, 
 
 Spread wide its wings to soar, 
 And bade the life of solitude 
 
 Farewell forevermore. 
 
 A galaxy of glances bright, 
 
 A sweet bouquet of smiles, 
 A crucible of melting words 
 
 Bewitched me with their wiles!
 
 82 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 NEW DARK DAYS. 
 
 IHE centuries of bloodshed 
 
 Are past, those cruel years ; 
 But there is still one country 
 
 Whose mountains drip with tears. 
 Whose river-banks are blood-stained, 
 
 Whose mourning loads the breeze, 
 A land of dreary ruins, 
 Ashes, and cypress-trees. 
 
 No more for the Armenian 
 
 A twinkling star appears ; 
 His spirit's flowers have faded 
 
 Beneath a rain of tears. 
 Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth, 
 
 The dances hand in hand ; 
 Only the weapon of the Koord 
 
 Shines freely through the land. 
 
 The bride's soft eyes are tearful, 
 
 Behind her tresses' flow, 
 Lest the Koord's shout should interrupt 
 
 Love's whisper, sweet and low. 
 Red blood succeeds love's rosy flush ; 
 
 Slain shall the bridegroom be, 
 And by the dastard Koords the bride 
 
 Be led to slavery.
 
 NE W DARK DA YS. a 
 
 The peasant sows, but never reaps ; 
 
 He hungers evermore ; 
 He eats his bread in bitterness, 
 
 And tastes of anguish sore. 
 Lo ! tears and blood together 
 
 Drop from his pallid face ; 
 And these are our own brothers, 
 
 Of our own blood and race ! 
 
 The forehead pure, the sacred veil 
 
 Of the Armenian maid, 
 Shall rude hands touch, and hell's hot breath 
 
 Her innocence invade? 
 They do it as men crush a flower, 
 
 By no compunction stirred ; 
 They slaughter an Armenian 
 
 As they would kill a bird. 
 
 O roots of vengeance, heroes' bones, 
 
 Who fell of old in fight, 
 Have ye all crumbled into dust, 
 
 Nor sent one shoot to light? 
 Oh, of that eagle nation 
 
 Now trampled by the Koord, 
 Is nothing left but black-hued crows, 
 
 And moles with eyes obscured? 
 
 Give back our sisters' roses, 
 
 Our brothers who have died, 
 The crosses of our churches, 
 
 Our nation's peace and pride !
 
 24 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 O Sultan, we demand of thee 
 And with our hearts entreat 
 
 Give us protection from the Koord, 
 Or arms his arms to meet ! 1
 
 WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE t 
 
 WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE? 
 
 HAT are you, love ? A flame from heaven ? 
 
 A radiant smile are you ? 
 The heaven has not your eyes' bright gleams, 
 The heaven has not their blue. 
 
 The rose has not your snowy breast ; 
 
 In the moon's face we seek 
 In vain the rosy flush that dyes 
 
 Your soft and blushing cheek. 
 
 By night you smile upon the stars, 
 
 And on the amorous moon, 
 By day upon the waves, the flowers 
 
 Why not on one alone ? 
 
 But, though I pray to you with tears, 
 
 With tears and bitter sighs, 
 You will not deign me yet one glance 
 
 Cast by your shining eyes. 
 
 O love, are you a mortal maid, 
 
 Or angel formed of light ? 
 The spring rose and the radiant moon 
 
 Envy your beauty bright ;
 
 26 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 And when your sweet and thrilling voice 
 
 Is heard upon the air, 
 In cypress depths the nightingale 
 
 Is silent in despair. 
 
 Would I, a zephyr, might caress 
 Your bright brow's dreams in sleep, 
 
 Breathe gently on your lips, and dry 
 Your tears, if you should weep ! 
 
 Or would that in your garden fair 
 
 A weeping rose I grew ; 
 And when you came resplendent there 
 
 At morning with the dew, 
 
 I 'd give fresh color to your cheek 
 That makes the rose look pale, 
 
 Shed on your breast my dew, and there 
 My latest breath exhale. 
 
 Oh, would I were a limpid brook! 
 
 If softly you drew nigh, 
 And smiled into my mirror clear, 
 
 My blue waves would run dry. 
 
 Oh, would I were a sunbeam bright, 
 '1 o make you seem more fair, 
 
 Touching your face, and dying soon 
 Amid your fragrant hair !
 
 WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE? 27 
 
 But, if you love another, 
 
 His gravestone may I be ! 
 Then you would linger near me, 
 
 Your tears would fall on me ; 
 
 Your sighs would wander o'er me, 
 Sighs for his early doom. 
 
 To touch you, O beloved, 
 1 must become a tomb !
 
 2 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 I HAVE LOVED THEE. 
 
 T was the hour of dew and light ; 
 In heaven a conflagration cold 
 Of roses burned, instead of clouds ; 
 There was a rain of pearls and gold. 
 
 Then deep within a flowering grove 
 I saw thee, love, reclined at ease, 
 
 And thou wast languishing and pale, 
 And sighing like a summer breeze, 
 
 Plucking a blossom's leaves apart 
 With fingers fair as lilies are ; 
 
 Thine eyes, the temples of love's fire, 
 Were fixed upon the heavens afar. 
 
 I marvelled that thy fingers soft, 
 
 Wherein the haughty rose was pressed, 
 
 Had power to pluck her leaves away 
 And scatter them upon thy breast. 
 
 A strange new heaven shone within 
 Thine eyes, so dark and languishing; 
 
 A heaven where, instead of stars, 
 Arrows of fire were glittering.
 
 / HAVE LOVED 77//-V-:. 
 
 Ah, thou hast made of me a slave 
 
 To one bright glance, one word of thine ! 
 
 The rays thy soul sheds, cruel maid, 
 Become as fetters laid on mine. 
 
 Oh, leave my heart, from me depart ! 
 
 I for my queen desire not thee : 
 Thy breast is like the rose's leaf, 
 
 Thy heart as granite hard to me. 
 
 Thou knowest naught, thou fragrant one. 
 
 Save wounds in tender hearts to make, 
 Happy when thine adorer's breast 
 
 Bleeds in profusion for thy sake. 
 
 When, lonely in a grove's deep shade, 
 I weep, and all my sad heart grieves, 
 
 Lo, thou art there ! Thou findest me. 
 Thou speakest to me through the leaves. 
 
 When in the swift and shining stream 
 
 I seek oblivion of thy face, 
 Thou findest me, and from the waves 
 
 Thou smilest up with witching grace. 
 
 When to the rocks and mountains steep 
 To break my heart and lyre I flee, 
 
 Thou murmurest ever in the wind 
 That thou hadst never love for me. 
 
 I will embrace the fro/en earth, 
 
 And hide from thee in dreamless sleep. 
 
 The dark grave is a virgin too ; 
 Is any other heart so deep? 
 
 29
 
 3 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM OF VAR'l'AN LUTFIAN. 
 
 |UR two devoted hearts were joined and bound 
 By streaming rays, with heaven's own light 
 
 aglow ; 
 We read each other's souls like open books, 
 
 Where 'neath each word lay depths of love and woe. 
 
 Dost thou remember, on Mount Chamlaja, 
 
 In the dark cypress shade where mourners sigh, 
 
 How we two mused, and watched the Bosphorus, 
 Stambours blue girdle, and the cloudless sky? 
 
 We sat in silence ; any uttered word 
 
 Would but have marred our souls' infinity. 
 
 There like two flames we burned without a sound. 
 And shone upon each other, pale to see. 
 
 Like sad black moths that haunt the cypresses, 
 Our souls drank in the shadow and the gloom, 
 
 I )rank endless sorrow, drank the dark-hued milk 
 Of hopelessness and of the silent tomb. 
 
 I )eeply we drank, and long ; but thou didst drain 
 The darksome cup that to thy lips was given. 
 
 Till thou wast drunken with it, and became 
 Thenceforth a pale and silent son of heaven.
 
 AV MEMORIAM OF l'ARTAA r Ll'TFJAiV. * 
 
 \J 
 
 Thy paleness grieved my soul ; thy last faint look, 
 Turned on me ere thy spirit did depart, 
 
 Has fixed forevermore, O friend beloved, 
 The memory of thee in my aching heart. 
 
 Oh, art thou happy or unhappy there? 
 
 Send me a message by an angel's wing ! 
 Tedious, alas ! and weary is this world, 
 
 Mother of griefs and bitter sorrowing. 
 
 I f in that world there is a shady tree, 
 
 And a clear brook that softly murmurs near ; 
 
 If there are found affection and pure love. 
 
 If the soul breathes a free, fresh atmosphere 
 
 This very day would I put off this life. 
 
 This poor soiled garment should to dust return. 
 
 Ah, Vartan, answer ! In the unknown land. 
 
 Say, hast thou found the things for which I yearn?
 
 3 2 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 S HE. 
 
 ERE not the rose's hue like that which glows 
 On her soft cheek, who would esteem the 
 rose? 
 
 Were not the tints of heaven like those that lie 
 In her blue eyes, whose gaze would seek the sky ? 
 
 Were not the maiden innocent and fair, 
 
 How would men learn to turn to God in prayer ?
 
 LITTLE GIFTS. 33 
 
 LITTLE GIFTS. 
 
 HE was alone. I brought a gift 
 
 A rose, surpassing fair ; 
 And when she took it from my hand 
 She blushed with pleasure there. 
 
 Compared with her, how pour and pale 
 The red rose seemed to be ! 
 
 My gift was nothing to the kiss 
 My lady gave to me.
 
 34 
 
 AKMEXJAX POEMS. 
 
 MY GRIEF. 
 
 O thirst with sacred longings, 
 
 And find the springs all dry, 
 And in my flower to fade. not this 
 The grief for which 1 sigh. 
 
 Ere yet my cold, pale brow has been 
 Warmed by an ardent kiss, 
 
 To rest it on a couch of earth. 
 My sorrow is not this. 
 
 Ere I embrace a live bouquet 
 
 Of beauty, smiles and fire, 
 The cold grave to embrace. not this 
 
 ( 'an bitter grief inspire. 
 
 Ere a sweet, dreamful sleep has lulled 
 
 My tempest-beaten brain. 
 To slumber in an earthy bed, 
 
 Ah, this is not my pain. 
 
 My country is forlorn, a branch 
 Withered on life's great tree : 
 
 To die unknown, ere succoring her, 
 This only grieveth me !
 
 COMPLAINTS. 
 
 35 
 
 COMPLAINTS. 
 
 This poem and the next were written on successive days, a 
 short time before TOURIAN'S death. 
 
 AREWELL to thee, O God, to thee, O sun, 
 Ye twain that shine above my soul on high ! 
 My spirit from the earth must pass away ; 
 I go to add a star to yonder sky. 
 
 What are the stars but curses of sad souls, 
 Souls guiltless, but ill-fated, that take flight 
 To burn the brow of heaven ? They only serve 
 To make more strong the fiery armor bright 
 
 Of God, the source of lightnings ! But, ah me ! 
 What words are these I speak? With thunder smite, 
 O God, and shatter the presumptuous thoughts 
 That fill me, giant thoughts and infinite, 
 
 Thoughts of an atom in thy universe, 
 Whose spirit dares defy its mortal bars, 
 And seeks to dive into the depth of heaven. 
 And climb the endless stairway of the stars ! 
 
 Hail to thee, God, thou Lord of trembling man, 
 Of waves and flowers, of music and of light ! 
 Thou who hast taken from my brow the rose, 
 And from my soul the power of soaring flight ;
 
 36 AKMEN/AX POEMS. 
 
 Thou who hast spread a cloud before mine eyes, 
 And given these deathly flutterings to my heart, 
 And bidd'st me smile upon thee on the brink 
 Of the dark tomb, to which I must depart ! 
 
 Doubtless thou hast for me a future life 
 Of boundless light, of fragrance, prayer, and praise ; 
 But. if my last breath here below must end 
 Speechless and mute, breathed out in mist and haze 
 
 Ah, then, instead of any heavenly life 
 To greet me when my earthly span is o'er, 
 May I become a pallid lightning flash, 
 ('ling to thy name, and thunder evermore ! 
 
 Let me become a curse, and pierce thy side ! 
 Yea, let me call thee " God the pitiless ! " 
 Ah me, I tremble ! I am pale as death ; 
 My heart foams like a hell of bitterness ! 
 
 I am a sigh that moans among the sad. 
 Dark cypresses, a withered leaf the strife 
 Of autumn winds must quickly bear away. 
 Ah, give me but one spark, one spark of life ! 
 
 What ! after this brief, transitory dream 
 
 Must I embrace for aye the grave's cold gloom? 
 
 God, how dark a destiny is mine ! 
 
 Was it writ out with lees from the black tomb? 
 
 Oh, grant my soul one particle of fire ! 
 
 1 would still love, would live, and ever live ! 
 Stars, drop into my soul ! A single spark 
 Of life to your ill-fated lover give !
 
 COMPLAINTS. 
 
 37 
 
 Spring offers not one rose to my pale brow, 
 The sunbeams lend me not one smile of light. 
 Night is my bier, the stars my torches are, 
 The moon weeps ever in the depths of night. 
 
 Some men there are with none to weep for them ; 
 Therefore God made the moon. In shadows dim 
 Of coming death, man has but two desires, 
 First, life ; then some one who shall mourn for him. 
 
 In vain for me the stars have written " Love," 
 The bulbul taught it me with silver tongue ; 
 In vain the zephyrs breathed it, and in vain 
 My image in the clear stream showed me young. 
 
 In vain the groves kept silence round about, 
 The secret leaves forbore to breathe or stir 
 Lest they should break my reveries divine ; 
 Ever they suffered me to dream of her. 
 
 In vain the flowers, dawn of the spring, breathed forth 
 Incense to my heart's altar, from the sod. 
 Alas, they all have mocked me ! All the world 
 Is nothing but the mockery of God !
 
 38 ARM EN I AX POEMS. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 ESTERDAY, when in slumber light and chill. 
 Drenched in cold sweats, upon my couch 
 
 I lay, 
 
 While on my panting cheeks two roses burned 
 And on my brow sat mortal pallor gray, 
 
 Then on my soul, athirst for love, there fell 
 My mother's sobs, who wept beside my bed. 
 
 When I unclosed my dim and weary eyes, 
 I saw her tears of pity o'er me shed. 
 
 I felt upon my face my mother's kiss, 
 
 A sacred last remembrance, on death's shore ; 
 
 All her great sorrow in that kiss was breathed 
 And it was I who caused her anguish sort- ! 
 
 Ah, then a tempest rose and shook my soul. 
 
 A storm of bitter grief, that blasts and sears ; 
 Then I poured forth that torrent dark. My God, 
 
 Forgive me ! I had seen my mother's tears.
 
 LIBERTY. 39 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 MICHAEL GHAZARI.YN NALBANDIAN was born in Russian 
 Armenia in 1830 ; graduated at the University of St. Peters- 
 burg with the title of Professor ; was active as a teacher, 
 author, and journalist ; fell under suspicion for his political 
 opinions, and underwent a rigorous imprisonment of three 
 years, after which he was exiled to the province of Sarakov, 
 and died there in 1866 of lung disease contracted in prison. 
 It is forbidden in Russia to possess a picture of Nalbanclian : 
 but portraits of him, with his poem on " Liberty " printed 
 around the margin, are circulated secretly. 
 
 HEN God, who is forever free, 
 
 Breathed life into my earthly frame, 
 From that first day, by His free will 
 When I a living soul became, 
 A babe upon my mother's breast, 
 
 Ere power of speech was given to me, 
 Even then I stretched my feeble arms 
 Forth to embrace thee, Liberty ! 
 
 Wrapped round with many swaddling bands, 
 
 All night I did not cease to weep, 
 And in the cradle, restless still, 
 
 My cries disturbed my mother's sleep. 
 " O mother ! " in my heart I prayed, 
 
 " Unbind my arms and leave me free ! " 
 And even from that hour I vowed 
 
 To love thee ever. Liberty !
 
 40 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 When first my faltering tongue was freed, 
 
 And when my parents' hearts were stirred 
 With thrilling joy, to hear their son 
 
 Pronounce his first clear-spoken word, 
 " Papa, Mamma," as children use, 
 
 Were not the names first said by me ; 
 The first word on my childish lips 
 
 Was thy great name, O Liberty ! 
 
 " Liberty ! " answered from on high 
 
 The sovereign voice of Destiny : 
 " Wilt thou enroll thyself henceforth 
 
 A soldier true of Liberty ? 
 The path is thorny all the way. 
 
 And many trials wait for thee ; 
 Too strait and narrow is this world 
 
 For him who loveth Liberty/' 
 
 " Freedom ! " I answered, " on my head 
 
 Let fire descend and thunder burst ; 
 Let foes against my life conspire, 
 
 Let all who hate thee do their worst : 
 I will be true to thee till death ; 
 
 Yea, even upon the gallows tree 
 The last breath of a death of shame 
 
 Shall shout thv name, O Liberty ! "
 
 DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 AYS of my childhood, like a dream 
 
 Ye fleeted, to return no more. 
 Ah, happy days and free from care, 
 Ye brought but joy in passing o'er ! 
 
 Then Science came, and on the world 
 He gazed with grave, observant looks ; 
 
 All things were analyzed and weighed, 
 And all my time was given to books. 
 
 When to full consciousness I woke, 
 
 My country's woes weighed down my heart. 
 
 Apollo gave me then his lyre, 
 To bid my gloomy cares depart. 
 
 Alas ! that lyre beneath my touch 
 Sent forth a grave and tearful voice, 
 
 Sad as my soul ; no single chord 
 
 Would breathe a note that said " Rejoice ! " 
 
 Ah, then at last I felt, I knew, 
 There never could be joy for me, 
 
 While speechless, sad, in alien hands, 
 My country languished to be free.
 
 42 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Apollo, take thy lyre again, 
 
 And let its voice, amid the groves, 
 
 Sound for some man who may in peace 
 Devote his life to her he loves ! 
 
 To the arena I will go, 
 
 But not with lyre and flowery phrase ; 
 I will protest and cry aloud, 
 
 And strive with darkness all my days. 
 
 What boots to-day a mournful lyre ? 
 
 To-day we need the sword of strife. 
 Upon the foeman sword and fire, 
 
 Be that the watchword of mv life !
 
 ARMENIA. 43 
 
 ARMENIA. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP KHORENE NAR BEY DE LUSIGNAN was a 
 descendant of the last dynasty of Armenian kings. Nar 
 Bey studied at the celebrated convent of the Mechitarists in 
 Venice, but early left the Roman Catholic for the Armenian 
 Church. He became an Archbishop, and was elected Patri- 
 arch of Constantinople, but declined to serve. He was an 
 eloquent preacher, and a distinguished poet, author, and lin- 
 guist. Nar Bey was a friend of Lamartine, whose poems he 
 translated into Armenian. He was one of the Armenian dele- 
 gates to the Berlin Congress of 1878. He died at Constanti- 
 nople in 1892, poisoned, it was commonly believed, by the 
 Turkish government, for political reasons. 
 
 F a sceptre of diamond, a glittering crown, 
 Were mine, at thy feet I would lay them both 
 
 down, 
 Queen of queens, () Armenia ! 
 
 If a mantle of purple were given to me, 
 A mantle for kings, I would wrap it round thee, 
 Poor Armenia, my mother! 
 
 If the fire of my youth and its sinews of steel 
 Could return, I would offer its rapture and zeal 
 All to thee, my Armenia!
 
 44 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Had a lifetime of ages been granted to me, 
 I had given it gladly and freely to thee, 
 O my life, my Armenia ! 
 
 Were I offered the love of a maid lily-fair, 
 I would choose thee alone for my joy and my care, 
 My one love, my Armenia ! 
 
 Were I given a crown of rich pearls, I should prize, 
 Far more than their beauty, one tear from thine eyes, 
 O my weeping Armenia ! 
 
 If freedom unbounded were proffered to me, 
 I would choose still to share thy sublime slavery, 
 O my mother. Armenia ! 
 
 Were I offered proud Europe, to take or refuse, 
 Thee alone, with thy griefs on thy head, would I 
 
 choose 
 For my country, Armenia ! 
 
 Might I choose from the world where my dwelling 
 
 should be, 
 
 T would say, Still thy ruins are Eden to me, 
 My beloved Armenia ! 
 
 Were I given a seraph's celestial lyre, 
 I would sing with my soul, to its chords of pure fire, 
 Thy dear name, my Armenia !
 
 WANDERING ARMENIAN TO THE CLOUD. 
 
 45 
 
 THE WANDERING ARMENIAN TO THE 
 CLOUD. 
 
 LOUD, whither dost thou haste away 
 
 So swiftly through the air? 
 Dost thou to some far-distant land 
 An urgent message hear? 
 
 With gloomy aspect, dark and sad, 
 Thou movest on through space ; 
 
 Dost thou hide vengeance, or has grief 
 O'ershadowed thy bright face ? 
 
 Did a wind come and exile thee 
 Far from thy heavenly home, 
 
 Like me, in homesickness and tears 
 Across the world to roam? 
 
 Like me, who wander now, my griefs 
 
 Sole comrades left to me, 
 While, longing for my fatherland, 
 
 I pine on land and sea ? 
 
 Cloud, when thy heart is full of tears 
 
 Thou hast relief in rain ; 
 When indignation brims thy breast, 
 
 Fierce lightnings tell thy pain.
 
 46 AKMENJAN POEMS. 
 
 Though my heart too is full, my brow 
 With painful thoughts oppressed. 
 
 To whom can I pour forth the griefs 
 That fill an exile's breast? 
 
 O cloud, thou hast no native land ! 
 
 Far happier thou than I ; 
 To north, to south thou floatest free, 
 
 At home in all the sky. 
 
 But I, at every step, shed tears, 
 In sadness and in gloom ; 
 
 Each step away from fatherland 
 Is nearer to mv tomb]
 
 TO MY SJSTKR. 47 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 AIN would I be to thee, my sister sweet, 
 Like the bright cloud beneath Aurora's feet. 
 A pedestal to help thee mount on high 
 Into the blessed peace of the blue sky. 
 
 The zephyr would I be, to which is given 
 To waft the rose's fragrance up to heaven. 
 That thy pure soul, amid life's stress and strain, 
 Might not exhale its perfume sweet in vain. 
 
 Fain would I be to thee as crystal dew 
 Of morn, that doth the young flower's sap renew. 
 And with its vapor veils her from the sun. 
 Lest thy fresh heart be seared ere day is done. 
 
 Fain would I be to thee a nightingale. 
 
 Telling within thine ear so sweet a tale ; 
 
 No meaner strain thine eyes with sleep should dim. 
 
 And thou shouldst 'wake to hear a sacred hymn. 
 
 Fain would I be to thee a broad-armed tree 
 That casts wide shadow on the sultry lea, 
 And cheers from far the wandering traveller's view ; 
 So would my love shed o'er thee shade and dew.
 
 4 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Fain would I be to thee a refuge sure. 
 
 As 'neath the thatch the swallow builds secure. 
 
 A humble roof, it yet the rain can ward ; 
 
 So I from storms thine innocence would guard. 
 
 Ah ! when to thee this world, as yet unknown. 
 Its barren hopes, its bitterness hath shown. 
 Fain, fain would I bring comfort in that hour 
 To thy sad heart. Oh, would I had the power!
 
 GENTLE BREEZE OF ARMENIA. 
 
 49 
 
 GENTLE BREEZE OF ARMENIA. 
 
 HERE art thou, sweet and gentle breeze, 
 
 Breeze of my fatherland ? 
 The spring has come, and tender flowers 
 
 Bud forth on every hand ; 
 The warm sun smiles upon the world, 
 
 The skies are soft and blue ; 
 Ah, zephyr of Armenia, 
 
 Wilt thou not greet us too ? 
 
 My country's stars I see no more 
 
 Beneath these alien skies, 
 And when the radiant spring returns, 
 
 The sad tears fill my eyes. 
 The sun for exiles has no light, 
 
 Though soft it shine and bland. 
 Where art thou. oh, where art thou, 
 
 Breeze of my fatherland ? 
 
 Where art thou, breeze of Ararat? 
 
 Our sad hearts long for thee, 
 For poplar trees of Armavir 
 
 That whisper pleasantly. 
 Spring in whose bosom shines no flower 
 
 Sprung from Armenian earth. 
 To the Armenian is not spring, 
 
 But winter's cold and dearth. 
 
 4
 
 ARMEA'IAA' POEMS, 
 
 Behold, all Nature calls on us, 
 
 With invitation glad, 
 To celebrate her victory 
 
 O'er Winter, dark and sad. 
 The ice has melted, and the flowers 
 
 Awaken and expand ; 
 Where are you, breezes sweet and soft, 
 
 Airs of the fatherland ? 
 
 Out of long, gloomy winters, 
 
 The winters of the past, 
 Oh, blow for the Armenians. 
 
 And bring us spring at last ! 
 Awake exalted memories 
 
 Of glorious deeds and grand ! 
 Alas, hast thou forgotten us, 
 
 Hree/e of the fatherland ? 
 
 Hast thou forgot our tearful eyes, 
 
 Our bleeding hearts that ache ? 
 Wilt thou not mingle in our griefs. 
 
 Lamenting for our sake? 
 Why should our sad lyre sob in tears, 
 
 In bitter tears like these, 
 And thou not come to thrill its chords, 
 
 O soft Armenian breeze? 
 
 Oh, from our country's, ruins 
 
 Waft to us through the air 
 1 >ust of our glorious ancestors, 
 
 Whose bones are buried there !
 
 GENTLE BREEZE OF ARMENIA. 
 
 Life-giving breeze, Armenian breeze 
 
 From distant Edens blown, 
 Oh, bring to us our fathers' sighs, 
 
 To whisper with our own ! 
 
 One token bring from home, one drop 
 
 From the Araxes' shore ! 
 Let tears and smiles with memories blend 
 
 Thoughts of our sires of yore. 
 Kiss the Armenian's brow and breast ; 
 
 Wake patriot ardor bold ! 
 Where art thou, O life-bringing breeze 
 
 Our sires inhaled of old ? 
 
 Power to Armenian cymbals give, 
 
 And in our souls inspire 
 The zeal of Coghtn's ancient bards, 
 
 Their fervor and their fire ! 
 Imbue Armenian hearts afresh 
 
 With courage firm and true ; 
 Ah, zephyr of Armenia, 
 
 Awake our hope anew !
 
 52 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 LET US LIVE ARMENIANS. 
 
 1VE as Armenians, brethren, in this world ! 
 
 That name to us do history's pages give ; 
 The heavens above salute us by that name : 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live ! 
 
 Armenians we ! That hero was our sire 
 
 Who taught mankind for freedom first to strive ; J 
 
 He gave us for our portion a great name : 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live ! 
 
 Our land is holy ; on its sacred soil 
 
 God walked, what time he Adam forth did drive ; ' z 
 Our language he devised ; he spoke it first : 
 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live .' 
 
 We have one cradle with the human race; 
 
 Our land salvation to the world did give ; 
 Faith's earliest altar was Mount Ararat : 
 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live ! 
 
 1 According to tradition, at the time of the building of the 
 tower of Babel, Haig, the ancestor of the Armenians, rebelled 
 against the tyranny of the Assyrian king, and forsook the 
 work with his tribe. The constellation Orion is called by his 
 name in the Armenian language. 
 
 2 Tradition locates the Garden of Eden in Armenia, between 
 the Euphrates and Tigris : and the Armenians believe that their 
 language was spoken by Adam rind Eve.
 
 LET US LIVE ARMENIANS. 53 
 
 Noble our name is ; not on earth alone, 
 But in the heavens it shines forth gloriously. 
 
 The stars of valiant Haig are deathless there : 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 Live as Armenians ! From the past what land 
 So many ancient glories doth derive ? 
 
 What nation has so beautiful a home ? 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live ! 
 
 Unto what nation did the King of heaven 
 
 Send four apostles as an embassy,' 
 And with what monarch did he correspond ? 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 Who can count o'er the names of all our saints ? 
 
 One roll of martyrs is our history ; 
 Our church on earth is like to heaven itself : 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 To us was Christ's first benediction given ; 
 
 The champions of the faith for aye were we ; 
 Armenia's deeds astonished earth and heaven : 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 Our nation, ever following the Lord. 
 
 Has borne the cross for many a century ; 
 No, she will not be a deserter now ! 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 1 The tradition is that Apgar, King of Armenia, sent mes- 
 sengers to Jesus, entreating him to come and cure the king of 
 a painful malady, and offering to become a Christian. Jesus
 
 54 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Yes, sorrowful is life beneath the cross ; 
 
 Yes, as Armenians we with pain must strive ; 
 Yet wears the cross the seal of victory : 
 
 Then, brethren, as Armenians let us live ! 
 
 Our home beloved, our sceptre and our crown. 
 With clouds are covered in obscurity : 
 
 Have hope ! the heavens yet shall give us light : 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 No, not forever shall our fate be sad. 
 
 Our lot, to eat and drink of misery ; 
 A new and happy future waits for us ! 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be I 
 
 Live as Armenians, that our sons as well 
 May boast that they are our posterity ; 
 
 Let us do no dishonor to our name ! 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 Live as Armenians ! Some day, over death 
 
 Armenia yet shall rise in victory. 
 Soon may that glad day dawn for us, O heaven ! 
 
 Brethren, Armenians let us ever be ! 
 
 declined to come, but promised to send some of his apostles 
 after his death who would cure the king. This was done ; and 
 Apgar and many of his subjects embraced Christianity.
 
 LET US DIE ARMENIANS. 
 
 55 
 
 LET US DIE ARMENIANS. 
 
 JROTHERS, we have no hope from foreigners ; 
 Gaze not around for aid ! Though with 
 
 good-will 
 
 The foreigner receive you as a guest, 
 He is an alien still. 
 
 Unmoved he sees your pain ; what matters it 
 
 Although to tears of blood your heart be grieved ? 
 
 None save Armenians feel Armenia's woes ; 
 Why are you still deceived ? 
 
 Rest not upon the foreigner your hope ; 
 
 Show not hard eyes your wounds, your deep distress. 
 Do you then look for sympathy and help? 
 
 They mock your nakedness ! 
 
 Heavy your burden is, but do you think 
 That foreign hands will lift it? You are wrong. 
 
 Nay, leave the foreigner, lend brother's arm 
 To brother, and be strong ! 
 
 Fate is your enemy ? Be not dismayed. 
 
 But show Armenian hearts, to brave her hate. 
 Fate cannot vanquish an heroic land 
 
 That battles against fate.
 
 56 ARMEN1AX POEMS. 
 
 Nor swords nor chains could crush the minds and hearts 
 Of your great ancestors, those valiant ones. 
 
 Why are your hearts to-day so weak and faint ? 
 Are you not heroes' sons? 
 
 Sons of those matchless heroes who of old 
 Upon their country's altar bled and died, 
 
 Sons of those great Armenians whose lives 
 To-day are the world's pride ? 
 
 Even the mighty nations of the earth 
 
 With envy view our nation's history ; 
 Then why. forgetting your past glory, say 
 
 To aliens, " Blest are ye " ? 
 
 Forward ! Let him who has an earnest heart 
 Forsake the stranger, follow his brave sires ! 
 
 The life of all Amenians centres round 
 Our faith's clear altar-fires. 
 
 Armenia's life shall not become extinct : 
 
 The heavens are full of that life-giving flame. 
 
 While the all-conquering cross of Christ shall reign, 
 So long shall live her name. 
 
 Why are you fearful ? See you not. sublime 
 Above your heads, the shadow of the rood? 
 
 Of old your fathers with that sacred sign 
 Mingled their sacred blood. 
 
 Anchor your hope, too. on the cross ! Have faith 
 The light will shine, since you to it are true. 
 
 It was your nation's bulwark ; be it still 
 Weapon rind flng to you !
 
 LET US DIE ARMENIANS. 
 
 A nation that was faithful to the cross 
 Cannot be lost, though centuries roll past. 
 
 While in this world religion shall endure, 
 Her life shall also last. 
 
 In the great names of faith and fatherland, 
 Clasp hands in love, bid hate and malice flee, 
 
 Armenian brothers ! Let the nation's foe 
 Alone accursed be. 
 
 Let each heart glow with love for fatherland, 
 Each mind your country's welfare seek alone : 
 
 Let your least brother's pain and tears be felt 
 As keenly as your own. 
 
 Ah ! foreign bread can never nourish us, 
 And foreign water never quench our thirst ; 
 
 Thou art our life, Armenian font, where we 
 Received baptism first ! 
 
 For no vain hope let us deny that font, 
 Our nation's baptistery ! When we yield 
 
 Our breath forever, be our place of death 
 The sacred battlefield ! 
 
 Let the same earth receive that cradled us ; 
 
 Armenians we, when life to us was given ; 
 Armenians let us live, Armenians die, 
 
 Armenians enter heaven ! 
 
 57
 
 ARMEX1AX PUEMS. 
 
 THE FIRST GREEN LEAVES. 
 
 CARCE are the clouds' black shadows 
 
 Pierced by a gleam of light. 
 Scarce have our fields grown dark again. 
 
 Freed from the snow-drifts white. 
 When you, with smiles all twinkling. 
 
 Bud forth o'er hill and vale. 
 O first-born leaves of spring-time. 
 Hail to your beauty, hail ! 
 
 Not yet to our cold meadows 
 
 Had come Spring's guest, the swallow, 
 Not yet the nightingale's sweet voice 
 
 Had echoed from the hollow. 
 When you, like joy's bright angels, 
 
 Came swift to hill and dale. 
 Fresh-budded leaves of spring-time. 
 
 Hail to your beauty, hail ! 
 
 Your tender verdant color, 
 
 Thin stems and graceful guise. 
 How sweetly do they quench the thirst 
 
 Of eager, longing eyes ! 
 Afflicted souls at sight of you 
 
 Take comfort and grow gay. 
 New-budded leaves of spring-time, 
 
 All hail to vou to-dav !
 
 THE fJKST GREEN LEA VES. 
 
 Come, in the dark breast of our dales 
 
 To shine, the hills between ! 
 Come, o'er our bare and shivering trees 
 
 To cast a veil of green ! 
 Come, to give sad-faced Nature 
 
 An aspect blithe and new ! 
 O earliest leaves of spring-time, 
 
 All hail, all hail to you ! 
 
 Come to call up, for new-born Spring, 
 
 A dawn of roses fair ! 
 Come, and invite the breezes light 
 
 To play with your soft hair ! 
 Say to the fragrant blossoms, 
 
 " Oh, haste ! Men long for you ! " 
 Hail, earliest leaves of spring-time. 
 
 Young leaves so fresh and new ! 
 
 Come, come, O leaves, and with sweet wings 
 
 Of hope from yonder sky 
 Cover the sad earth of the graves 
 
 Wherein our dear ones lie ! 
 Weave o'er the bones so dear to us 
 
 A garland wet with dew, 
 Ye wings of hope's bright angels, 
 
 Young leaves so fresh and new ! 
 
 59
 
 60 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 DEATH OF A YOUTH OF ZEITOUN. 
 
 MUGURDITCH BESHIKTASHLIAN, a Roman Catholic Arme- 
 nian, was born in 1829; was educated at the Mechitarist Con- 
 vent in Venice, and was for years a professor of the Armenian 
 language in Constantinople. In addition to his original works, 
 he translated into Armenian many poems from other lan- 
 guages. It is not certain whether "A Brave Son of Armenia" 
 is an adaptation from one of Victor Hugo's " Oriental Poems," 
 or whether Hugo, who was an admirer of Armenian poetry, 
 adapted it from the Armenian. Beshiktashlian died in 1868. 
 On his gravestone are carved the lines that form the refrain 
 of one of his most popular songs : 
 
 " What sound, beneath the stars aflame, 
 So lovely as a brother's name ? " 
 
 HOM dost thou seek, sweet mother? 
 
 Come, tremble not, draw near ! 
 Gaze on thy son's blood-streaming wounds 
 
 Without a sigh or tear. 
 Let Turkish mothers rend their hair ; 
 Do thou glad news to Zeitoun bear ! 
 
 As, by my cradle, thou didst soothe 
 
 With tender hand and smile 
 My childish form to sleep, and sing 
 
 With angel voice the while. 
 Lay me to rest, without a care, 
 And joyful news to Zeitoun bear !
 
 DEA TH Of A YOUTH OF ZEITOUN. 6 1 
 
 Red floods are welling from my wounds, 
 
 But, mother, look around ; 
 See how the fierce blood-thirsty Turks 
 
 By thousands strew the ground ! 
 Our swords devoured them, scattered there : 
 Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear ! 
 
 They smote us like a dragon, 
 
 With sudden roaring deep ; 
 But Zeitoun shook her rocky head, 
 
 And rolled them down the steep. 
 Red was the stain our rocks did wear ; 
 Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear ! 
 
 Our fathers' ghosts applauded ; 
 
 Our old fire is not dead ! 
 Our slaughtered kin rejoiced to see 
 
 The blood of vengeance shed. 
 Mount Ararat the joy did share ; 
 Mother, glad news to Zeitoun bear ! 
 
 Take my last kiss, my mother, 
 
 And bear it to my love ; 
 A kiss, too, for my native soil, 
 
 That now my tomb must prove. 
 Plant thou a cross above me there, 
 And joyful news to Zeitoun bear !
 
 62 ARMENIA* POEMS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 OW cool and sweet, O breeze of morn, 
 
 Thou stirrest in the air, 
 Caressing soft the dewy flowers, 
 
 The young girl's clustering hair ! 
 But not my country's breeze thou art. 
 Blow past ! thou canst not touch my heart. 
 
 How sweetly and how soulfully 
 
 Thou singest from the grove, 
 O bird, while men admire thy voice 
 
 In tender hours of love ! 
 But not my country's bird thou art. 
 Sing elsewhere ! Deaf to thee my heart. 
 
 With what a gentle murmur, 
 
 O brook, thy current flows, 
 Reflecting in its mirror clear 
 
 The maiden and the rose ! 
 But not my native stream thou art. 
 Flow past ! thou canst not charm my heart. 
 
 Though over ruins linger 
 
 Armenia's bird and breeze, 
 And though Armenia's turbid stream 
 
 Creeps 'mid the cypress-trees, 
 They voice thy sighs, and from my heart. 
 My country, they shall not depart !
 
 A BRA VE SON OF ARMENIA. 63 
 
 A BRAVE SON OF ARMENIA. 
 
 HERE leaned against a gravestone 
 
 Upon a mountain steep, 
 A fair-haired youth of gallant mien, 
 Who mused in sorrow deep. 
 
 His eyes now sought the heavens, 
 
 And now the earth below. 
 Son of the hills and valleys, 
 
 Why dost thou sorrow so? 
 
 Dost thou desire, to soothe thee, 
 
 A vast and stormy sea, 
 Whose ranks of wind-stirred billows 
 
 Shall sing to comfort thee? 
 
 Or heaven's immense and wondrous vault, 
 Star-strewn, thine eyes to greet ? 
 
 Or smiles from nature's fairest things. 
 The flowers, the zephyrs sweet ? 
 
 Or dost thou yearn for solace 
 
 All other joys above, 
 A gentle mother's kisses, 
 
 A sweetheart's tender love? 
 
 To cure thy heart's deep sorrow 
 What wouldst thou have, oh, what? 
 
 " My longing is for powder, 
 For powder and for shot ! "
 
 64 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 WE ARE BROTHERS. 
 
 ROM glorious Nature's myriad tongues 
 
 Though songs be breathed by lips of love, 
 And though the maiden's fingers fair 
 
 Across the thrilling harp-strings rove, 
 Of all earth's sounds, there is no other 
 So lovely as the name of brother. 
 
 Clasp hands, for we are brothers dear, 
 
 Of old by tempest rent apart ; 
 The dark designs of cruel Fate 
 
 Shall fail, when heart is joined to heart. 
 What sound, beneath the stars aflame, 
 So lovely as a brothers name? 
 
 And when our ancient Mother- Land 
 
 Beholds her children side by side, 
 The dews of joyful tears shall heal 
 
 Her heart's sad wounds, so deep and wide. 
 What sound, beneath the stars aflame, 
 So lovely as a brother's name? 
 
 We wept together in the past ; 
 
 Let us unite in harmony 
 And blend again our tears, our joys ; 
 
 So shall our efforts fruitful be. 
 What sound, beneath the stars aflame, 
 So lovely as a brother's name?
 
 WE ARE BROTHERS. 
 
 Together let us work and strive, 
 Together sow, with toil and pain, 
 
 The seed that shall, with harvest blest, 
 Make bright Armenia's fields again. 
 
 What sound, beneath the stars aflame, 
 
 So lovely as a brother's name ?
 
 66 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 RAPHAEL PATKANIAN, the most popular of Armenian poets, 
 was born in Southern Russia in 1830. He was the son of poor 
 parents, but both his father and grandfather had been distin- 
 guished for their poetic gifts. While at the University of Mos- 
 cow, he organized a literary club among his Armenian fellow- 
 students, and from the initials of their names formed his own 
 pen-name of Kamar Katiba. Many of his poems were written 
 during the Turco-Russian war, when the Russian Armenians 
 cherished high hopes for the deliverance of Turkish Armenia 
 from the Ottoman yoke. Patkanian died in 1892, after forty- 
 two years of continuous activity as a teacher, author, and 
 editor. 
 
 IGHTINGALE. oh, leave our garden, 
 
 Where soft dews the blossoms steep ; 
 With thy litanies melodious 
 
 Come and sing my son to sleep ! 
 Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting. 
 And his weeping hath not ceased. 
 Come not, nightingale ! My darling 
 Does not wish to be a priest. 
 
 O thou thievish, clever jackdaw, 
 
 That in coin fmdest thy joy, 
 With thy tales of gold and profit 
 
 Come and soothe mv wailing bov !
 
 CRADLE 
 
 Nay, thy chatter does not lull him, 
 And his crying is not stayed. 
 
 Come not, jackdaw ! for my darling 
 Will not choose the merchant's trade. 
 
 Wild dove, leave the fields and pastures 
 
 Where thou grievest all day long ; 
 Come and bring my boy sweet slumber 
 
 With thy melancholy song ! 
 Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither, 
 
 Plaintive songster, for I see 
 That he loves not lamentations, 
 
 And no mourner will he be. 
 
 Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon ! 
 
 Haply he thy song would hear. 
 And the boy lay hushed, and slumbered, 
 
 With the war-notes in his ear.
 
 68 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE TEARS OF ARAXES. 
 
 WALK by Mother Arax 
 
 With faltering steps and slow, 
 
 And memories of past ages 
 Seek in the waters' flow. 
 
 But they run dark and turbid, 
 And beat upon the shore 
 
 In grief and bitter sorrow, 
 Lamenting evermore. 
 
 " Araxes ! with the fishes 
 Why dost not dance in glee ? 
 
 The sea is still far distant, 
 Yet thou art sad, like me. 
 
 " From thy proud eyes. O Mother, 
 Why do the tears downpour ? 
 
 Why dost thou haste so swiftly 
 Past thy familiar shore ? 
 
 " Make not thy current turbid ; 
 
 Flow calm and joyously. 
 Thy youth is short, fair river ; 
 
 Thou soon wilt reach the sea.
 
 THE TEARS OF A K AX EX. 69 
 
 " Let sweet rose-hedges brighten 
 
 Thy hospitable shore, 
 And nightingales among them 
 
 Till morn their music pour. 
 
 " Let ever-verdant willows 
 
 Lave in thy waves their feet, 
 And with their bending branches 
 
 Refresh the noonday heat. 
 
 " Let shepherds on thy margin 
 
 Walk singing, without fear ; 
 Let lambs and kids seek freely 
 
 Thy waters cool and clear." 
 
 Araxes swelled her current, 
 
 Tossed high her foaming tide, 
 And in a voice of thunder 
 
 Thus from her depths replied : 
 
 " Rash, thoughtless youth, why com'st thou 
 
 My age-long sleep to break, 
 And memories of my myriad griefs 
 
 Within my breast to wake ? 
 
 " When hast thou seen a widow, 
 
 After her true-love died, 
 From head to foot resplendent 
 
 With ornaments of pride ? 
 
 " For whom should I adorn me ? 
 
 Whose eyes shall I delight? 
 The stranger hordes that tread my banks 
 
 Are hateful in my sight.
 
 A RMENIA N POEMS. 
 
 " My kindred stream, impetuous Kur, 
 
 Is widowed, like to me, 
 But bows beneath the tyrant's yoke, 
 
 And wears it slavishly. 
 
 " But I, who am Armenian, 
 My own Armenians know ; 
 
 I want no stranger bridegroom ; 
 A widowed stream I flow. 
 
 " Once I, too, moved in splendor, 
 
 Adorned as is a bride 
 With myriad precious jewels, 
 
 My smiling banks beside. 
 
 " My waves were pure and limpid, 
 And curled in rippling play ; 
 
 The morning star within them 
 Was mirrored till the day. 
 
 " What from that time remaineth ? 
 
 All, all has passed away. 
 Which of my prosperous cities 
 
 Stands near my waves to-day? 
 
 " Mount Ararat doth pour me, 
 
 As with a mother's care, 
 From out her sacred bosom 
 
 Pure water, cool and fair. 
 
 " Shall I her holy bounty 
 
 To hated aliens fling? 
 Shall strangers' fields be watered 
 
 From good Saint Jacob's spring?
 
 THE TEARS OF A K AXES. 
 
 " For filthy Turk or Persian 
 
 Shall I my waters pour. 
 That they may heathen rites perform 
 
 Upon my very shore. 
 
 " While my own sons, defenceless, 
 Are exiled from their home, 
 
 And, faint with thirst and hunger, 
 In distant countries roam? 
 
 " My own Armenian nation 
 
 Is banished far away ; 
 A godless, barbarous people 
 
 Dwells on my banks to-day. 
 
 " Shall I my hospitable shores 
 
 Adorn in festive guise 
 For them, or gladden with fair looks 
 
 Their wild and evil eyes ? 
 
 " Still, while my sons are exiled, 
 
 Shall I be sad, as now. 
 This is my heart's deep utterance, 
 
 My true and holy vow." 
 
 No more spake Mother Arax ; 
 
 She foamed up mightily. 
 And, coiling like a serpent, 
 
 Wound sorrowing toward the sea.
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL. 
 
 AVE you seen the bright moon rising 
 In the heavens? Have you seen 
 Ruddy apricots that shimmer 
 
 Through the garden's foliage green ? 
 
 Have you seen the red rose glowing 
 Where green leaves about her meet, 
 
 And around her, in a bevy, 
 Lilies, pinks, and iris sweet? 
 
 Lo. beside Armenia's maiden. 
 
 Dark and dim the bright moon is ; 
 Apricots and pinks and iris 
 
 Are not worth a single kiss. 
 
 Roses on her cheeks are blooming, 
 
 On her brow a lily fair, 
 And of innocence the symbol 
 
 Is the smile her sweet lips wear. 
 
 From her friend she takes the zither 
 With a blush the heart that wins ; 
 
 Touching it with dainty fingers, 
 The lekzinca 1 she begins. 
 
 1 An Oriental dance.
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL. 73 
 
 Like a tree her form is slender, 
 
 Swaying with a dreamy grace ; 
 Now she flies with rapid footsteps, 
 
 Now returns with gliding pace. 
 
 All the young men's hearts are melted 
 
 When the maiden they behold, 
 And the old men curse their fortune 
 
 That so early they grew old.
 
 74 
 
 A KM EX J A . \ J'OEMS. 
 
 THE NEW GENERATION. 
 
 HEN the mother, with sore travail, 
 To the world a man-child gives, 
 Let a sharp sword from his father 
 Be the first gift he receives. 
 
 As he grows, instead of playthings, 
 Toys for childish sport and game, 
 
 Let his father give him, rather, 
 A good gun, of deadly aim. 
 
 When his time is come for schooling, 
 Let him to the sword give heed ; 
 
 Teach him first to wield his weapon ; 
 After, let him learn to read. 
 
 Skill of reading, craft of writing. 
 
 Is a useful thing and good ; 
 But at the examinations 
 
 Ask him first, " Canst thou shed blood?" 
 
 Hope ye in no other manner 
 
 Poor Armenia to save. 
 Ill the beggar's part beseemeth 
 
 Independent men and brave.
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 75 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 JVVAKE, my darling ! Open those bright eyes, 
 
 dark and deep, 
 And scatter from thine eyelids the heavy 
 
 shades of sleep. 
 Sweet tales the angels long enough in dreams have 
 
 told to thee ; 
 
 Now I will tell thee of the things thou in the world 
 shall see. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Awake, and ope thy beauteous eyes, my child, my 
 
 little one ! 
 Thy mother sees therein her life, her glory, and her 
 
 sun. 
 
 Thou shalt grow up, grow tall and strong, as rises in 
 
 the air 
 A stately plane-tree ; how I love thy stature tall and 
 
 fair! 
 The heroes of Mount Ararat, their ghosts shall 
 
 strengthen thee 
 With power and might, that thou as brave as Vartairs 
 
 self mayst be.
 
 7 6 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 A golden girdle for thy waist my fingers deft have 
 
 made, 
 And from it I have hung a sword, my own hands 
 
 ground the blade. 
 
 Within our courtyard stands a steed that, champing. 
 
 waits for thee. 
 Awake, and take thy sword! How long wilt thou a 
 
 slumberer be ? 
 
 Thy nation is in misery ; in fetters, lo ! they weep ; 
 Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one ; wilt thou 
 
 sleep ? 
 
 No, soon my son will waken, will mount his champing 
 
 steed, 
 Will wipe away Armenia's tears, and stanch the hearts 
 
 that bleed ; 
 Will bid his nation's mourning cease, and those that 
 
 weep shall smile. 
 Ah, my Armenian brethren, wait but a little while ! 
 
 Lo, my Aghassi has awaked ! He girt himself with 
 
 speed. 
 And from his sword-belt hung the sword, and mounted 
 
 on his steed. 
 
 '' l
 
 TO MY NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 77 
 
 TO MY NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 [|HY didst thou cease, () nightingale, thy sweet, 
 
 melodious song, 
 That to my sad and burning eyes bade floods 
 
 of teardrops throng? 
 Dost thou remember, when in spring the dawn was 
 
 breaking clear, 
 
 How often to my heart thou hast recalled my country 
 dear? 
 
 Sweet was that memory, as a dream that for a mo- 
 ment's space 
 
 Brings joy into a mourner's heart, and brightens his 
 sad face. 
 
 The weary world forgotten, to thy voice I bent my 
 ear; 
 
 And I was far away, and saw once more my country 
 dear. 
 
 I know thou too art longing for that vernal land the 
 
 while, 
 That paradise, afar from which Fate has for us no 
 
 smile. 
 Oh, who will give me a bird's wings, that I may sweep 
 
 and soar, 
 And cleave the clouds, and hie me to Armenia once 
 
 more?
 
 78 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 If I could breathe her holy and revivifying air, 
 
 I know I should be cured at last of all this weight of 
 
 care. 
 But when spring passed away it brought thy music to 
 
 a close, 
 And took from us thy chanted hymn, with the petals 
 
 of the rose. 
 
 I '11 open thy cage door ; thou 'rt free ! Now to Ar- 
 menia fly ! 
 
 Dost thou desire the rose, 't is there ; there is a cloud- 
 less sky ; 
 
 There are cool breezes, o'er the fields that softly, 
 sweetly blow ; 
 
 A sun that shines in splendor, and brooks that mur- 
 muring flow. 
 
 I too, like thee, am longing for a sunny atmosphere ; 
 The mist and cloud and heavy air have tired my spirit 
 
 here. 
 The North wind blows the dust to heaven, the crows 
 
 with harsh notes sail ; 
 This is the Northern air. and this the Northern 
 
 nightingale ! 
 
 foolish, poor Armenians, what seek ye in the 
 
 North? 
 
 1 hate its empty pleasures and its life of little worth. 
 Give me my country's balmy air. her cloudless sky 
 
 o'erhead : 
 
 Give me my country's pastures green, my country's 
 roses red !
 
 SHALL WE BE SILENT? 
 
 79 
 
 SHALL WE BE SILENT? 
 
 |HALL we be silent, brothers? 
 
 Shall we be silent still? 
 Our foe has set against our breasts 
 
 His sword, that thirsts to kill ; 
 His ears are deaf to cries and groans. 
 
 O brothers, make avow ! 
 What shall we do ? What is our part ? 
 Shall we keep silence now ? 
 
 Our foe has seized our fatherland 
 
 By guile and treachery ; 
 Has blotted out the name of Haig, 
 
 And ruined utterly 
 The house of Thorkom, to the ground ; 
 
 Has reft from us, to boot, 
 Our crown, our arms, our right of speech 
 
 And shall we still be mute? 
 
 Our foe has seized our guardian swords, 
 
 Our ploughs that tilled the plain, 
 And from the ploughshare and the sword 
 
 Has welded us a chain. 
 Alas for us ! for we are slaves, 
 
 And fettered hand and foot 
 With bonds and manacles of iron 
 
 And shall we still be mute ?
 
 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Our foeman, holding o'er our heads 
 
 His weapon fierce and strong, 
 Makes us devour our bitter tears. 
 
 Our protests against wrong. 
 So many woes are heaped on us, 
 
 To weep our sorrows' sum 
 We need the broad Euphrates' flood 
 
 And shall we still be dumb? 
 
 Our foe, with overweening pride. 
 
 Treads justice under foot, 
 And drives us from our native soil 
 
 And shall we still be mute ? 
 Like strangers in our fatherland. 
 
 Pursued o'er plain and hill. 
 O brothers, where shall we appeal? 
 
 Shall we be silent still ? 
 
 Not yet content with all the ills 
 
 That he has made us bear, 
 His insolent and cursed hand 
 
 He stretches forth, to tear 
 The last bond of our nation's life 
 
 And, if he have his will, 
 Complete destruction waits for us ; 
 
 Shall we be silent still ? 
 
 Scorning the glory of our land. 
 
 Our foe, with malice deep, 
 Invades our church, and makes the wolf 
 
 The shepherd of the sheep.
 
 SHALL WE BE SILENT? 8l 
 
 We have no sacred altars now ; 
 
 In valley or on hill 
 No place of prayer is left to us ; 
 
 Shall we be silent still ? 
 
 If we keep silence, even now, 
 
 When stones have found a voice. 
 Will not men say that slavery 
 
 Is our desert and choice ? 
 The sons of brave and holy sires, 
 
 Sprung from a sacred root, 
 We know the deeds our fathers did - 
 
 How long shall we be mute ? 
 
 Mute be the dumb, the paralyzed, 
 
 Those that hold slavery dear ! 
 But we, brave hearts, let us march forth 
 
 To battle, without fear ; 
 And, if the worst befall us. 
 
 Facing the foe like men, 
 Wjn back in death our glory, 
 
 And sleep in silence then !
 
 ARMENIA*? POEMS. 
 
 IF. 
 
 my white hair could once again be black, 
 And my old strength return to me at need, 
 And if 1 could become a valiant youth, 
 With sword in hand, upon a fiery steed ; 
 
 I to the field of Avarair would go, 
 
 Field where Armenian blood rained down like dew. 
 
 my loved nation, Thorkom's ancient race ! 
 
 1 would give back your long-lost crown to you. 
 
 To the Armenian maidens 1 would say: 
 " Sell now your costly garments beautiful ; 
 Put by adornment, luxury, and pearls ; 
 Our swords are rusty, and their blades are dull. 
 
 " Give us your muslin robes, Armenian maids, 
 That we our bleeding wounds may stanch and stay 
 Weave bandages for us of your thick hair ; 
 ' T is thus you need to show your love to-day." 
 
 Were I a rich man, in whose coffers deep 
 The gold and silver to great heaps had grown, 
 I would not be, as many are. alas ! 
 A patriot in vain words, and words alone.
 
 Not bright champagne, nor Russia's crystal 
 But store of balls and powder I would buy ; 
 Against Armenia's foemen I would go 
 With a great host, freely and fearlessly. 
 
 Or if I were a nation's potent king, 
 I to my army would give strong command 
 To march with fleet steps toward Armenia, 
 To help the poor oppressed Armenian land. 
 
 But if for one brief day, one little hour, 
 
 One moment's space, I were the Lord of all, 
 
 What a sharp spear at our blood-thirsty foes 
 
 I with strong arm would hurl, and make them fall ! 
 
 O guileful Russian ! Base and vicious Turk ! 
 O vengeful Persian ! O fanatic Greek, 
 Armenia's age-long rival ! On your sons 
 My two-edged sword should righteous vengea 
 wreak !
 
 84 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 PRAISE TO THE SULTAN. 
 
 |UR thanks to you, great Sultan ! You have 
 
 turned 
 
 Armenia to a chaos of hewn stone ; 
 Daily by myriads you have slaughtered us ; 
 Our thriving hamlets you have overthrown. 
 
 Glory and fame unto your Majesty ! 
 
 Following the Koran's law, you have not feared 
 Our holy Bible's pages to defile ; 
 
 With filth and mire the cross you have besmeared. 
 
 Our gratitude to you, great Padishah ! 
 
 Gain from our slaughter has accrued to you ; 
 Your intimate associates you have made 
 
 Circassians foul, and Koords. a thievish crew. 
 
 Jn noisome dungeons, thousands glorify 
 Your Sovereign Majesty with loud acclaims. 
 
 You leave no blank in all the calendar, 
 
 But fill each space with myriad martyrs' names. 
 
 Armenia's happy ruins, glorious King, 
 
 Will ne'er forget you ; on our history's page 
 
 Your wondrous deeds and your illustrious name 
 Shall blazoned be, to live from age to age.
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO^. 85 
 
 WHAT SHALL WE DO? 
 
 HAT shall we do?" Now, shame on those 
 
 who that weak plaint renew ! 
 He that despairs, in deepest shame his 
 
 cowardice shall rue. 
 
 Armenian brothers, let us ask no more what we shall 
 do! 
 
 What does the man do that has chanced to fall into 
 
 the sea? 
 What does he do that has no bread, and starves in 
 
 poverty ? 
 What does he do that has been seized and bound in 
 
 slavery ? 
 
 He that is drowning in the sea struggles with all his 
 
 might ; 
 The hungry man wears out his neighbors threshold day 
 
 and night ; 
 He that is in captivity seeks ever means of flight. 
 
 O rich man, for what purpose hast thou filled thy 
 
 chests with gold ? 
 O youth, for what hast thou reserved thy strength, thy 
 
 courage bold ? 
 O patriot, wherefore hast thou loved thy country from 
 
 of old? 
 
 Let us no more the plaint renew, 
 '' Armenians, say, what shall we do ? "
 
 86 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE SAD-FACED MOON. 
 
 (From "The Death of Vartan.") 
 
 MOON, fair moon, how long wilt thou appear 
 So pale, so mournful, in the heavens' height ? 
 Have the dark storm-clouds filled thee with 
 
 alarm, 
 Or fiery lightnings, flashing through the night? 
 
 There is none like to thee among the stars ; 
 
 The only beauty of the heavens thou art. 
 Hast thou grown pale with envy ? Nay, O moon, 
 
 Thou hast some other secret in thy heart. 
 
 Why is thy countenance thus changed and sad ? 
 
 Speak to me freely ! On the darkest day. 
 If we but find a sympathizing friend 
 
 'T is said that half our grief will pass away. 
 
 The mourner is the mourner's comforter. 
 
 Where wilt thou find a sadder man than I, 
 Forsaken and in sorrow, and, like thee. 
 
 Hiding a secret, without word or cry ? 
 
 I pass my clays in grief, gay among men, 
 Weeping in solitude ; my salt tears flow. 
 
 My sad sighs sound forever, without rest; 
 I have no sympathizer in my woe.
 
 THE SAD-FACED MOO A'. \ 
 
 Yet every living creature has a friend ; 
 
 Shall I alone lack love and friendship? Nay, 
 Open thy heart to me ! If thou art sad, 
 
 My sympathy will charm thy grief away. 
 
 (T/ie moon speaks.} 
 
 Hearken ! One night innumerable stars 
 
 Filled the blue sky. Among them, like a bride. 
 
 I glided softly, with my bright face veiled. 
 I passed o'er Pontus, bathing in its tide ; 
 
 I touched the summits of the Caucasus ; 
 
 I saw in Lake Sevan my mirrored face ; 
 I came to great Lake Van, of fishes full, 
 
 And cooled me in its waves a little space. 
 
 O'er many mountains, many fields I passed, 
 
 Shedding my light : o'er all reigned silence deep ; 
 
 Amid his cattle in the quiet field 
 The weary farmer lay in peaceful sleep. 
 
 Ah, fair Armenia on that night was blest ! 
 
 The stars of heaven made her more glorious still ; 
 And I, slow passing o'er her through the skies, 
 
 Gazed on that land, and could not gaze my fill. 
 
 In one short month, my circuit I renewed. 
 
 O'er cities, mountains, lakes, I passed in haste, 
 Longing to visit the Armenian land. 
 
 Night had again her fruitful fields embraced ;
 
 88 ARMENJAX POEMS. 
 
 But oh ! where were the bounteous harvests now? 
 
 Where was the tireless tiller of the soil ? 
 Where was his little thick-necked buffalo? 
 
 Where were the gardens, product of his toil ? 
 
 Dark smoke had covered the Armenian sky ; 
 
 Cities and hamlets, burning, crashed and fell ; 
 Fierce tongues of flame reached even to the clouds ; 
 
 To see Armenia was to gaze on hell ! 
 
 Armenia, garden wet with heavenly dew ! 
 
 Whence came this mighty woe, at whose behest ? 
 Did jealousy possess his evil heart? 
 
 Had in his soul a serpent made its nest ? 
 
 Yes, it was age-long jealousy and hate, 
 
 That, smouldering deep, consume man's heart away, 
 Until at last, with fierce and thundering sound, 
 
 The hidden fires break forth, to scorch and slay ; 
 
 Like to a mountain, still and calm without, 
 On which the smooth snow all unmelted sleeps ; 
 
 Suddenly, lightnings from its breast are born, 
 And o'er whole cities fiery ruin sweeps. 
 
 O fair Armenian land ! Armenian race ! 
 
 O happy places, ruined now and void ! 
 Hamlets and cornfields, cloisters, teeming towns ! 
 
 Where are you ? Why were you so soon destroyed?
 
 THE SAD-I-ACED MOON. 89 
 
 The moon was silent. And the dark clouds came 
 And hid the sky ; she passed behind a cloud ; 
 
 And I was left alone and sorrowful, 
 
 Musing with folded arms and forehead bowed. 
 
 And ever since that time, when evening comes, 
 I wait the pale moon's rising, calm and slow ; 
 
 And as I gaze upon her mournful face, 
 I think upon my nation and its woe.
 
 9 o 
 
 A KM EN I A N POEATS. 
 
 COMPLAINT TO EUROPE. 
 
 Y hands, my feet, the chain of slavery ties, 
 Yet Europe says, " Why do you not arise ? 
 Justice nor freedom shall your portion he ; 
 Bear to the end the doom of slavery ! " 
 
 Six centuries, drop by drop, the tyrant drains 
 
 'I'he last remaining life-blood from our veins ; 
 
 Yet Europe says, " No strength, no power have they," 
 
 And turns from us her scornful face a\vay. 
 
 A needle is not left to us to-day, 
 And yet, " You ought to draw the sword ! " they say. 
 To powder and to shot could we give heed, 
 While we sought bread our starving ones to feed ? 
 
 Have you forgotten, Europe, how the dart 
 Of the fierce Persian pointed at your heart, 
 Until, on that dread field of Avarair, 
 Armenian blood quenched his fanatic fire ? * 
 
 1 Geographically, Armenia is the bridge between Europe 
 and Asia. In the early centuries the Armenians acted the 
 part of Horatius and "kept the bridge," defending the gate 
 of Europe against the uncivilized hordes of Asia, first against 
 the Persian fire-worshippers, whose advance toward Europe 
 the Armenians checked at the battle of Avarair in A. D. 451, 
 and later against successive invasions of the Mohammedans.
 
 COMPLAINT TO EUROPE. gi 
 
 Have you forgot the fell and crushing blow 
 Prepared for you by Islam long ago ? 
 We would not see your desolation then, 
 Burning of cities, massacre of men. 
 
 Two hundred years Armenia, bathed in blood, 
 Withstood that great invasion's mighty flood. 
 Europe was safe, our living wall behind, 
 Until the enemy's huge strength declined. 
 
 Have you forgotten, Europe, how of yore 
 Your heroes in the desert hungered sore ? 
 What then could strength or force of arms avail, 
 Had we not fed your hosts, with famine pale ? 1 
 
 Ungrateful Europe, heed our woes, we pray ; 
 Remember poor Armenia to-day! 
 
 1 The Armenians acted as guides to the Crusaders in Asia; 
 and when they were about to raise the siege of Antioch for 
 want of food, the Armenians of Cilicia supplied them with 
 provisions and enabled them to take the city.
 
 92 ARMENIAN POEMS, 
 
 SONG OF THE VAN MOTHER. 
 
 WILL not rock you, little boy, that sleep your 
 
 soul may bind ; 
 Your brothers have arisen ; you only stay 
 
 behind. 
 Awake from sleep, my darling ! From the West hath 
 
 shone the sun. 
 Awake ! The happy fortune of Armenia has begun. 
 
 Lo, it is fallen, dashed to bits, the Sultan's golden 
 
 throne ! 
 
 From under it the liberty of many lands hath shone. 
 Now he who speedily shall rise shall find his liberty : 
 Will my fair son alone remain fast bound in slavery? 
 
 We have implored the Sultan with mourning and with 
 cries ; 
 
 We washed his hands, we washed his feet, with salt 
 tears from our eyes. 
 
 He would not heed our piteous prayers, our sad, be- 
 seeching words ; 
 
 Now let us see if he will heed the clashing of our 
 swords !
 
 SO JVC OF THE VAN MOTHEK () $ 
 
 My darling, let me from thine arms unbind the swad- 
 dling band, 
 
 And lay a sword of steel within that weak and tender 
 hand ! 
 
 Go to the bloody battlefield, O slave, and come back 
 freed ! 
 
 O Lord, our God, wilt thou one day unto our prayer 
 give heed?
 
 94 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 EASTER SONG. 
 
 This Easter some is sung by the children. In Turkey and 
 Russia the last verse is forbidden. 
 
 NDERNEATH the south wind's breathing, 
 
 From the fields the snow has fled ; 
 All the children are rejoicing 
 Christ is risen from the dead ! 
 
 Brooks with happy voices murmur. 
 
 Boughs are budding overhead, 
 All the air is full of bird-songs 
 
 Christ is risen from the dead ! 
 
 Boys and girls wear festal raiment, 
 
 As in May the rose so red : 
 Hatred from man's heart is banished 
 
 Christ is risen from the dead ! 
 
 Christ is risen, all Nature tells us ; 
 
 When, ah ! when shall it be said 
 Of thee also, O my country ! 
 
 Thou art risen from the dead ?
 
 THE VIRGIN'S TEARS. 95 
 
 THE VIRGIN'S TEARS. 
 
 LEO ALISHAN, born at Erzerum, in the heart of Armenia, 
 early in the last century, was a Roman Catholic Armenian, a 
 monk of the Mechitarist Convent at Venice, and a distin- 
 guished antiquarian, scientist, linguist, and historian, as well 
 as a poet. He is the author of many important works in these 
 different fields, and translated into Armenian a number of 
 poems by Longfellow and other American writers. Alishan 
 was loved and revered by his countrymen, not only for his 
 erudition and patriotism, but for his gentle and unassuming 
 disposition. 
 
 jjORTH welling from the breast of sapphire 
 
 lakes, 
 
 Oh, tell my jocund heart why from their shore 
 Of emerald do those pairs of wandering pearls 
 Like rain upon the rosy plains downpour? 
 
 Less pure, less tender, are the twilight dews, 
 
 At eve descending on the crimson rose 
 And on the lily's petals, fine and frail, 
 
 Than those twin drops in which thy sorrow flows. 
 
 Speak, why do founts of shining tears descend, 
 Mary, from thy love-dropping virgin eyes 
 
 To thy cheek's edge, and there hang tremulous, 
 As the stars twinkle in the evening skies?
 
 9 6 A KM K. \'7A.\- POEMS. 
 
 As the heart-piercing pupil of the eye, 
 So sensitive each tear-drop seems to be ; 
 
 Like the unwinking pupil of the eye, 
 
 Charming my soul, the bright drops look at me. 
 
 The heart throbs hard, the gazer holds his breath. - 
 Ah, now I know the truth ! Oh, woe is me ! 
 
 For me those tears have risen to thine eyes, 
 To heal my spirit's wounds eternally. 
 
 But still of my unconsecrated heart 
 Distrustful, they half-fallen linger there. 
 
 And do not dare to drop and moisten me. 
 No. Mary ! No, O Virgin Mother fair ! 
 
 1 am a land uncultured, rough and wild ; 
 
 But, underneath those tender tears of thine. 
 Let rose and saffron bloom there ! With thy love 
 
 Water and cheer this sorrowing heart of mine !
 
 EASTER SONG. 97 
 
 EASTER SONG. 
 
 ATHER of light, we praise thee ! 
 
 Thy Son is risen again. 
 Spirit of love, we praise thee ! 
 He shares thy glorious reign. 
 
 Good tidings, Virgin Princess ! 
 
 Thy Son is risen this morn. 
 Good tidings to all mortals. 
 
 The born and the unborn ! 
 
 Good news to you, bright Heavens ! 
 
 For Christ, who dwelt in you, 
 Is risen ; good tidings, lowly Earth ! 
 
 Thy Saviour lives anew. 
 
 Good news to you, all worlds and orbs 
 
 That circle overhead ! 
 Good news ! Your great Establishes 
 
 Is risen from the dead ! 
 
 Good news, ye light and darkness ! 
 
 A new sun rises high. 
 Good news to yon, all creatures ! 
 
 Christ lives ; you shall not die. 
 
 Good news to you, ye dead folk ! 
 
 For you shall be set free. 
 Good tidings to all beings 
 
 That are, or are to be ! 
 
 7
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS, 
 
 THE EXILES. 
 
 LAS, ye poor Armenians ! 
 In undeserved distress 
 Ye wander forth to slavery. 
 In want and wretchedness. 
 
 A myriad woes ye suffered, 
 Nor left your own dear home : 
 
 But now ye leave your fathers' graves, 
 In distant lands to roam. 
 
 These waters sweet, these smiling fields. 
 
 Where cities fair are set, 
 To strangers ye abandon them. 
 
 But how can ye forget ? 
 
 Nay, while you live, remember; 
 
 Be to your country true : 
 Your children and descendants, 
 
 Bid them remember too. 
 
 'Hie holy name of Ararat 
 
 And many a sacred fane. 
 Till the last judgment wakes the world. 
 
 Shall in their hearts remain. 
 
 Alas for thee, my country ! 
 
 Alas for thee, for us ! 
 I would that death had sealed mine eyes 
 
 Ere I beheld thee thus !
 
 MOON JN THE ARMENIAN CEMETERY. 
 
 99 
 
 MOON IN THE ARMENIAN CEMETERY. 
 
 MOON, fair lamp divinely lit ! 
 
 God set you in the sky 
 To lead night's hosts, for darkness blind 
 
 And for my heart an eye. 
 
 When o'er my head you swing, your lamp 
 
 A glittering chain doth hold : 
 Your string of heavenly silver is, 
 
 Your wick of burning gold ; 
 
 And. as a diamond flashes light, 
 
 You shed your rays abroad. 
 How bright you were, that second night, 
 
 Fresh from the hand of God ! 
 
 How bright you were when first was heard 
 
 The heavenly nightingale ! 
 The wind, that seemed like you alive. 
 
 Played soft from vale to vale ; 
 
 With that calm breeze, the limpid brook 
 
 Plashed in an undertone ; 
 There was no human ear to hear, 
 
 The anjjels heard alone.
 
 100 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The angels swung you in their hands, 
 
 And silently and slow 
 You traversed heaven's cloudless arch, 
 
 And sank the waves below, 
 
 What time the sun with feet of fire 
 Was soon to mount the blue, 
 
 While o'er the silent world were spread 
 Twilight and hoary dew. 
 
 Stay, stay, O sun ! awhile delay ; 
 
 Rise not in the blue sky, 
 But let the little moon still walk 
 
 The cloudless realm on high ! 
 
 Stay, little moon ! Oh, linger yet 
 Upon the heights and hills ; 
 
 Pass slowly, calmly, where your light 
 The sleeping valleys fills ! 
 
 For I have words to utter yet, 
 
 To you I would complain. 
 Oh, many are my bitter griefs, 
 
 My heart is cleft in twain. 
 
 Bright moon, haste not away because 
 
 You hear a mourner's cry ! 
 As comforter of broken hearts 
 
 You shine there in the skv.
 
 MOON IN THE ARMENIAN CEMETERY. 101 
 
 You come to Eden's land, but not 
 
 As on that far first night, 
 When man was happy, knowing naught 
 
 Save life and love's delight. 
 
 Then your white radiance was warm 
 
 To waves and flowerets fair, 
 And wheresoe'er your soft light fell, 
 
 Immortal life bloomed there. 
 
 Turn and look down on me, O moon ! 
 
 Craze at our mountains' foot, 
 And see the ruined temples there, 
 
 And tombs so sad and mute, 
 
 Tombs of Armenians who long since 
 
 From earth have passed away. 
 There sleep the ashes of our sires, 
 
 In darkness and decay. 
 
 Armenians they, the earliest born 
 
 Of all the human race, 
 Who had their home within the land 
 
 Once Adam's dwelling-place. 
 
 (Here follows a long list of Armenian kings.) 
 
 But you are setting fast, O moon ! 
 
 Your lustre fades away, 
 And like a silver plate you sink 
 
 In cloud-banks dense and gray.
 
 102 ARMJ:.\/AX POEMS. 
 
 Stay yet a moment's space, O moon. 
 Stay for the love of me ! 
 
 There in the valley is one stone 
 Unknown to history. 
 
 Go, let your last light linger there. 
 And lift it out of gloom, 
 
 For that obscure and nameless stone 
 Will mark the poet's tomb !
 
 THE LIL Y OF SHA VARSHAX. 
 
 103 
 
 THE LILY OF SHAVARSHAN. 
 
 THIS is an extract from a long poem in the classical Arme- 
 nian, describing the conversion to Christianity by the Apostle 
 Thaddeus, in the first century A. D., of Santoukhd, the daugh- 
 ter of the Armenian King Sanadroog. Both the princess and 
 the apostle were put to death by the king. According to 
 Armenian tradition, Santoukhd was the earliest Christian 
 martyr among women. 
 
 RMENIAN maidens, come and view 
 In Shavarshan a lily new ! 
 
 The radiant type of maidenhood, 
 
 Crown of Armenia's pride ! 
 From the fair brow beneath her veil 
 
 The wind-stirred curls float wide. 
 With little steps, like turtle dove, 
 
 She walks the dew-bright plain ; 
 Her lips drop honey, and her eyes 
 
 Effulgent glances rain. 
 
 The beauty of Armenia, 
 
 A sun-like mirror clear. 
 Our Northern star is bright Santoukhd, 
 
 The king's fair daughter dear.
 
 104 AKMEXJAX POEMS. 
 
 She has come forth, the graceful bride 
 On whom the East and West 
 
 Desire to look, while fires of love 
 Consume the gazer's breast. 
 
 Less fair the bright and morning star, 
 
 'Mid cloudlets small and fine ; 
 Less fair the fruit whose rosy tints 
 
 'Mid apple leaves outshine ; 
 Araxes' hyacinthine flower 
 
 That chains of dew doth wear, 
 All are less beautiful than she, 
 
 With gracious mien and air. 
 
 At sight of her, the snowy peaks 
 
 Melt and are flushed with rose ; 
 Trees, flowers bud forth ; the nightingales 
 
 All sing where'er she goes. 
 The bell-flowers open myriad eyes 
 
 When she comes through the bowers ; 
 Beneath her breath, the vales and hills 
 
 Alike are clad in flowers. 
 
 Before her have been bent to earth 
 
 Foreheads with diadems ; 
 The valley has become a hill 
 
 Of scattered gold and gems. 
 Where passes by with humble grace 
 
 Armenia's virgin sweet, 
 Fine sands of pearls come longingly 
 
 To spread beneath her feet.
 
 THE LILY OF SH AVARS II AX. 105 
 
 Full many a monarch's valiant son 
 
 Has left his palace home 
 In Persia or Albania, 
 
 In India or in Rome. 
 Admiringly they gaze on her, 
 
 Exclaiming, " Happy he 
 Who wins the fair Armenian maid 
 
 His bride beloved to be ! " 
 
 But palace worthy of Santoukhd 
 
 The earth can nowhere show. 
 And for the arches of her brows 
 
 This world is all too low. 
 The Sky says, " Let her on my throne 
 
 Reign queen o'er every land." 
 The Ocean says, " My purple waves 
 
 Shall bow to her command." 
 
 There is one greater than the earth, 
 
 More wide than sea-waves run, 
 Higher and vaster than the heavens, 
 
 And brighter than the sun. 
 There is a formidable King 
 
 Whose power no bound has known ; 
 The royal maid Santoukhd shall be 
 
 For him, and him alone. 
 Her halls of light are all prepared, 
 
 And for a footstool meet 
 The azure sky adorned with stars 
 
 Awaits her dove-like feet.
 
 10 6 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The sharp sword glitters in the air, 
 
 And swift the red blood flows ; 
 Santoukhd, who was a lily fair, 
 
 Falls to the earth, a rose. 
 The sword flashed once, and aspects three 
 
 Were in Santoukhd descried ; 
 Her heart dropped blood, and roses red 
 
 Sprang up on every side ; 
 Her eyes were violet chalices, 
 
 Sweet e'en while they expire ; 
 Her face, like lilies half unclosed, 
 
 But on her lips what fire ! 
 
 The heaven and earth shine white and red 
 
 Come forth and gather, maids, 
 The rose and lily joined in one, 
 
 This peerless flower that fades ! 
 Lay in the tomb that youthful corpse, 
 
 With Thaddeus, good and brave. 
 Sweet maiden of Armenia, 
 
 Her sweet soil be thy grave ! 
 Armenian maids, a lily new 
 Is brought to Shavarshan for vou !
 
 THE MGHTINGALE OF A VARAJR. 
 
 107 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR. 
 
 JjHENCE dost them come, O moon, so calmly 
 
 and softly, 
 Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain 
 
 thy light, 
 
 And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly, 
 With wandering thoughts, in Avarair to-night? 
 
 Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers 
 
 Fell as giants, as angels to rise anew, 
 Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a 
 cover 
 
 Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue ? 
 
 Or dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already, 
 Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well ? 
 
 Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder 
 To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell, 
 
 Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness. 
 
 And giving his spirit into the hands of God ? 
 And thou, O River Deghmoud, thou flowest lamenting 
 
 Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood.
 
 108 ARMENIAN rOEMS. 
 
 And thou, O wind from Manguran's upland blowing, 
 Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar, 
 
 Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest, 
 On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er. 
 
 From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting, 
 Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine, 
 
 To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo 
 Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine. 
 
 Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses. 
 Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are 
 
 sighing ! 
 Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that 
 
 hillock, 
 Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying ! 
 
 Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and 
 
 thrilled me ; 
 My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie 
 
 grave, 
 Suddenly bounded and throbbed ; from the cross I 
 
 hastened to seek thee 
 
 Came forth and found thee here, on the field of 
 Vartan the brave. 
 
 Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers 
 
 have told us : 
 
 That Avarair's nightingale, singing so sweetly at 
 daylight's dim close,
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR. 109 
 
 Is not a bird, but a soul, it is Eghiche's 1 sweet-voiced 
 
 spirit, 
 
 That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red- 
 blooming rose. 
 
 In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of 
 
 the desert; 
 In spring comes to Avarair, to the bush with roses 
 
 aflame, 
 To sing and to call aloud, with Eghiche's voice, upon 
 
 Vartan, 
 
 To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when 
 called by his name. 
 
 If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary, 
 Sons of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears, 
 
 Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers 
 Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former 
 years, 
 
 If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain, 
 
 The fount of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea, 
 
 If you would that your country's glories for you be 
 
 written, 
 
 Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with 
 me! 
 
 1 An Armenian historian of the fifth century, a contemporary of 
 Yartan. In his history of the Persian invasion he compares Vartan 
 drenched in his blood, to the red rose.
 
 i 10 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 A SONG OF FATHERLAND. 
 
 |E are the sons of valiant men, Armenians great 
 
 and free ; 
 
 Our grandsires were descended from a hero- 
 ancestry ; 
 Our fathers brave on Ararat were strong to draw the 
 
 bow ; 
 
 Our Haig, the son of Japhet, laid haughty Nimrod low. 
 From mountains high, from giants proud, this race of 
 
 warriors starts. 
 Then, ardent brothers, let us possess Armenian hearts ! 
 
 Lift up your eyes unto the heights that pierce the 
 
 heavens vast. 
 
 The land that was the cradle of all nations in the past. 
 God on free Ararat abides, and raises in the air, 
 To give us hope, a temple built of seven colors fair. 
 The hearts of the Armenians with courage to inspire. 
 He spans the heavens with a wide and wondrous arch 
 
 of fire. 
 
 No nation can survive unless it glows with patriot flame ; 
 No son of the Armenian race is worthy of his name 
 Unless to all the virtues of his fathers he aspires. 
 Then let us, brothers, emulous of our exalted sires,
 
 A SONG OF F.I T1JERLAN1). 1 1 r 
 
 Now gird ourselves for usefulness, to serve in word and 
 
 deed. 
 To the vain words of foreigners no more let us give 
 
 heed, 
 But let the spirit bright of Haig sway all our inward 
 
 powers. 
 Then, brothers, ardent brothers, Armenian souls lie 
 
 ours ! 
 
 Brothers, let hand to hand be pressed, and heart to 
 
 heart, in love, 
 
 And toward one common object together let us move ; 
 And let the touch of fiery lips unite our minds in one, 
 While in all hearts a common pulse shall beat in unison ! 
 Let us from tombs and monuments decipher and unfold 
 The glorious deeds achieved by our immortal sires of old, 
 To show to all the nations round our ancestors of fame, 
 And show our ancestors, in us. sons worthy of their 
 
 name ! 
 
 To the arena, patriots, go forth and cry, " Behold, 
 We are the children of those great Armenians of old ! 
 Through us a new Armenia in splendor shall arise, 
 And cast away the sombre veil that hid her from men's 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Armenia, sit no longer mute and hidden in the shade ! 
 Through us among the nations shall thy name be 
 
 glorious made. 
 Loyal until our deaths, for thee we '11 strive with heart 
 
 and hand." 
 Then, brothers, ardent brothers, long live our native 
 
 land !
 
 H2 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 WEEP NOT. 
 
 HY art them troubled, wandering heart? 
 
 Why dost thou sigh with pain? 
 From whom do all thy sufferings come ? 
 Of whom dost thou complain ? 
 
 Is there no cure for wounds, no friend 
 
 To lend a pitying ear? 
 Why art thou troubled, wandering heart? 
 
 Weep not ! See Jesus near ! 
 
 Sorrow and hardship are for all, 
 Though differing forms they wear. 
 
 The path he gave us teems with thorns, 
 The feet must suffer there. 
 
 What life, though but a day's brief span, 
 
 Is free from pain and woe? 
 'T is not for mortals born in grief 
 
 To live at ease below. 
 
 Not for the transient joys of earth 
 
 Thy heart to thee was given. 
 But for an instrument of grief, 
 
 To raise thy life toward heaven.
 
 WEEP NOT. 
 
 If joys be few, if pains abound, 
 If balms bring slow relief, 
 
 If wounds be sore and nature weak, 
 Thy earthly life is brief. 
 
 This is the vale of death and pain, 
 Ordained for ancient sin ; 
 
 Except through anguish, Eden's gate 
 No soul shall enter in. 
 
 Justice ordained it ; mercy then 
 Made it more light to bear. 
 
 Unasked by thee, Christ sweetened it, 
 His love infusing there. 
 
 From heaven's height he hastened down, 
 
 Pitying thy trouble sore ; 
 With thee a servant he became, 
 
 Himself thv wounds he bore. 
 
 He filled his cup celestial 
 Full of thy tears and pain, 
 
 And tremblingly, yet freely. 
 He dared the dre- r s to drain. 
 
 Remembering this, wilt thou not drink 
 Thy cup of tears and care ? 
 
 T is proffered by thy Saviour's hand, 
 His love is mingled there. 
 
 *" 8 
 
 113
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 He feels and pities all thy woes, 
 He wipes away each tear ; 
 
 Love he distils into thy griefs ; 
 Weep not, for he is near !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE CHRIST-CHILD. 
 
 BY SAINT GREGORY OF NAREK. (HORN 951; DIED lOIl). 
 
 |HE lips of the Christ-child are like to twin 
 
 leaves ; 
 
 They let roses fall when he smiles tenderly. 
 The tears of the Christ-child are pearls when he 
 
 grieves ; 
 
 The eyes of the Christ-child are deep as the sea. 
 Like pomegranate grains are the dimples he hath, 
 And clustering lilies spring up in his path.
 
 Il6 ARMENIAN 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 BY XERSES THE GRACEFUL (BORN IIO2; DIED 1172). 
 
 DAY-SPRING, Sun of righteousness, shine 
 
 forth with light for me ! 
 Treasure of mercy, let my soul thy hidden 
 
 riches see ! 
 
 Thou before whom the thoughts of men lie open in 
 
 thy sight, 
 Unto my soul, now dark and dim, grant thoughts that 
 
 shine with light .' 
 
 O Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Almighty One in 
 
 Three, 
 Care-taker of all creatures, have pity upon me ! 
 
 Awake. O Lord, awake to help, with grace and power 
 
 divine ; 
 Awaken those who slumber now, like heaven's host to 
 
 shine ! 
 
 O Lord and Saviour, life-giver, unto the dead give 
 
 life, 
 And raise up those that have grown weak and stumbled 
 
 in the strife .'
 
 HYMA'. 
 
 117 
 
 O skilful Pilot! Lamp of light, that burnest bright and 
 
 clear ! 
 Strength and assurance grant to me. now hid away in 
 
 fear! 
 
 O thou that makest old things new, renew me and 
 
 adorn ; 
 Rejoice me with salvation, Lord, for which I inly 
 
 mourn. 
 
 Giver of good, unto my sins be thy forgiveness given ! 
 Lead thy disciples, heavenly King, unto the flocks of 
 heaven ! 
 
 Defeat the evil husbandman that soweth tares and 
 
 weeds ; 
 Wither and kill in me the fruits of all his evil seeds ! 
 
 O Lord, grant water to my eyes, that they may shed 
 
 warm tears 
 To cleanse and wash awav the sin that in my soul 
 
 appears ! 
 
 On me now hid in shadow deep, shine forth, O glory 
 
 bright ! 
 Sweet juice, quench thou my soul's keen thirst ! Show 
 
 me the path of light ! 
 
 Jesus, whose name is love, with love crush thou my 
 
 stony heart ; 
 Bedew my spirit with thy blood, and bid my griefs 
 
 depart !
 
 IX 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 O thou that even in fancy art so sweet. Lord Jesus 
 
 Christ, 
 Grant that with thy reality my soul may be sufficed ! 
 
 When thou shall come again to earth, and all thy glory 
 
 see, 
 Upon that dread and awful clay, O Christ, remember 
 
 me ! 
 
 Thou that redeemest men from sin, O Saviour, I 
 
 implore, 
 Redeem him who now praises thee, to praise thee 
 
 evermore !
 
 LOVE SONG. 
 
 119 
 
 LOVE SONG. 
 
 BY SAIAT NOVA (BORX 1712; DIED 1795). 
 
 SIGH not, while thou art my soul ! Fair one, 
 
 thou art to me 
 
 A golden cup, with water filled of immor- 
 tality. 
 I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, 
 
 sweet ; 
 Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from 
 
 the heat. 
 First hear my fault, and, if thou wilt, then slay this 
 
 erring man ; 
 
 Thou hast all power ; to me thou art the Sultan and 
 the Khan. 
 
 Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in 
 
 sooth ; 
 Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin 
 
 smooth. 
 Thy teeth are pearls and diamonds, the gates of dulcet 
 
 tones ; 
 Thine eyes are gold-enamelled cups adorned with 
 
 precious stones. 
 Thou art a rare and priceless gem. most wonderful to 
 
 see ; 
 A ruby rich of Mt. Bedakhsh, my love, thou art to me.
 
 120 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 How can I bear this misery, unless my heart were stone ? 
 My tears are blood because of thee, my reason is 
 
 o'erthrovvn. 
 A young vine in the garden fresh thou art to me. my 
 
 fair. 
 Enshrined in greenness, and set round with roses 
 
 everywhere. 
 
 I, like the love-lorn nightingale, would hover over thee. 
 A landscape of delight and love, my queen, thou art to 
 
 me I 
 
 Lo, I am drunken with thy love ! I wake, but my 
 heart sleeps. 
 
 The world is sated with the world ; my heart its hun- 
 ger keeps. 
 
 What shall I praise thee by, when naught is left on 
 earth save thee ? 
 
 Thou art a deer, a Pegasus sprung from the fiery sea ! 
 
 Speak but one word, to say thou art Sai'at Nova's * love. 
 And then what matters aught to me, in earth or 
 
 heaven above ? 
 Thy rays have filled the world ; thou art a shield that 
 
 fronts the sun. 
 Thou dost exhale the perfume sweet of clove and 
 
 cinnamon. 
 Of violet, rose, and marjoram ; to me, with love grown 
 
 pale, 
 Thou art a red flower of the field, a lily of the vale ! 
 
 1 An Armenian minstrel often weaves his name into the last 
 stanza of his song, in order that he may be known as its com- 
 poser. The same peculiarity appears in the lu-xt poem.
 
 A GOOD COMRADE. 121 
 
 A GOOD COMRADE. 
 
 GOOD comrade, beautiful and virtuous, 
 Lights man's face up, like a bright sun-ray. 
 
 When a man has with him a true comrade, 
 Dark night passes like a sunny day. 
 
 Sacrifice is nothing ; a kind comrade 
 Is the spirit's lamp of light and fire. 
 
 A good friend, a true, God-fearing comrade, 
 Leads man ever upward, high and higher. 
 
 When our enemies attack us fiercely, 
 A brave comrade is a sword in fight. 
 
 Whoso has a true friend, singer Djivan, 
 Never shall one hair of his turn white.
 
 122 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE YOUTH AND THE STREAMLET. 
 
 OWN from yon distant mountain 
 The streamlet finds its way, 
 And through the quiet village 
 It flows in eddying play. 
 
 A dark youth left his doorway, 
 
 And sought the water-side, 
 And, laving there his hands and brow. 
 
 " O streamlet sweet ! " he cried, 
 
 " Say, from what mountain com'st thou ? " 
 " From yonder mountain cold 
 
 Where snow on snow lies sleeping, 
 The new snow on the old." 
 
 " Unto what river, tell me, 
 
 Fair streamlet, dost thou flow ? " 
 
 " I flow unto that river 
 
 Where clustering violets grow." 
 
 " Sweet streamlet to what vineyard, 
 Say, dost thou take thy way ? " 
 
 " The vineyard where the vine-dresser 
 Is at his work to-dnv."
 
 THE YOUTH AA'D THE STREAMLET. 
 
 123 
 
 " What plant there wilt them water ? " 
 
 " The plant upon whose roots 
 The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms, 
 
 And orchards bear sweet fruits." 
 
 " What garden wilt thou visit, 
 
 O water cool and fleet ? " 
 " The garden where the nightingale 
 
 Sings tenderly and sweet." 
 
 " Into what fountain flow'st thou ? " 
 
 " The fountain to whose brink 
 Thy love comes down at morn and eve, 
 
 And bends her face to drink. 
 
 " There shall 1 meet the maiden 
 
 Who is to be thy bride, 
 And kiss her chin, and with her love 
 
 My soul be satisfied."
 
 124 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE LAKE OF VAN. 
 BY " RAFFI " (MELIK. HAGOPIAN). 
 
 PEAK, O lake ! why are thy waters silent ? 
 Wilt thou not lament with luckless me ? 
 Move, ye zephyrs, move the rippling wavelets ! 
 With this lake my tears shall mingled be. 
 
 Tell me. lake, for thou hast been a witness 
 Of our history from the earliest day, 
 
 Shall Armenia, that was once a garden, 
 Always be a thorny desert gray ? 
 
 Shall our hapless fatherland forever 
 
 By a foreign master be down-trod ? 
 Are the Armenians and their sons unworthy, 
 
 Judged before the righteous throne of God ? 
 
 Is a glad day coming, when a banner 
 
 Shall on Ararat its folds expand, 
 And from every side Armenian pilgrims 
 
 Hasten to their beauteous fatherland ?
 
 THOU AND I. 
 
 I2 S 
 
 THOU AND I. 
 
 WOULD I were the lake, so blue and calm, 
 And thou, fair maiden, with reluctant pride, 
 
 Wouldst see thy picture, delicate and faint, 
 Thy sacred image, in my depths abide. 
 
 Or would that on the shore a willow grew, 
 
 And thou mightst lean on it, and the frail tree 
 
 Might let thee fall into the lake, and there 
 Sway with its waters everlastingly ! 
 
 I would I were the forest, dark and vast, 
 
 And that thou there mightst come to muse alone, 
 
 And, ere I knew it, I might overhear 
 What thy lips murmur in an undertone. 
 
 Or would that thou mightst sit beneath a tree, 
 Singing a pure, sweet song ; and leaf and bough, 
 
 With admiration trembling, would descend 
 And form a coronal to wreathe thy brow. 
 
 I would I were the face of the dark sky, 
 
 That so from heaven I might shake down on thee 
 
 A multitude of stars, as 't were my tears ; 
 Ah, do not tread upon them scornfully !
 
 126 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Would I the writer were, and thou the theme ! 
 
 Would thou affection wert, and I the heart ! 
 I the bouquet, and thou its silken string ; 
 
 When thou art loosed, the flowers will fall apart. 
 
 Oh, would I were a lover of sweet song, 
 And thou my lyre, angel for whom I pine ! 
 
 And that thy chords beneath my unskilled hands 
 Might vibrate till thy heart responds to mine !
 
 TO MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 12J 
 
 TO MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 BY KR1KOR KOUTCHARIAN. 
 
 HEN my glance wanders to the far-off deeps, 
 
 Beauteous and infinite, of tbe blue skies, 
 Behind transparent cloud-veils, fold on fold, 
 Then I recall your melancholy eyes. 
 
 When from the delicate light clouds descends 
 The fresh, cool dew of morning, and appears, 
 
 Like a bright veil, upon the red-cheeked rose, 
 I think of your deep eyes, those lakes of tears. 
 
 When the fair rainbow with its splendid hues 
 Has in its arch the height of heaven embraced, 
 
 I wish I were its owner and its lord, 
 
 That I might gird with it your dainty waist. 
 
 When the stars, bright and dazzling, glow like fire, 
 And with their gems the midnight heaven deck, 
 
 My heart's pangs are more numerous than they, 
 That they should not adorn your breast and neck. 
 
 My tender love, my sweetheart fair to see, 
 Now parted from my arms forevermore, 
 
 She is my hapless fair Armenia, 
 
 Whom I have loved, and ever shall adore.
 
 128 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE CHRAGHAN PALACE. 
 
 BY T. TERZYAN. 
 
 AVE you ever seen that wondrous building, 
 Whose white shadows in the blue wave 
 
 sleep ? 
 
 There Carrara sent vast mounds of marble, 
 And Propontis, beauty of the deep. 
 
 From the tombs of centuries awaking, 
 
 Souls of every clime and every land 
 Have poured forth their rarest gifts and treasures 
 
 Where those shining halls in glory stand. 
 
 Ships that pass before that stately palace, 
 
 Gliding by with open sails agleam, 
 In its shadow pause and gaze, astonished, 
 
 Thinking it some Oriental dream. 
 
 New its form, more wondrous than the Gothic, 
 
 Than the Doric or Ionic fair ; 
 At command of an Armenian genius 1 
 
 Did the master builder rear it there. 
 
 1 The late Hagop Bey Balian.
 
 THE CHRA^HAN PALACE. 
 
 129 
 
 By the windows, rich with twisted scroll-work, 
 Rising upward, marble columns shine, 
 
 And the sunbeams lose iheir way there, wandering 
 Where a myriad ornaments entwine. 
 
 An immortal smile, its bright reflection 
 
 In the water of the blue sea lies, 
 And it shames Granada's famed Alhambra, 
 
 O'er whose beauty wondering bend the skies. 
 
 Oft at midnight, in the pale, faint starlight, 
 When its airy outline, clear and fair, 
 
 On the far horizon is depicted, 
 
 With its trees and groves around it there, 
 
 You can fancy that those stones grow living, 
 And, amid the darkness of the night, 
 
 Change to lovely songs, to which the spirit, 
 Dreaming, listens with a vague delight. 
 
 Have you ever seen that wondrous building 
 Whose white shadows in the blue wave sleep? 
 
 There Marmora sent vast mounds of marble, 
 And Propontis. beauty of the deep. 
 
 It is not a mass of earthly matter. 
 
 Not a work from clay or marble wrought ; 
 From the mind of an Armenian genius 
 
 Stands embodied there a noble thought.
 
 1 3 o 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE WANDERING ARMENIAN TO THE 
 SWALLOW. 
 
 BY C. A. TOTOCHIAN. 
 
 SWALLOW, gentle swallow, 
 Thou lovely bird of spring ! 
 
 Say, whither art thou flying 
 So swift on gleaming wing? 
 
 Fly to my birthplace, Ashdarag, 
 
 The spot I love the best ; 
 Beneath my father's roof-tree, 
 
 O swallow, build thy nest. 
 
 There dwells afar my father, 
 
 A mournful man and gray, 
 Who for his only son's return 
 
 Waits vainly, day by day. 
 
 If thou shouldst chance to see him, 
 Greet him with love from me ; 
 
 Bid him sit down and mourn with tears 
 His son's sad destiny.
 
 TO THE SWALLOW, 
 
 In poverty and loneliness, 
 
 Tell him, my days are passed : 
 
 My life is only half a life, 
 My tears are falling fast. 
 
 To me, amid bright daylight, 
 
 The sun is dark at noon ; 
 To my wet eyes at midnight 
 
 Sleep comes not, late or soon. 
 
 Tell him that, like a beauteous flower 
 
 Smit by a cruel doom, 
 Uprooted from my native soil, 
 
 I wither ere my bloom. 
 
 Fly on swift wing, dear swallow, 
 Across the quickening earth, 
 
 And seek in fair Armenia 
 The village of my birth !
 
 132 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF REVOLUTION. 
 
 F on the ocean tempest-tossed 
 My shattered bark be wrecked and lost, 
 Amid the wild and raging sea 
 All hope shall not depart from me. 
 
 With all my power, with steadfast will, 
 I '11 wage a swimmer's battle still, 
 And, cleaving mighty waves that roar, 
 I'll urge my pathway toward the shore. 
 
 And if in this unequal strife 
 My powers succumb, and fails my life, 
 If whirling waves that foam and hiss 
 Shall whelm me in the deep abyss, 
 
 One great, sweet thought shall serve to fill 
 My heart with consolation still : 
 That hero-like my spirit passed, 
 Contending bravely to the last.
 
 THE LAMENT OF MOTHER ARMENIA. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF MOTHER ARMENIA. 
 
 JN alien lands they roam, my children dear ; 
 Where shall I make appeal, with none to 
 
 hear? 
 
 Where shall I find them? Far away from me 
 My sons serve others, thralls in slavery. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Oh. come, my children, back to me ! 
 Come home, your motherland to see ! 
 
 Ages have passed, no news of them I hear ; 
 Dead, dead are they, my sons that knew not fear. 
 I weep, the blood is frozen in my veins ; 
 No one will cure my sorrows and my pains. 
 
 My blood is failing and my heart outworn, 
 My face forever mournful and forlorn ; 
 To my dark grave with grief I shall descend, 
 Longing to see my children to the end. 
 
 O wandering shepherd, you whose mournful song 
 Rings through the valleys as you pass along ! 
 Come, let us both, with many a bitter tear, 
 Weep for the sad death of our children dear !
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Crane of the fatherland, fly far away, 
 Fly out of sight, beyond the setting day ; 
 My last sad greetings to my children bear, 
 For my life's hope has died into despair !
 
 THE SON OF DALVORIG. 
 
 '35 
 
 THE SON OF DALVORIG. 
 
 BY MIHRAN DAMADIAN. 
 
 BRAVE son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig's son am I ; 
 Son am I of the mountain, son am I of 
 
 the rock. 
 Not like the timid dwellers in city walls am I ; 
 
 I am the remnant of the old, the brave Armenian 
 
 stock. 
 The brave son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig's son am I, 
 
 And in the presence of the Turk I do not cringe or 
 
 bow ; 
 
 The free son of the rocky hills, the rugged heights, am I ; 
 My eyes have never looked upon the plough-haft or 
 the plough. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ho, my Armenian brothers. Dalvorig's son am I ; 
 Oh, come to me, come hither, for the love of liberty ! 
 
 When on the world I ope'd my eyes I saw our moun- 
 tains high, 
 
 Our rocks and cliffs ; our mountains, our rocks and 
 cliffs were free.
 
 I3 6 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Until I close my eyes upon the darkness when I die, 
 Ne'er shall the feet of foreigners tread here trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 My mother gave me birth in a narrow, rocky gorge, 
 The strong branch of a walnut tree my cradle-bed 
 
 became ; 
 So plain and simple was my birth, so plainly I was 
 
 reared. 
 
 My portion in this earthly life is conflict, fire, and 
 flame. 
 
 My feet are bare, my chest exposed ; but what for that 
 
 care I, 
 
 If only my young sister may grow up free like me? 
 To me the sunshine and the cold and mist are all the 
 
 same, 
 So long as here the Turk and Koord have no 
 
 authority. 
 My life is hard, my life is rough ; I never have been 
 
 used 
 
 To dwell at ease in luxury and feed on dainty fare. 
 I do not live in palace halls, my dwelling is the rock, 
 The tempest and the earthquake are my compan- 
 ions there. 
 
 Let other men inhabit the valleys and the plains. 
 
 And with the base and ruthless Turk on terms of 
 
 friendship be ; 
 I will remain unvanquished forever and a day, 
 
 Even if twenty squadrons should come to vanquish
 
 THE SON OF DALVORIG. 137 
 
 Instead of tender wheaten bread, the millet is my 
 
 food; 
 
 I forge the red-hot iron day and night, incessantly ; 
 I make cross-irons for griddles, and spades to till the 
 
 soil ; 
 
 Men look upon my lot in life as hard, but I am 
 free. 
 
 High genius and the homage of the mind are not for 
 
 me ; 
 Enough for me it is to have my dagger and my 
 
 sword ; 
 Enough for me it is to know that while the mountains 
 
 stand 
 
 No foreigner shall ever be my master and my lord. 
 My arms my only playthings are ; comfort I hate, and 
 
 ease ; 
 A quiet and a placid life upon me soon would 
 
 pall. 
 I love the chase, I love the fight, I love the fight's 
 
 reward. 
 And I am ever ready when comes the signal call. 
 
 When the alarm is given, then fearless I start forth ; 
 The mountains of Sassoun breathe a sigh and cry 
 
 aloud 
 
 They cry aloud, and over them there spreads a crim- 
 son stain ; 
 
 The red stain on the mountains, it is their heroes' 
 blood.
 
 133 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The hero's heart, the hero's hand ! What does the 
 
 hero care 
 Although a thousand wounds and one should pierce 
 
 him, blow on blow ? 
 
 For every blow men deal him, a thousand he returns ; 
 He strews the earth with corpses, a banquet for the 
 crow. 
 
 I leap upon the mountains as leaps the mountain 
 
 deer; 
 The thunder of my angry voice the lion's roar is 
 
 like; 
 I foam as foams the ocean, fierce beating on the 
 
 shore ; 
 And when I smite the foeman, as a thunderbolt I 
 
 strike. 
 
 The stormy field of battle is my portion in this life ; 
 There either the red sunset light shall see, in even- 
 ing's breath, 
 
 My banner wave in victory, and give it greeting fair, 
 Or it shall see my silent face set pale and cold in 
 death.
 
 PART II.
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 141 
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 
 
 SIAMANTO (Atom Yarjanian) was born at Akn, Asia Minor, 
 in 1878, of prosperous parents, who later moved to Con- 
 stantinople. He was well educated. Abdul Hamid's mas- 
 sacres made a deep impression on him. He sympathized 
 with the revolutionary movement, and left Constantinople. 
 Thrown upon his own resources by his father's death, 
 he led the life of a poor student in Paris, Vienna, Zurich 
 and Lausanne. When the new constitution was proclaimed 
 in Turkey, he returned to Constantinople, devoted himself to 
 writing, and supported his younger brothers and sisters. 
 A volume of poems published in 1902 under the pen name of 
 Siamanto had made him famous, and other volumes followed. 
 After the Adana massacres he came to America and spent a 
 year in Boston, editing the Armenian paper Hairenik. He 
 then returned to Constantinople, and he is believed to have 
 been among the group of educated and influential Armenians 
 of that city who were massacred in 1915, after barbarous 
 tortures. Siamanto was a man of lovable character, and is 
 considered one of the greatest Armenian poets. 
 
 |HE sun is up, the hour has come for starting, 
 
 O my steed! 
 A moment wait till I pass my foot through 
 
 thy stirrup glittering clear. 
 I read my Aim in thy shining eyes, that know and 
 
 understand. 
 
 Oh, joy of joys! Oh, blest be thou, my steed, my 
 steed so dear! 
 
 My body still is firm and light with the joy and spring of 
 
 youth, 
 
 And on thy saddle I shall perch like an eagle, proud 
 and free.
 
 142 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The golden oats that I gave to thee in plenty, O my 
 
 steed! 
 
 Have made mad life through thy form flame up; how 
 fleet thy course will be! 
 
 Galloping thou wilt fly along, fly ever upon thy 
 
 way, 
 And sparks from the strokes of thy brazen shoes will 
 
 blossom as we go past. 
 Let us grow drunk with our rapid course like heroes, 
 
 O my steed! 
 
 And, infinitely winged like the wind, drink in the 
 blast! 
 
 The boundless space before thy pace recedes and 
 
 disappears, 
 The sinful cities with all their crimes bow down 
 
 beneath thy tread. 
 Black flocks of crows that tremble thy swiftness to 
 
 behold 
 
 Are seeking shelter in the clouds, the thick clouds 
 overhead. 
 
 The sad earth seems below us and we up among the 
 
 stars; 
 Thou no abyss nor downward slope dost heed, with 
 
 eyes aflame; 
 There is no obstacle, no rock that can thy flight 
 
 impede; 
 
 Impatient, fain wouldst thou attain the summit of 
 the Aim.
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 143 
 
 My fleet, fleet steed! My idol of snow-white marble 
 
 fair! 
 With all my soul I worship thee! As on our course 
 
 we fly, 
 My dreamy brow is burning with the flames of mine 
 
 Ideal; 
 
 Oh, spur me onward to my Aim! Slave of thy foot- 
 steps I ! 
 
 I am the slave of thy fleet steps, child of the hurricane! 
 Speed on, athirst for vengeance, O swift, swift steed of 
 
 mine! 
 A needless halt I spurn and hate, with all my anger's 
 
 might. 
 
 Ours are the summits, and the wreath of victory is 
 thine ! 
 
 Thy delicate cream-white body boils with thine ardent 
 
 fire of life; 
 Thy tail is a cataract; rushing down, like a hurricane 
 
 it blows. 
 Within thine eyes, so bright and keen, there shine two 
 
 flaming stars ; 
 
 The ring of thy swift shoes forges fear, as onward 
 our journey goes. 
 
 I told thee that I am thy slave, for liberty athirst. 
 Oh, bear me swiftly toward the South, away from 
 
 this frontier! 
 We shall be clothed with suns and blood, beyond the 
 
 stately heights 
 Of Ararat and Aragatz. Speed on, my courser dear!
 
 144 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 I hold no whip within my hand, my courser, thou art free; 
 
 Upon thy back, that glistens like a lily white and fair, 
 I only shed sweet touches of my fingers as we go. 
 
 They touch thy bright flesh like a stream of honey 
 dropping there. 
 
 Thou hast no bridle upon thy neck, no bit within thy 
 
 mouth; 
 Enough for me one wave of hair from thy full mane 
 
 backward flung. 
 I have no need of stirrup-irons for my feet to grip thy 
 
 sides; 
 
 A silver saddle thou hast alone, a saddle with pearls 
 bestrung. 
 
 For my native valleys I yearn, I yearn, the valleys 
 
 that hold my home, 
 
 But halt thou never, my courser swift, the star- 
 strewn heavens below ! 
 Away by the mouths of caverns deep like a shadow 
 
 thou must pass, 
 
 From forests, vineyards and gardens green still 
 farther and farther go. 
 
 Who knows, perchance a maiden fair by the side of a 
 
 running brook 
 Might hand me a cluster of golden grapes, and proffer 
 
 a draught of wine; 
 My soul might understand her, and she like a sister 
 
 smile on me 
 
 But I do not wish to be lost in dreams; halt not, swift 
 steed of mine!
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 145 
 
 Thou wilt pass by the shadowy bowers of my birth- 
 place, Eden-fair; 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, fain would I drink 
 
 her song! 
 The rose-scent, on my pilgrimage, I have dreamed of 
 
 many a year. 
 
 Oh, how my heart is yearning! But halt not, speed 
 along. 
 
 And in my pathway haply old corpses might arise, 
 Their shrouds upon their shoulders, their hands held 
 
 out to me, 
 Approach me me the wretched! and breathe upward 
 
 to mine ear 
 
 Their loves and vengeance ne'er to be forgot but 
 onward flee! 
 
 I shudder at the ruins and at barren, helpless pangs. 
 
 My courser, near the ashes of the cities make no stay! 
 
 Oh, tears, the tears of others, they choke me without 
 
 ruth; 
 
 The woe, the griefs of others drive me mad, upon my 
 way! 
 
 Oh, do not halt, my courser, where these corpses 
 
 scattered lie! 
 Fly far away from graveyards, where white shades of 
 
 dead men be. 
 I cannot bear, I tell thee, I cannot bear again 
 
 The death of my dear native land with anguished 
 eyes to see!
 
 146 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Behold the landscape of the place in which I had my 
 
 birth! 
 At sight of it my longing glance with tears grows 
 
 moist and glows. 
 But yet I would not shed them; nay, do not pause or 
 
 stay, 
 
 My steed, my steed of swiftest flight! My Aim no 
 weakness knows. 
 
 Lo! 'tis Euphrates sounding. Why, river, dost thou 
 
 roar? 
 Thy son is passing. Why so dark the flood thy shore 
 
 that laves? 
 I am thy son. Oh, do not rage! Hast thou forgotten 
 
 me? 
 
 I with thy current would speed on, and would out- 
 strip thy waves. 
 
 The memory of my childhood draws from me tears of 
 
 blood ; 
 A dreamy youth who used to stray along these banks 
 
 of thine, 
 All full of hope, with sunlight mad, and happy with his 
 
 dreams 
 
 But ah! what am I saying? Pause not, swift steed 
 of mine! 
 
 Behold the glorious autumn, which vaguely dies around ! 
 
 Upon my brow a yellow leaf has fallen like a dream. 
 Is it my death it stands for, or the crowning of my faith? 
 
 What matter? On, my neighing steed, sweep onward 
 with the stream!
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 14? 
 
 Perchance it was the last sere leaf of my ill-omened 
 
 fate 
 That fell upon us even now. What matter? Speed 
 
 away ! 
 
 From the four corners of the land are echoing the words, 
 "Ideal, O free-born Ideal, halt not, halt not nor 
 stay!" 
 
 I worship thee! Now like a star thou shootest on thy 
 
 course; 
 
 Thou art as fleet, thou art as free, as is the light- 
 ning's flame; 
 And through the wind and with the wind like eagles 
 
 now we soar. 
 I am thy knight, I am thy slave; oh, lift me to my Aim! 
 
 Down from the summits of the rocks, the dread and 
 
 cloudy peaks, 
 
 The cataracts, the cataracts are falling in their might! 
 Their currents white are pure, my steed, as thine own 
 
 snow-white form, 
 
 And their imperious downward sweep is savage as thy 
 flight. 
 
 But why now doth a shudder through all thy body run? 
 Oh, what has chanced, my hero? Why do thy looks 
 
 grow dark? 
 Oh, turn thine eyes away from me, thine eyes with 
 
 trouble filled ; 
 
 Past the horizons fly along, fly like a wind-borne 
 bark!
 
 148 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 I heard the wailing and the cries, entreaties and laments, 
 From ruined huts and cities that reached us on our 
 way. 
 
 But ah! what use in pausing all powerless before pain? 
 Our task is to relieve it; then do not halt nor stay. 
 
 Through the death-agony, my steed, we passed with 
 
 tearless eyes. 
 Oh, do not halt! Oh, do not stay! Brave be that 
 
 heart of thine! 
 From this time onward, I will burn Hope's torches 
 
 blazing bright. 
 
 To halt means death to us; pause not, O gallant 
 steed of mine! 
 
 Aloft on thy galloping form, full oft, in our journey ere 
 
 to-day 
 I have heard how thy swift, spark-scattering hoofs, 
 
 as ever we forward tlec, 
 Have many and many a time crushed bones, that fell 
 
 beneath their tread, 
 
 And the skulls with their empty sockets dark gazed 
 at me didst thou see? 
 
 I tell thce, under thy shoes I heard the skeletons break 
 
 and crash, 
 But I kept silence. My lips arc dumb. Halt not, 
 
 halt not, my steed! 
 I will bury my sobs and sighs of grief in my soul's 
 
 abysmal depths. 
 
 Let nothing live but my anger hot! Pause not, but 
 onward speed!
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 149 
 
 Oh, pause not, falter not in thy course, wild creature 
 
 of marble white! 
 Tears will not banish the Pain of Life, nor drive 
 
 out its woe and wrong. 
 Nay, the Ideal shall toll, shall toll the bells of glo.ving 
 
 wrath. 
 
 The cranes, far flying, will call to us; oh, follow their 
 distant song! 
 
 But where does thy path lead? What is this? My 
 
 steed, hast thou lost thy mind? 
 The ashes! Oh, the desolate plains of ashes and 
 
 ruins gray ! 
 Like fog the gray dust rises up to stifle and choke our 
 
 breath. 
 
 Oh, tear thy way through these frightful mounds, 
 break through them and speed away! 
 
 Lift up thy forehead, lift up thine eyes, let me cover 
 
 them with my hand! 
 Halt not, 'tis the Crimson, the Crimson dread; red 
 
 blood beneath us lies. 
 Across my face to blind mine eyes I have pulled my 
 
 fluttering scarf; 
 
 Halt not! What good would it do, my steed, to 
 pause here with useless sighs? 
 
 Ah, once, accompanied by my griefs, my lyre shed 
 
 tears of blood; 
 
 Weeping I hate from this time on; thou only art my 
 soul.
 
 i 5 o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Thou breathest battle, for glory keen, and I am thy 
 
 prince, thy slave! 
 
 Thy form was worshipped by glorious Greece. Oh, 
 lift me to my Goal ! 
 
 The sound of the wind is like a horn that is winded 
 
 far away; 
 The forests, ranged like troops of war, stood ready as 
 
 we passed. 
 At the wild ringing of thy hoofs, old hopes like giants 
 
 woke; 
 
 Old laws are crushed, old tears are shed, old sounds 
 are dying fast. 
 
 And in thy flight, at daybreak, on a lofty table-land, 
 New giants, new insurgents, new heroes we shall spy. 
 
 The sons of suffering are they, who in this hostile age 
 Were born in blood, are wroth with blood, and wish 
 in blood to die. 
 
 When we see columns rolling up, armed with the 
 
 hurricane, 
 We by their side will march along the pathway to the 
 
 Aim. 
 
 Of glory and the crowning of the martyrs I shall sing; 
 My lyre will play, that gallant day, my Torches burn 
 and flame! 
 
 The day has dawned, has dawned at last! I am thy 
 
 knight, thy slave! 
 The slope is difficult and steep, but, breathing heavily,
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT. 151 
 
 Thou must fly on one effort more, amid the fires of 
 
 morn! 
 I am athirst for victory, my noble steed, like thee. 
 
 A few more ringing steps, my steed, and one last bound! 
 
 and then 
 What a procession, what a host, all glad and full of 
 
 might ! 
 
 'Tis Freedom's pioneers; their swords flash out life- 
 giving rays, 
 
 And Brotherhood they celebrate in morning's glorious 
 light. 
 
 Here may'st thou halt. Be blest, my steed! Worthy 
 
 of God art thou! 
 
 Tears fill my soul as mine Ideal I gaze on and admire. 
 Thy triumph is the mighty law of beauty infinite. 
 Lo, there six sombre centuries are standing, armed 
 with fire! 
 
 I, armed already, will arm thee. O'er my shoulder 
 
 burns thy torch. 
 
 They like the tempest wish to walk, under the dawn- 
 ing's glow, 
 Laden with justice. Oh, the land is barren and 
 
 athirst! 
 
 Lo, from our flight the giant Hope sparks in the 
 paths will sow!
 
 152 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 
 
 Let me write now and tell you of my dream. 
 It was upon the midnight of All Saints. 
 Sudden before me your four brothers knelt; 
 They wore no shrouds, no vestiges of flesh; 
 Groping in darkness, with abysmal eyes, 
 Weeping before their mother thus they came 
 To tell their memories of other days. 
 
 "Mother, the dawning of the bygone days! 
 
 We four together, from beneath the ground, 
 
 Today have sought once more your little door 
 
 To tap on it, companioned by the storm. 
 
 Mother, be not afraid, no strangers we! 
 
 And, lonely in your slumber, wait at least 
 
 And let us watch your face in death's dark night !" 
 
 "Mother, the holiness of bygone days! 
 
 Out of my heart, 'neath our poor graveyard's earth, 
 
 Mother, a flower of love for you has grown!" 
 
 "Mother, the sweetness of the bygone days! 
 For you two jars with my salt tears are filled." 
 
 "Mother, the happiness of bygone days! 
 For you have burning roses, flowers of hope, 
 Sprung into fiery blossom from my soul!"
 
 THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 153 
 
 "O mother, the heroic manliness 
 
 Of bygone days! Out of my breast -bones now 
 
 Two shields for your protection have been wrought." 
 
 "Mother, your peerless beauty in the past! 
 
 How many furrows now have marked your brow!" 
 
 (Thus spake your eldest brother). "All alone 
 
 Under your roof-tree, how can you endure? 
 
 These seven years, we seven times have tapped 
 
 Upon your little door, but till to-night 
 
 We never yet have found the door unclosed. 
 
 What traveler do you await to-night? 
 
 Behold, your fragile hut is tottering, 
 
 Like to a heap of mouldering coffin-boards. 
 
 See how the leaves, storm -rent, fall from the trees! 
 
 The guiltless doves are dying in the brook, 
 
 And still upon the.threshold of your home, 
 
 Mother, the black snakes lick our dried-up blood. 
 
 The garden has no leaf, no fruit, no brier. 
 
 We four together have been through the hut, 
 
 And at the sight of us our broken swords 
 
 Gave out once more a single flash of light. 
 
 Empty the larder was, and in the barn 
 
 A white lamb bleated, biting at its hoofs. 
 
 Mother, the plenty of the bygone days! 
 
 The love and pity of the bygone days! 
 
 How can you live here in your empty hut, 
 
 Here in your empty hut how can you live?" 
 
 The four were mute ; but when I spoke your name 
 And sobbed tempestuously in my dream, 
 They wildly, with bowed heads, began to weep.
 
 iS4 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 "But still," I said, "your brother is alive 
 The little one, who did not see you die. 
 It is for him alone I live to-day." 
 
 Then they burst forth, and poured upon mine eyes 
 
 The terrible black tear drops of the dead. 
 
 "A brother, oh, we have a brother yet, 
 
 A brother, oh, a brother in the world! 
 
 Mother, the misery of coming days! 
 
 Hereafter, how shall we to earth return? 
 
 Now how, oh, how shall we to earth return?"
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 155 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 JHE swans, in discouragement, have migrated 
 
 from the poisonous lakes this evening, 
 And sad sisters dream of brothers under the 
 
 prison walls. 
 
 Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies, 
 And fair women follow coffins from underground 
 
 passages, 
 And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground. 
 
 Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these 
 
 pitiless glooms. 
 Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more 
 
 merciful, 
 The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps! 
 
 An orphan swan is suffering within my soul, 
 And there, over newly-buried bodies, 
 It rains blood it pours from mine eyes. 
 
 A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart, 
 
 And with them pass barefooted blind men, 
 
 In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer.
 
 156 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night, 
 After hopelessly moaning over the sands 
 For some unknown, incomprehensible grief. 
 
 And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain; 
 The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen 
 
 waters; 
 
 The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds, 
 Dropped with cries of anguish. 
 
 And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite; 
 And, with the lonely and bloody moon, 
 Like a myriad motionless marble statues, 
 All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one 
 another.
 
 MY TEARS. 157 
 
 MY TEARS. 
 
 WAS alone with my pure-winged dream in the 
 
 valleys my sires had trod ; 
 My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, 
 
 and my heart with joy was thrilled; 
 I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light 
 
 of the glorious days; 
 
 Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul 
 with the gods was filled. 
 
 Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her 
 
 fruit to me 
 From my garden's trees each kind of fruit that to 
 
 our clime belongs; 
 
 And then from a willow's body slim, melodious, beau- 
 tiful, 
 
 A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make 
 my songs. 
 
 I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds 
 
 of my ancient home, 
 And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills 
 
 the nights and days, 
 And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister's 
 
 soft embrace, 
 
 United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in 
 my joyous lays.
 
 J5 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you 
 
 in my hand; 
 You felt to my lips like a kiss a kiss from the 
 
 days of long ago. 
 
 But when those memories old revived, then straight- 
 way failed my breath, 
 
 And instead of songs, my tears began drop after 
 drop to flow.
 
 THE YOUNG WIFE'S DREAM. 159 
 
 THE YOUNG WIFE'S DREAM. 
 
 |EAR after year, sitting alone at my window, 
 I gaze on thy path, my pilgrim heart-mate, 
 And by this writing I wish once more to sing 
 The tremors of my body and mind, left without a 
 guardian. 
 
 Ah! dost thou not recall the sun on the day of thy 
 
 departure? 
 
 My tears were so plentiful and my kisses so ardent, 
 Thy promises were so good and thy return was to be 
 
 so early! 
 Dost thou not recall the sun and my prayers on the 
 
 day of thy departure, 
 When I sprinkled water on the shadow of thy steed 
 
 from my water-jar, 
 That the seas might open before thee, 
 And the earth might bloom beneath thy feet? 
 
 Ah, the sun of the day of thy departure has changed to 
 
 black night, 
 And the tears of waiting, beneath the shower of so 
 
 many years, 
 
 Have poured from mine eyes like stars on my cheeks, 
 And behold! their roses have withered. 
 
 It is enough. Through longing for thee, I feel like 
 
 plucking out my hair; 
 I am still under the influence of the wine of thy cup,
 
 160 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 And a mourner for thy absent superb stature; 
 
 And, wounding my knees with kneeling at the church 
 
 door, 
 I entreat for thee, turning towards the west. 
 
 Let the seas some day dry up from shore to shore, 
 And let the two worlds approach each other in an instant ! 
 Then I should have no need of heaven or of the sun. 
 
 Return! I am waiting for thy return on the threshold 
 
 of our cottage. 
 My hands empty of thy hands, I dream of thee, in my 
 
 black robes. 
 
 Return, like the sweet fruits of our garden! 
 My heart's love keeps my kiss for thee. 
 
 Oh, my milk-white hips have not yet known motherhood, 
 And I have not yet been able to decorate a swaddling 
 
 cloth 
 
 With my wedding veil, wrought with golden thread; 
 And I have not yet been able to sing, sitting beside a 
 
 cradle, 
 The pure, heavenly lullaby of Armenian mothers. 
 
 Return! My longing has no end, 
 
 When the black night comes thus to unfold its shrouds, 
 When the owls in the courtyard shriek with one another. 
 When my sobs end and my tears become bloody, 
 Lonely in my dreams of a despairing bride, 
 With my hands, like a demon, I begin 
 To sift upon my head the earth of my grave, which is 
 drawing near to me.
 
 THIRST. 161 
 
 THIRST. 
 
 j|Y soul is listening to the death of the twilight. 
 Kneeling on the far-away soil of suffering, my 
 soul is drinking the wounds of twilight and of 
 the ground; and within itself it feels the raining down 
 of tears. 
 
 And all the stars of slaughtered lives, so like to 
 eyes grown dim, in the pools of my heart this 
 evening are dying of despair and of waiting. 
 
 And the ghosts of all the dead to-night will wait 
 for the dawn with mine eyes and my soul. Per- 
 haps, to satisfy their thirst for life, a drop of 
 light will fall upon them from on high.
 
 162 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE STARVING. 
 
 YE ancient and undisturbed Armenian plains 
 
 of kind mornings, 
 
 And ye, golden fields, rich orchards, and pas- 
 tures smiling with life, 
 Ye valleys covered with marble, flower-beds and 
 
 kind and fruitful gardens 
 Ye that create wine, which causes self-forgetfulness, 
 
 and eternal, sacred daily bread! 
 Ye indescribable paradises of plants, birds, flowers and 
 
 songs ! 
 To-day, once more, at the lonely hour of my returning 
 
 memory, of my sorrowful grief and delirium, 
 I call on your spirits, in bitterness live your life, and 
 hopelessly weep for you ! 
 
 Out of the blue, boundless space the fiery dawns open 
 
 their lilies, 
 
 And lo! the proud cock makes his silvery voice resound. 
 The kotchnaks 1 click from village to village; 
 An harmonious flute joyously announces invitations; 
 And the herds scatter themselves over the hilltops, 
 With the dance of the industrious and busy bees. 
 And the peace sings. The flowers tremble. The buds 
 
 seem to have the glances of saintly women. 
 
 1 The kotchnak is a small wooden board that is beaten with a stick 
 to arouse the sleepers.
 
 THE STARVING. 163 
 
 Art thou reminded of the white voice of the flour-mill, 
 the ever-moving body of fertility and labor, 
 
 Which turns its obedient and tireless wheel by the 
 billows of the unbridled torrent of the valley, 
 
 Apportioning the blessing of its flour to the cities and 
 villages, from time immemorial? 
 
 The brooks flow through the velvet mosses like chil- 
 dren's nakedness; 
 
 The morning smoke of fireplaces and chimneys alike 
 pours out its incense. 
 
 The beautiful young women with marble breasts go, 
 pitcher in hand, to the springs for the diamond- 
 pure water. 
 
 Others draw near the rosebush, to sing with the night- 
 ingale of their new-born love. 
 
 It is the happy climate of the harvest, full of good 
 tidings, that is born. 
 
 Nature is pregnant, and the farmers, who have drunk 
 of the fruit and effort of their skill, 
 
 Crowd around the plains. The scythes on their shoul- 
 ders flash like hope. 
 
 Andastan 1 is about to begin. To-day is the dawn of 
 the harvest's blessing. 
 
 Let a prayer for nature, for beneficent nature, rise 
 
 from men's lips! 
 May the soil grant its innumerable ears of wheat to us, 
 
 and to humanity in the four corners of the earth, 
 To the neighbor, to the friend, to the enemy, to the 
 
 evil man and to the stranger! 
 
 1 Andastan corresponds to our Thanksgiving Day.
 
 164 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Let all hunger be appeased, and let all thirst be 
 quenched with the bright water! 
 
 This celebration is solemnized from north to south, 
 
 from east to west, 
 For the abundance of every race, every class, every 
 
 caste, every field and' every harvest. 
 Prayers are solemnized, and sweetened, and purified; 
 
 and out of the mist of incense 
 Smiles of joy brighten the face of the good peasant 
 
 with sunny hope. 
 
 The ears still standing kiss one another once more with 
 
 thoughts of the wind; 
 The sickles move, and golden seas, seas, seas are being 
 
 mown; 
 And sheaves, bundle by bundle, through the shadows 
 
 of the fertile evening, 
 Like a multitude of stars that have rained down, 
 
 meditate motionless from field to field. 
 
 The day is done; and with the blooming rose and the 
 
 songs of early morn, 
 Huge oxen, pair by pair, around the threshing rings will 
 
 thresh the wonderful wheat. 
 The flour mills will work, the thoner 1 will burn. 
 Behold all significance, all reason, all law, purpose, 
 
 cleanliness and greatness of incomprehensible life! 
 
 all ye strange thoughts of my suffering, avaunt 
 for this evening! 
 
 1 The thoner is a round, open fireplace built in the ground.
 
 THE STARVING. 165 
 
 My unhappy dream in ashes disclosed its wounded 
 
 aspect. 
 See! the endless golden fields of yesterday wear the 
 
 terrible appearance of graveyards, 
 And the waters of ruined fountains, so like the tears 
 
 of a dying man, 
 Join the sobbing brooks, and go to moisten the black 
 
 aspect of the horrible ruins. 
 
 In place of the infinite goodness of ears of wheat, 
 
 yellow thistles have sprung up, 
 And over the fruit-bearing gardens the dark cawing 
 
 of black crows is dying away. 
 With their arms outstretched against the horizon, 
 
 gaunt and frail trees 
 With the rising of the winds are crushed against one 
 
 another, like the skeletons of countless dead. 
 The ill-omened tempest flies along the paths by night 
 
 with roaring as of a forest, 
 Demolishing half-ruined villages and roofs beneath the 
 
 anger of its sweep, 
 Opening earth-mounds and graves, strangling birds 
 
 in the caves. 
 
 Meanwhile from the caverns the howling of the devour- 
 ing wild beasts tolls the knell of death. 
 
 There is no harvest, no harvester, no sower and no 
 
 earth to plow. 
 Hungry oxen bellow mournfully. Vegetation is dying 
 
 with the flowers. 
 The plow in the corner of the barn awaits the new and 
 
 never-returning spring.
 
 1 66 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The cock crows no more. The dawn, it seems, like the 
 blood of my race, has sunk into the depths of the 
 earth. 
 
 The innumerable caravans of wretchedness, from every 
 side, migrate towards the plains; 
 
 Tragically beating their breasts, they frame, prayers, 
 hoping against hope, 
 
 They celebrate the fields of bygone dawns, they im- 
 plore, they bleed. 
 
 "O Lord, we are hungry, have pity on us! 
 
 Nature, have pity on us! Men, we are hungry! Hu- 
 manity, we are hungry!" 
 
 The current of water carries the corpse of the miller, 
 And the mad flour-mill turns vainly, like an empty 
 
 coffin. 
 Grinding the horror, the wailing, the death of all that 
 
 surrounds it, 
 Madly it turns, gnawing at its millstone and wheels. 
 
 The new-born babes, with terrible eyes, suck the dry 
 
 breasts. 
 Oh, the vision of Armenian mothers, the nearly-blinded 
 
 eyes of the mothers before all these! 
 Oh, where is the road, where is the abyss, where is 
 
 forgetfulness, where is the awful pit? 
 But death does not come, it does not come. Like the 
 
 longed-for salvation, it does not come. 
 
 The tremulous old women, groaning beneath their 
 head-coverings,
 
 THE STARVING. 167 
 
 Amid the ashes of their ruined homes, at sunrise, with 
 savage blood all around them, 
 
 Among the ashes of their fallen homes, kneeling dili- 
 gently before their wooden kneading-troughs, 
 
 Bake in haste a little bread for the starving ones. 
 
 And the miserable throng of beggars with shattered 
 
 bodies 
 
 Wander along the painful road like phantoms, 
 And, though disheartened with knocking at the doors 
 
 of enemies, friends and pious folk, 
 They once more return, again shed tears, once more 
 
 beg, once more suffer the -agonies of death. 
 
 Hear this sobbing, supplication, begging! "We are 
 
 hungry, we are hungry!" 
 There are those who tear their hair, there are those who 
 
 shed tears like drops of lead, 
 There are those who hope they are already dead under 
 
 cover of a pall of silence, 
 There are those who once more dig the hard earth with 
 
 their bleeding nails. 
 There are those who fall one upon another in the 
 
 graves, 
 There are those who still look for plants and roots 
 
 with stubborn hope, 
 There are those who begin horribly to dance, arm 
 
 in arm with frightful madness; 
 And others, terrible to tell, already approach the 
 
 corpses, unburied and awaiting burial. 
 
 O ye hostile thoughts of my suffering, avaunt, all 
 ye, upon this evening! 
 
 of
 
 168 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE LONGING LETTER. 
 
 DANIEL VAROUJAN was born in a village of Sebastia in 1884. 
 He studied at St. Lazare, Venice, and later in Belgium. He is 
 the author of a series of martial and patriotic epics. He 
 is believed to have perished in the Constantinople massacres 
 of 1915. 
 
 j|Y mother writes: "My son on pilgrimage, 
 How long beneath a strange moon will you 
 
 roam? 
 
 How long a time must pass ere your poor head 
 To my warm bosom I may press, at home? 
 
 "Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod 
 Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day 
 
 Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once, 
 Far from my empty heart has pined away! 
 
 "My arms are weary at the spinning wheel; 
 
 I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow. 
 Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again, 
 
 Then close forever, with my heart belov, 1 
 
 "Always I sit in sadness at my door, 
 
 And tidings ask from every crane that flies. 
 
 That willow slip you planted long ago 
 Has grown till over me its shadow lies.
 
 THE LONGING LETTER. 169 
 
 "I wait in vain for your return at eve. 
 
 All the brave fellows of the village pass, 
 The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold 
 
 I with the moon am left alone, alas! 
 
 " My ruined house is left without a head. 
 
 Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer 
 Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I, 
 
 Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere! 
 
 "Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore! 
 
 They burst the door, they swept the larders bare. 
 Now all the swallows of the spring come in 
 
 Through shattered windows, open to the air. 
 
 "Of all the goodly flocks of long ago 
 
 One brave ram only in our stable stands. 
 
 His mother once remember, little son 
 
 While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands. 
 
 "Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now, 
 To nourish his rich dmak, 1 of noble size; 
 
 I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb; 
 He is a dear and precious sacrifice. 
 
 "When you come back, his head with roses wreathed, 
 He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet; 
 
 And in his blood, my well-beloved son, 
 I then will wash my pilgrim's weary feet." 
 
 1 A mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed, in 
 place of a tail.
 
 170 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE WORKING GIRL. 
 
 ENEATH my window, as each morning dawns, 
 You like a wandering ghost go flitting by, 
 And on your beauteous virgin head there fall 
 Tears from my rose vine, leafless now and dry. 
 
 I hear your footsteps in the silent street, 
 
 And the awakened dog that barks at you; 
 
 Or in my sleep I hear the constant cough 
 
 That racks your lovely bosom through and through. 
 
 I think that you are hungry, robbed of sleep, 
 Your body shivering in the breezes cold, 
 And on your tresses, O my sister! lies 
 The frost, like jewels, glittering to behold. 
 
 Or else, I think, your shoes are torn and rent; 
 The water from the street is oozing through; 
 Or impudently, as you pass along, 
 Some scoundrel Turk is whistling after you. 
 
 I think that ill at home your mother lies, 
 And that the oil which fed the lamp is dry, 
 And to the factory you go, to toil 
 For light and life. I think of it, and sigh!
 
 THE WORKING GIRL. 171 
 
 I think of it, and madly then I wish 
 I might come down, my pallid sister dear, 
 Come down to you, to kiss your thin, frail hand, 
 And whisper low, "I love you!" in your ear. 
 
 I love your sorrow, which is mine as well 
 My grief of griefs, all other woes above; 
 I love your shattered breast, where still your love 
 Sings on and on a skylark wild with love. 
 
 Pale girl, I long to press you to my heart 
 Like some poor banished dove, forlorn and lone 
 Give you my strength, my prizes won from fame, 
 And my untarnished name to be your own. 
 
 Fain would I be your honor's veil and screen, 
 My breast a shield for your defenceless breast. 
 If I could guard, with arms as granite strong, 
 Your sex and your grave beauty, I were blest ! 
 
 Fain would I give you all that I have won 
 In life's hard struggle, all I have of good 
 Crown you with roses of my victory, 
 Roses that wear the color of my blood; 
 
 Only that never more, my sister dear, 
 You should be pale and hungry, coughing sore, 
 And that your mother's lamp should not go out, 
 And to the factory you should go no more!
 
 172 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 ALMS. 
 
 TO THE STARVING PEOPLE. 
 
 JHERE is famine; bread, bread!" 
 
 Who is sighing? 
 On the threshold of my cottage, who is 
 
 sighing? 
 
 My love has gone out, with the flame in my fireplace. 
 Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, of what use is it 
 To sow tears on ashes? 
 
 I have nothing, nothing! To-day, with my last 
 Small coin I bought poison; 
 I shall mix poison within me. 
 
 Come to-morrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One, 
 Through the storm, early, when around the village 
 Wolves are still wandering. 
 Come to-morrow! As bread, from my grave 
 I will throw into that bag of thine 
 My poet's heart. 
 My poet's heart shall be thy blood, the blood of thy 
 
 orphans, 
 
 As long as thy grief lives. 
 Come to-morrow to the graveyard, Othou Hungry One!
 
 THE AGED CRANE. 173 
 
 THE AGED CRANE. 
 
 |N the bank of the river, in the row of cranes, 
 
 That one drooped its head, 
 
 Put its beak under its wing, and with itsaged 
 Dim pupils, awaited 
 Its last black moment. 
 When its comrades wished to depart, 
 It could not join them in their flight. 
 Scarcely could it open its eyes and watch in the air 
 The path of the little flock that went along 
 Calling down to those under the roofs 
 The tidings, the greetings and the tears 
 Entrusted to them by the exile. 
 Ah, the poor bird! In the bleak embrace 
 Of that cold autumnal silence, it is dying. 
 It is vain to dream any more 
 Of a distant spring, of cool currents of air 
 Under strong and soaring wings, 
 Or of passing through cool brooks 
 With naked feet, of dipping its long neck 
 Amongst the green reeds; 
 It is vain to dream any more! 
 The wings of the Armenian crane 
 Are tired of traveling. It was true 
 To its heart-depressing calling; 
 It has transported so many tears! 
 How many young wives have put among its soft 
 
 feathers 
 Their hearts, ardently beating!
 
 174 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 How many separated mothers and sons 
 
 Have loaded its wings with kisses! 
 
 Now, with a tremor on its dying day, 
 
 It shakes from its shoulders 
 
 The vast sorrow of an exiled race. 
 
 The vows committed to it, the hidden sighs 
 
 Of a betrothed bride who saw at length 
 
 Her last rose wither unkissed; 
 
 A mother's sad blessing; 
 
 Loves, desires, longings, 
 
 It shakes at last from its shoulders. 
 
 And on the misty river-bank 
 
 Its weary wings, spread for the last time, 
 
 Point straight toward 
 
 The Armenian hills, the half-ruined villages. 
 
 With the voice of its dying day 
 
 It curses immigration, 
 
 And falls, in silence, upon the coarse sand of the river 
 
 bank. 
 
 It chooses its grave, 
 And, thrusting its purple beak 
 Under a rock, the dwelling-place of a lizard, 
 Stretching out its curving neck 
 Among the songs of the waves, 
 With a noble tremor it expires! 
 
 A serpent there, which had watched that death-agony 
 
 Silently for a long time with staring pupils, 
 
 Crawls up from the river-bank, 
 
 And, to revenge a grudge of olden days, 
 
 With an evil and swift spring 
 
 Coils around its dead neck.
 
 THE BObD. 175 
 
 THE BOND. 
 
 ARCHAG TCHOBANIAN was born in Constantinople in 1872, 
 the son of a poor silversmith. He became a teacher and 
 writer, contributing to various periodicals poems, fairy tales, 
 literary studies and criticisms. He brought out a successful 
 drama, was appointed teacher of the history of literature in the 
 Central School, and became editor of a literary and artistic 
 magazine. In 1895 he settled in Paris, where he has devoted 
 himself to making the Armenians better known in Europe. 
 He is an indefatigable worker, and has published, in French, a 
 number of volumes containing translations of Armenian 
 literature, ancient and modern, besides editing "Anahit," 
 a literary and critical magazine which he founded. 
 
 i LL things are bound together by a tie 
 
 Finer and subtler than a ray of light; 
 Color and sound and fleeting fragrances, 
 The maiden's smile, the star-beam sparkling bright, 
 Are knit together by a secret bond 
 Finer and subtler than a ray of light. 
 
 Sometimes an urn of memories is unsealed 
 
 Just by a simple tune, or sad or gay; 
 Part of the past with every quivering note 
 
 From its dark sleep awakens to the day, 
 And we live o'er again a long-past life, 
 
 Just through a simple tune, or sad or gay. 
 
 Some flowers bring men and women back to mind; 
 A well-known face smiles on us in their hue;
 
 176 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Their bright cups, moved by the capricious wind, 
 Will make us dream of eyes, black eyes or blue; 
 
 We in their fragrance feel a breath beloved; 
 Flowers bring back men and women whom we knew. 
 
 The summer sea recalls fond, happy hours; 
 
 We in the sunset see our dead once more; 
 In starlight, holy loves upon us smile; 
 
 With our own griefs the stormy thunders roar; 
 The zephyr breathes to us a name adored; 
 
 We in the sunset see the dead once more. 
 
 All things are bound in closest unison, 
 Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread. 
 
 The flower, and love, the breeze and reverie, 
 Nature and man, and things alive and dead, 
 
 Are all akin, and bound in harmony 
 Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread.
 
 TO THE MOON. 177 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 HY am I not the thin white cloud 
 
 That, floating soft and slow, 
 Veils the pure splendor of your face 
 'Neath its transparent snow? 
 
 Or one of those unnumbered stars 
 
 Bees that in heaven's height 
 Flit round you, seeking honey there, 
 
 O shining Rose of light? 
 
 Why am I not the dark-browed mount 
 
 Where you a moment stay, 
 Ere spreading your broad, viewless wings 
 
 To soar through heaven away? 
 
 Why am I not the forest deep, 
 Where, dropping through the air, 
 
 'Mid foliage dark slip in and hang 
 Threads of your golden hair? 
 
 Why am I not the tranquil sea 
 On which your beams descend, 
 
 Where molten diamonds and fire 
 And milk and honey blend?
 
 178 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Alas, why am I not at least 
 That cold tomb of the dead, 
 
 On which your rays so tenderly 
 Their tears' bright sadness shed?
 
 THE WIND. 179 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 HE Wind's the aged traveler 
 Who sings old songs he knows, 
 
 As all alone, without a guide, 
 He through the forest goes. 
 
 His voice caresses like a kiss 
 When over flowers he strays; 
 
 The Wind's the ancient traveler 
 Who murmurs old-time lays. 
 
 But like a cataract he roars 
 
 Far out upon the sea, 
 And rushing through the winter nights 
 
 He curses savagely.
 
 i8o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 WITHIN MY HEART. 
 
 [ITHIN my heart there is a maid 
 Would fain, with earnest will, 
 Recall an old, forgotten tune; 
 But it eludes her still. 
 
 Within my heart there is a child 
 Who waits, with longing dumb 
 
 And endless hope, for somebody 
 Who does not, does not come. 
 
 There is an old man in my heart 
 
 Who calls eternally 
 To someone very far away 
 
 Who never makes reply.
 
 LULLABY FOR MOTHER ARMENIA. 181 
 
 LULLABY FOR MOTHER ARMENIA. 
 
 LL naked at the crossroads thou dost sit. 
 The snow descends and clings along thine hair. 
 Dark wounds are in thy flesh; thine eyes have 
 
 grown 
 As red as lakes of blood, in thy despair. 
 
 The ancient Mother thou, of age-long griefs; 
 Misfortune round thy heart its chain hath laid 
 In countless rings; black winds have smitten thee, 
 And heavy shadows on thy life have weighed. 
 
 What evil fairy spun thy thread of fate? 
 Who, seeing thee cast down and like to die, 
 Will call to mind that thou wast once a maid 
 Of mighty strength, with proud and radiant eye? 
 
 Thy tresses like a banner floated wide 
 On the free mountain where thy spirit fleet 
 Leaped, with exultant cry, from peak to peak; 
 Thy proud breast swelled with milk as honey sweet. 
 
 All brigands have desired thee ; monstrous foes 
 Threw themselves on thee; long didst thou contend, 
 Long didst thou struggle, until, wearied out, 
 Thou didst sink down exhausted at th" end.
 
 i8a ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 And yet, amid destructive forces vast, 
 Thy soul was kind and fruitful in all worth. 
 Thou to the world didst add a flower of life; 
 Thy fingers drew forth beauty from the earth. 
 
 Mother of gold wast thou, with dazzling breasts, 
 The Goddess Anahit, 1 with peaceful eyes. 
 Wealth from thy bosom rained, rays from thy glance; 
 Thy lips were musical, thy hands were wise. 
 
 Barbarians bound thy hands, thy tender flesh 
 Tore and polluted; in those darksome days 
 Thou didst become the Mother blood-bestained, 
 With myriad wounds, and dragged through Calvary's 
 ways. 
 
 Yet thou wast beauteous, thou wast brave in pain! 
 In fetters, still thy soul did ardent burn. 
 Thou brokest many a formidable yoke, 
 And oft from death to life didst thou return. 
 
 Thine eyes were turned forever to the light; 
 Toward the new world its course thy spirit sped; 
 And thou stood'st firm for centuries, all alone, 
 Against the flood of Asia making head. 
 
 That torrent, growing greater and more fierce, 
 O'erthrew thee, quenched beneath its waves thy light. 
 Then wretched, panting, stretched upon the earth, 
 Yet living still, thou waitedst through the night. 
 
 1 The Goddess of love, in Armenia's pagan days.
 
 LULLABY FOR MOTHER ARMENIA. 183 
 
 Sometimes by night the crosses of old tombs 
 Stirred and were shaken ; with an angry light 
 The genii of Mt. Ararat passed by; 
 From thy great lakes shot flashes red and bright. 
 
 The low sound of a drum-beat crossed the air, 
 And, trembling, to the mountain summit bold 
 Thou didst lift up thine eyes; then fell again 
 The heavy shadows and the silence cold. 
 
 Once, anguished, thou upstartedst; from thy lips 
 A cry of pain and of rebellion rushed; 
 But deaf the world remained; thine effort vain 
 'Neath the blind heel of brutal force was crushed. 
 
 'Mid fires of evil omen, monsters dire 
 
 Appeared, which burned thine heart, plucked out thine 
 
 eyes. 
 Driven from thy home, thou on the ground didst 
 
 fall 
 'Mid blood and ashes, 'neath the windy skies. 
 
 And now, a mournful shadow, thou dost sit 
 'Mid smoking ruins, desolate, oppressed. 
 Thy wounds are bitten by the wind; the blood 
 Falls drop by drop from thy discolored breast. 
 
 Slowly thou shak'st thy head, and shedding tears 
 Thou singest low and sweet a lullaby 
 That of thy children fallen in their blood, 
 Or exiled, scattered, flung abroad to die;
 
 184 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The lullaby of youthful flames now quenched, 
 And eyes now darkened that were once so fair; 
 And that of those who live and suffer still, 
 In poverty, in dungeons, in despair. 
 
 Enough ! Thy lullaby's a chant of death ! 
 Enough ! We'll sing thee a new lullaby 
 A lullaby of hope and of revenge. 
 The dead will thrill with joy where low they lie. 
 
 Lift up thy head, weep not! Holy is grief, 
 
 And great and wholesome. Earth naught nobler knows 
 
 Than is the victim brave beneath his cross. 
 
 'Tis in the shadow that the dawn-light grows. 
 
 The black destroyers, the red torturers 
 
 Shall vanish they like smoke shall disappear, 
 
 And from thine ashes thou shalt rise again, 
 
 Made young by suffering, radiant, bright and clear. 
 
 Weep not ! No longer droop thy piteous head, 
 Nor let thine hair stream wild the winds among; 
 But know thyself, and gather up thy powers! 
 Thy strength has propped a stranger's house too long. 
 
 Pale brothers who have fallen, sleep in peace! 
 Stretch thy great hands and bless us, Mother! Rise, 
 And may our blood dry up, and may our lives 
 Be for thine happiness a sacrifice! 
 
 Thou shalt come forth triumphant from these shades; 
 Stars shall thine eyes become, and sparkle bright;
 
 LULLABY FOR MOTHER ARMENIA. 185 
 
 Thy wounds to radiant roses shall be changed, 
 And from thy whitened hair shall spring forth light. 
 
 Thou at the opening of the ways shalt stand, 
 And break the bonds that held thee down in gloom. 
 O Mother, rise! thy pains were childbirth pangs; 
 It is a world that stirs within thy womb!
 
 186 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 WHEN SOME DAY. 
 
 HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN \\as born in a village of Lorga 
 in 1869. He received little schooling, but has educated him- 
 self. His poems are very popular; and he is also the author 
 of many translations. Since the late massacres he has been 
 active and tireless in the relief work. 
 
 WEET comrade, when you come some day 
 
 To gaze upon my tomb, 
 And scattered all around it see 
 Bright flowers in freshest bloom, 
 
 Think not that those are common flowers 
 
 Which at your feet are born, 
 Or that the spring has brought them there 
 
 My new home to adorn. 
 
 They are my songs unsung, which used 
 
 Within my heart to hide; 
 They are the words of love I left 
 
 Unuttered when I died. 
 
 They are my ardent kisses, dear, 
 
 Sent from that world unknown, 
 The path to which before you lies 
 
 Blocked by the tomb alone!
 
 BEFORE A PAINTING BY AYVASOVSKY. 187 
 
 BEFORE A PAINTING BY AYVASOVSKY. 
 
 |ISING from ocean, billows uncontrolled, 
 With heavy flux and reflux, beating high, 
 Towered up like mountains, roaring terribly; 
 
 The wild storm blew with wind gusts manifold 
 
 A mad, tempestuous race 
 
 Through endless, boundless space. 
 
 "Halt!" cried the aged wizard, brush in hand, 
 
 To the excited elements; and lo! 
 
 Obedient to the voice of genius, now 
 
 The dark waves, in the tempest's fury grand, 
 
 Upon the canvas, see! 
 
 Stand still eternally!
 
 i88 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 HE little children wept and wailed; 
 
 Heart-rending were the tears they shed. 
 "Mamma, mamma, we want our foodh 
 Get up, mamma, and give us bread!" 
 
 With bitter sorrow in her heart 
 
 Groaned the sick mother from her bed: 
 
 "We have no bread, my little ones; 
 Papa has gone to get you bread." 
 
 "No, you are cheating, bad mamma! 
 
 You are deceiving us! You said 
 That when the sunlight struck the banks 
 
 Papa would come and bring us bread. 
 
 "The sun has come, the sun has gone; 
 
 Still are we hungry, still unfed. 
 Mamma, mamma, we want our food! 
 
 Get up, mamma, and give us bread!" 
 
 "No bread your father yet has found; 
 
 Without it he dares not come back. 
 Wait but a little while, my dears! 
 
 Now I will follow in his track.
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 189 
 
 "In heaven there is a great Papa; 
 
 Abundant store of bread has he. 
 He loves you much, so very much, 
 
 He will not let you hungry be. 
 
 "There will I go and say to him 
 That you are faint with hunger sore. 
 
 Plenty of bread I'll ask for you, 
 
 That you may eat, and weep no more." 
 
 So spake the mother, and she clasped 
 The starving children to her breast. , 
 
 On her pale lips the last kiss froze 
 That to their faces thin she pressed. 
 
 The mother's arms unclosed no more 
 
 She shut her eyes and went away 
 Bread to her little ones to send 
 
 And lifeless in their sight she lay. 
 
 The little children wept and wailed; 
 
 Heart-rending were the tears they shed. 
 "Mamma, mamma, we want our food; 
 
 Get up, mamma, and give us bread!"
 
 IQO ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 NEW SPRING. 
 
 HOVHANNES HovHANNESSIAN, teacher and writer, was born 
 in 1864 at Vagharshabad, near Etchmiadzin. He is a grad- 
 uate of the University of Moscow. 
 
 HERE art thou coming. Springtime sweet? 
 
 Thou com'st in vain, O Spring! 
 No one is left to wait for thee, 
 No one thy praise to sing. 
 
 Deep darkness has enwrapped the world; 
 
 To mount and valley cling 
 Red stains of blood; this year brought woe. 
 
 Where art thou coming, Spring? 
 
 The nightingale may sing to thee; 
 
 Who else, where all are slain, 
 Is left to smile? What heart can stir? 
 
 O Spring, thou com'st in vain! 
 
 The nightingale has come, but found 
 
 No rose with silken leaf. 
 Here is the flower-bed, but no flower. 
 
 Who else is free from grief?
 
 NEW SPRING. 191 
 
 Although thou hast brought back the birds, 
 
 How shall they find their nests? 
 No spot in all our fatherland 
 
 Unspoiled, unruined rests. 
 
 The minstrel's mouth is closed to-day; 
 
 No flutes or viols ring; 
 His heart is burning without fire. 
 
 Where art thou coming, Spring? 
 
 No one is left to praise thee now 
 
 On mountain or on plain; 
 No one is left to wait for thee; 
 
 Spring, thou com'st in vain!
 
 i 9 2 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 ET your song boil with fire of ardent wrath, 
 And make the soul with unfeigned sorrow 
 
 ache; 
 
 Echo of noble wishes let it be, 
 And sacred patriotism let it wake. 
 
 Let every note call on us to advance; 
 
 Breathe hope to those oppressed by conflicts dread; 
 With immortality the fallen wreathe, 
 
 And shame the man who like a dastard fled. 
 
 Yea, let us wrestle for the light, the truth, 
 
 Which with untruth and darkness wage their fray! 
 
 Then, bowing reverently before your face, 
 "You are a poet!" we with joy will say. 
 
 Let your song ring as rings the gurgling brook 
 That glides with silvery eddies mile on mile; 
 
 Let hopes and wishes bubble there like springs, 
 With sounds of power, and with a vivid smile. 
 
 Make us, while we to tender voices list, 
 Forget ourselves and soar to worlds above, 
 
 Where bitter tears of hardship are not shed, 
 
 Where rest is found, and beauty glows with love.
 
 THE POET. 193 
 
 Make us be glad and cast off grief and care, 
 And live in dreams of childhood far away; 
 
 Then we shall bless the work that you have wrought; 
 "You are a poet!" we with joy shall say.
 
 194 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 OW often in my life to find 
 Tranquillity I yearned! 
 Ever with visions infinite 
 My heart within me burned. 
 
 The world will not afford this peace 
 
 For which I ask in vain; 
 My broken, wasted heart would not 
 
 With empty hope remain. 
 
 I seek not the impossible 
 One heart to which to cling, 
 
 One feeling heart, which to its mate 
 Would bring love's glowing spring.
 
 THE INCENSE. 195 
 
 THE INCENSE. 
 
 MADAME SYBIL (Zabcl Klanjian Assatour) was born in 
 Constantinople in 1863. She began very early both to write 
 and to do benevolent work. While yet a girl, she founded 
 one of the best organizations of women in Turkish Armenia, 
 for the purpose of starting schools for girls in the small towns. 
 After fifteen years of good work, the society was suppressed 
 by the government. It was re-established, through her 
 efforts, after the new constitution was proclaimed in 1908. 
 It was maintaining twenty schools when the massacres of 
 1915 began. 
 
 After the death of her first husband, she married Herant 
 Assatour, a well-known literary man. Her work includes 
 prose, poetry and translations. 
 
 EFORE the altar burns the fragrant incense; 
 
 Softly the silver censer sways and bows; 
 The columned smoke goes up, the cross 
 
 encircling, 
 
 And with a mist anoints the saints' white 
 brows. 
 
 Infinite sighs of prayer and of entreaty 
 
 Under the vaults die slowly and are stilled; 
 
 Slowly the weeping flames of dim, faint tapers 
 Sigh, one by one, their eyes with pity filled.
 
 196 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Lo, a white veil, hard by the sacred column, 
 Trembles with sobs that shake a hidden frame; 
 
 In a white shadow wrapped, a heart is burning 
 Silently, like the incense, in a flame. 
 
 Out of the censer's heart the incense passes, 
 Winding it rises toward the ether's height. 
 
 Matter it was; the fire its life hath swallowed; 
 Now 'tis but fragrance filled with colored light. 
 
 So, too, the grieving woman's heart that burns there 
 Will not be freed from fetters and from fires 
 
 Until it melts, dissolves, etherealizes, 
 
 Wholly consumed by flames of pure desires.
 
 THE IDEAL. 197 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 |T is the moonlight, clear and soft, which soon 
 
 the sun outshines 
 
 A fiery dream, which pales before the morn- 
 ing's stronger glow. 
 It is the springtime's lightning flash, a splendor brief 
 
 and bright; 
 
 A flower whose petals drop away when winds awake and 
 blow. 
 
 It is a thorny rose, which draws red blooddrops from 
 
 thine heart 
 The delicate bright ribbon of the rainbow, o'er thee 
 
 hung. 
 It is the purple Northern Lights that play in heaven's 
 
 blue dome 
 The snowy foam that scatters when against the rock 
 
 'tis flung. 
 
 It is a feather pure and soft, blown from the swan's 
 
 white breast 
 
 A sacred kiss beneath the sky, the open ether deep. 
 That which the wind, the atmosphere, the waters bear 
 
 away 
 Is the Ideal the lullaby sung to the soul asleep.
 
 i 9 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The virgin unapproachable, by showers of yearning 
 
 sought, 
 
 The golden ring that binds us unto life, unto the real 
 The agitating multitude of dazzling youthful dreams, 
 The love-song of the heart's deep void ah, this is the 
 
 Ideal!
 
 TEARS. 199 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 HERE are tears that fall in grief and sadness; 
 Slow and mournfully the cheek they stain, 
 Every drop a sob, a lamentation, 
 In its dew a throb of bitter pain. 
 
 There are other tears, bright, clear, untroubled, 
 Shining as the sun, untouched of care, 
 
 Like the violet rain, calm, cool, refreshing, 
 When the scent of earth is on the air. 
 
 There are tears all silent and mysterious, 
 
 From the soul's love-yearning depths that steal; 
 
 They relate to us long tales of sorrow, 
 
 Buried loves which mourning veils conceal. 
 
 There are tears that seem to me like laughter 
 Like clouds tempest-tossed, that roam for aye, 
 
 Flinging lightnings to the winds of ocean, 
 Drifting, mistlike, out and far away. 
 
 There's a dry tear, burning, never falling 
 Liquid flame, intense, consuming, dread 
 
 Not to pass until the eyes are ashes, 
 And the mind is ruined too and dead.
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Tears, I know you all, though ye be only 
 Memories of a past that sorrows fill. 
 
 Strong emotions, be ye blest forever! 
 "Pis through you my heart is living still.
 
 MURMURS OF A PATRIOT. 
 
 MURMURS OF A PATRIOT. 
 
 MUGURDITCH CHRIMIAN HAIFIG is the grandest figure in 
 modern Armenian history. He has been compared to Lin- 
 coln. Beginning in poverty, and possessing little education, 
 he rose to the highest place through his native greatness of 
 mind and heart. Born in Van in 1820, he married early, 
 but was soon left a widower. He took holy orders, and 
 devoted himself ardently to the cause of education, founding 
 schools, training teachers, setting up in Van the first printing 
 press in Armenia, publishing a magazine, and spreading en- 
 lightenment by every means. He was a strong advocate of 
 education for girls, and in one of his books, "The Family of 
 Paradise," he argues against the prevailing Oriental idea 
 that husbands have a right to rub over their wives by force. 
 All his views were progressive. His pupils went out through 
 the country, spreading light. He protested courageously 
 against the oppression and robbery practised on the Arme- 
 nians. After theTurco-Russian war, in 1878, he was chosen a 
 delegate, with three others, to plead the cause of the Ar- 
 menians before the Congress of Berlin. His activities for his 
 people's welfare caused him to be exiled for a time to Jeru- 
 salem. He rose from one ecclesiastical dignity to another, 
 became Patriarch of Constantinople, and was finally elected 
 Catholicos of all the Armenians. He was deeply loved and 
 venerated for his wisdom and saintliness. He died in 1907, 
 universally mourned. The affectionate surname of "Hairig" 
 (Little Father) was given him by the people. 
 
 The following poem is dedicated "To brave Vartan and his 
 fellow soldiers, in memory of the celebration of the Holy 
 Martyrs." It commemorates those who fell in the battle of 
 Avarair. 
 
 OD -kindled soul, brave general of the host 
 Made strong by Christ! New Judas 
 
 Maccabeus, 
 Chief conqueror, giving courage for the fight,
 
 202 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Victorious alike in life and death! 
 Bold champion against the Persian faith! 
 For love of true religion's sacred name 
 And of the freedom of the fatherland, 
 (O greatest love!) you did not spare yourself; 
 You perished, and Armenia arose, 
 Vartan Mamigonian! 
 
 O cross-clad warrior, spurring your white steed, 
 Say, whither are you going in such haste? 
 The fellow soldier of brave Vartan I, 
 His fellow soldier of the self -same blood. 
 To reach the field of Ardaz forth I go; 
 And with the cross's arms, like butting horns, 
 The herds of the black goats I there shall crush. 
 Go, go, your sword turned toward the enemy, 
 Khorene Khorkhorooni! 
 
 Love-kindled soul, made wise by heavenly lore! 
 Against the Persian worshipers of fire 
 Wisely you fought. You sacrificed yourself; 
 You left this world; in heaven is your reward. 
 Yea, with great wisdom that exchange was made, 
 Wise Humayag! 
 
 Most choice foundation rock for Ararat, 
 The builded of the Lord, our Mother Zion! 
 Broken from the top of Massis, you rolled down 
 To Ardaz; there you smote and you destroyed 
 The false fire-altars of the Magian faith. 
 
 1 Massis is the Armenian name of Mt. Ararat.
 
 MURMURS OF A PATRIOT. 203 
 
 Higher the glory of the cross arose, 
 Satan our enemy was overcome, 
 Wondrous Dajad! 
 
 Who, mounted on his black, swift-flying steed, 
 With blazing eyes, looks neither left nor right, 
 And goes to battle with an eager heart? 
 He knows that holy is the fatherland, 
 It is a duty high to die for it. 
 Go swiftly, swiftly go ! I love your soul. 
 That vow is sacred. Give your light and life 
 The light and life your country gave to you. 
 A death like that is immortality, 
 Which evil men of this world do not know, 
 Ardag Balooni! 
 
 O scion of a valiant race ! I love 
 
 Your stature like a plane-tree, that has raised 
 
 Your head toward heaven. 'Twas God that made 
 
 you grow. 
 
 Give, do not spare that stature, nor your life, 
 For church and nation; sow that ready seed, 
 And water it with red blood from your veins, 
 That it may grow into a lily fair, 
 
 O Nerses, hero wonderfully built ! 
 
 Angelic youth, graceful and beautiful, 
 
 Who came from Knooni's garden full of flowers! 
 
 God planted you, blind Hazgerd 1 plucked you up; 
 
 Yet living still and blooming you remain. 
 
 O what a youthful sacrifice you gave, 
 
 1 The Persian King.
 
 204 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Of your free will, for your dear country's sake! 
 You, a new Sahag, nurtured tenderly, 
 You, of the house of good St. Gregory 
 Our father, like a lamb were sacrificed, 
 Delicate Vahan! 
 
 Your heart full-armed with holy zeal, to take 
 Vengeance for faith and fatherland, the field 
 Of Avarair you entered, spoiled and slew 
 The sons of gloomy Oromisda, seeking 
 To light up the fire-altars, and put out 
 Father St. Gregory's bright-shining lamp. 
 Your blood put out the altars false of fire 
 And lighted up Armenia's burning torch, 
 Amiable Arsen! 
 
 Yonder before grim Hazgerd's judgment seat, 
 Or here upon the field of Ardaz, aye 
 Forward in word, in answer, and with blade; 
 An ardent lover of the spotless faith 
 Of Jesus, and your country's liberty; 
 With two dear kinsmen clasped in fond embrace, 
 Sweetly you fell asleep. That sleep is sweet. 
 Let your tired arms a little while repose. 
 The flowers of Shavarshan, your monument, 
 Upon your grave, spread shade above your head, 
 O forward Karekin ! 
 
 Free nobles of the royal family, 
 
 Two eagles winged by love, from Osdan's hill 
 
 You, swiftly soaring, came to Avarair. 
 
 For what? Was it to hunt the unclean beasts,
 
 MURMURS OF A PATRIOT. 205 
 
 The sons of Servan of the darkness born, 
 
 Tearing the flocks of sable crows to bits 
 
 With hooked claws? Bravely you fought; you smote 
 
 And you were smitten; at the last, you fell. 
 
 Nay, you are living still, and standing firm 
 
 Still, for the sake of the Armenian race, 
 
 O great Ardzrouni knights, Vahan, Sahag! 
 
 Be proud, O Gregory! Be lifted up! 
 
 Behold your lambs, who, having bravely fought 
 
 The apostate wolves, into the carnage sank. 
 
 From heaven above behold them, newly winged, 
 
 In flocks like doves, flying from earth to you! 
 
 Make broad your lap, give them a resting place; 
 
 Your sons are weary. Count them one by one. 
 
 One thousand martyrs they and thirty-six, 
 
 Whom the church sprung from you presents to heaven. 
 
 O God of Gregory, Nerses, Sahag! 
 
 God of our holy ancestors, behold 
 
 An all-devoted sacrifice for thee 
 
 Such martyrs' sacred blood! Receive it, Lord! 
 
 Remember, Lord! Have mercy, Lord, and visit 
 
 The holy Vartan's suffering fatherland!
 
 206 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE MEMORIAL OF THE LAMENTING 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 H, not for me will be a grave 
 
 With cross-marked stone to view! 
 I die upon the field of death; 
 My name will perish too. 
 
 And not for me a splendid bier, 
 
 Or burial's pageant vain, 
 Or family to mourn for me, 
 
 Or friends for funeral train. 
 
 My tomb, which my own hands have dug, 
 
 Will be a trench profound; 
 The graves of thousands of the dead 
 
 With mine will make a mound. 
 
 Then strip me of my uniform, 
 
 My arms and honors proud, 
 And leave me but my blood-stained shirt 
 
 To serve me for a shroud. 
 
 A soldier's corpse is valued not; 
 
 Within a trench to lie 
 'Tis cast, as on the threshing floor 
 
 The sheaves are piled on high.
 
 MEMORIAL OF THE LAMENTING SOLDIER. 207 
 
 We from the battle-field set out, 
 
 And we have reached our rest. 
 Tired soldiers of the field of blood, 
 
 Sleep with untroubled breast ! 
 
 At Gabriel's trump, our mound shall stir, 
 
 And as in fresher guise 
 Eagles their plumage strong renew, 
 
 We to new life shall rise. 
 
 Christ comes as judge, and all earth's thrones 
 
 Before God's bar are set. 
 The judgment of the field of blood 
 
 Just God will not forget. 
 
 Ye living soldiers, fare ye well ! 
 
 I leave this world. I bore 
 The sword, and perished by the sword, 
 
 As Christ foretold of yore. 
 
 A farmer God created man, 
 
 The soil to dress and till; 
 Curst be the hand whose wicked art 
 
 Has taught him blood to spill! 
 
 Wise men predict a golden age 
 
 When peace o'er earth shall breathe, 
 
 When kings shall all be reconciled, 
 And swear the sword to sheathe.
 
 2 o8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 The lion shall gentle grow, the wolf 
 Browse by the lamb in peace, 
 
 The fields of blood with lilies bloom, 
 And all earth's conflicts cease. 
 
 A dream! I do not credit it. 
 
 Christ's words come back to me, 
 That nation shall 'gainst nation rise, 
 
 Earth be a bloody sea. 
 
 O Jesus, Saviour bringing peace! 
 
 Our world you came and saw. 
 Men are insane ; they have not yet 
 
 Mastered your gospel's law. 
 
 Angel of love incarnated ! 
 
 You said all men that live 
 Are brethren; give to us your peace, 
 
 Which this world cannot give!
 
 GARINE. 209 
 
 GARINE. 
 
 HE dismal news ran through the land of Moush : 
 "Here comes the Khan Long Timour, fierce 
 
 and fell, 
 
 The despot grim who devastates the world, 
 And who across the earth from east to west 
 Has marched, and measured it with his lame feet." 
 
 This heard the great Amira 1 of Sassoun, 
 And shook with fear. The crafty tyrant then 
 A lesson learned from Satan. He cried out, 
 "Oho! Oho!" His heart swelled high with pride. 
 He said, "I have found out the way, the means. 
 
 "Lo, all the people of the land of Moush 
 
 I will expel, and drive them to Sassoun; 
 
 All empty that rich country will I leave; 
 
 Nor man, nor cat, nor dog shall there remain. 
 
 Then when Long Timour comes into our land, 
 
 He will behold the country desolate, 
 
 Village and town deserted of their folk; 
 
 And, struck with shame, he will turn back again." 
 
 He spake, and gave command that it be done. 
 The wild tribes of the mountains of Sassoun 
 
 1 A title equivalent to Lord.
 
 2io ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Gathered like black clouds when a storm is nigh, 
 They nocked together like a locust swarm, 
 And all came down upon the land of Moush. 
 
 Terror and panic then possessed Daron; 
 Moush was surrounded by a darksome fog. 
 The mother then disowned her infant child, 
 The groom forgot his bride; all tenantless 
 Their habitations populous they left, 
 And toward the vales and mountains fled away. 
 
 Who was that heroine with a manly soul? 
 'Twas brave Garine of the land of Moush. 
 Her spouse was dead; she had an eight years' child, 
 Her only and her well beloved son. 
 
 Garine was a dame of noble blood, 
 
 A scion of the house of Mamigon, 
 
 Stately and tall, in form a giantess. 
 
 Her brilliant eyes, like jewels, shone with light; 
 
 Her face was serious and inspired respect; 
 
 Her arms were mighty, full of strength and power. 
 
 Not crafty she, like Judith in old time; 
 
 She acted openly, with fearless heart. 
 
 Thinking to shun the close-impending ill, 
 She girt about her waist her father's sword, 
 Inherited from aged Mooshekh's hand; 
 She to her shoulder swung the shield of steel; 
 A brave and glorious soldier she became. 
 She took the little Mooshekh, her dear son, 
 Called on the name of God, and took the road.
 
 GARINE. an 
 
 As she went forward free and fearlessly, 
 
 Lo, wicked men pursued her. Once she turned 
 
 And strewed upon the ground that evil crew; 
 
 But in the distance when her eyes beheld 
 
 A host of brutal Koords that followed still, 
 
 She cried aloud: "Thou knowest, O my God! 
 
 I am a mother loving well my son; 
 
 But now my Christian faith and love for Thee 
 
 Conquer the mother love within my breast. 
 
 I will forget parental tenderness, 
 
 The natural love that warms a mother's heart, 
 
 And I to Thee will sacrifice my son. 
 
 Once Thou didst hold the arm of Abraham 
 
 Lest he should sacrifice his only son. 
 
 But do not Thou hold back mine arm, O Lord! 
 
 Here let me sacrifice my youthful lamb." 
 
 She spoke, and drew her sword, and on the spot 
 Mooshekh, her little son, she straightway slew. 
 As, when we slay a fowl, it flutters wild, 
 So little Mooshekh at his mother's feet 
 Fluttered and died. The little dove's pure soul 
 Fled forth and joined the flock of spirits bright. 
 
 "Oh!" then said brave Garine, "I have saved 
 His soul and faith. I from the Book have learned 
 It is the spirit that alone gives life; 
 The flesh is empty, void, and nothing worth." 
 
 Thus brave Garine made her sacrifice; 
 And the barbarians saw the deed she did, 
 And they were struck with terror and amaze, 
 And where they stood they halted, stupefied.
 
 2i2 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 But brave Garine then set forth again, 
 
 And as an eagle soars she darted up 
 
 Unto the summit of a lofty rock. 
 
 One side of it was sheer, a precipice 
 
 So deep his brain must reel who looked below. 
 
 Garine there upon the rock knelt down, 
 
 And upward turned her eyes to heaven's height, 
 
 And murmured from the bottom of her heart: 
 
 "Ah, do not count it as a sin, my Lord! 
 
 Garine shed the blood of her young son. 
 
 Thou knowest, Lord, knowing the hearts of all, 
 
 My sacred faith ancestral I have served 
 
 Since baptism: my virtue I have kept, 
 
 Which is Thy gift, a grace received from Thee. 
 
 Mother Shamoone I remember well 
 
 An orphan-loving, faithful woman she. 
 
 She gave her seven sons a sacrifice, 
 
 And thus defended she her holy faith. 
 
 Thou knowest. Lord, my sacrifice is small; 
 
 Greater by far was Thine upon the cross! 
 
 Oh, give thy servant strength to sacrifice 
 
 Her life for Thee! Not from despondency 
 
 A suicide, but as a volunteer, 
 
 A victim to my love for Thee, I come!" 
 
 These were the words that brave Garine spoke. 
 On her bright face she signed the sacred cross, 
 And down that deep and dreadful precipice 
 She threw herself, unshrinking, to the ground. 
 Her body was in pieces dashed; her soul 
 Fled, and ascended to the heights of heaven.
 
 GARINE 213 
 
 The Angel oped to her the heavenly gates. 
 
 Garine entered to the realm of light, 
 
 And there she found again her little dove, 
 
 And soul was joined with soul in that bright realm; 
 
 The mother was made happy with her son. 
 
 Armenian mothers, take example hence! 
 Whenever you shall read these lines of mine, 
 The lines that aged Hairig here has penned, 
 Be mindful of Garine, who, to keep 
 Her virtue and her pure God-given faith, 
 Unto destruction gave her mortal frame, 
 And won the heavenly kingdom by the deed. 
 Forever blessed be her memory ! 
 
 C$1
 
 2i4 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 BY BEDROS TOURIAN. 
 
 EAR, I loved you when Armenia's roses 
 
 Budded forth upon your forehead pale 
 On the day those suns, your eyes, were hidden 
 Bashfully behind their lashes' veil! 
 
 Freely the cool breeze your path may visit, 
 And the stars gaze on you without fear. 
 
 Only I, alone amid the shadows, 
 
 Tremble, hardly daring to draw near. 
 
 Like a breeze to-day you flee before me; 
 
 On my lyre your shade alone you throw; 
 Like a comet from afar coquetting, 
 
 While upon the air your gold locks flow. 
 
 Then the graveyard's frozen trees all whisper 
 With the dead, beneath a cold wind's breath; 
 
 Then my sad heart's chords give back an echo 
 To their voice, an echo calling death. 
 
 But the light sound of your footstep echoes 
 
 Ever and forever in mine ears, 
 And my soul descends, with sobs and mourning, 
 
 Into an abyss of woe and tears!
 
 AT EVENING. 215 
 
 Lights and sounds have died; no leaf now rustles; 
 
 Mute our hearts no breath of word or kiss! 
 Kisses now and murmurs all are buried 
 
 In the starry heavens' deep abyss. 
 
 Let the zephyr breathe upon its blossoms, 
 Let the stars look down upon the sea; 
 
 Let me too grow pale, if but once only, 
 When your ardent glance is cast on me ! 
 
 When the crescent moon to the horizon 
 
 Blushing sinks on yonder mountain heights, 
 
 Then you vanish then you walk no longer 
 There before the stars, the wind, the lights. 
 
 Like a breeze that stirs the leaves and shakes them, 
 So you stirred my heart's depths, full of fire; 
 
 And you drew from out my throbbing bosom 
 Those keen cords of flame that make a lyre. 
 
 You walk forth when day is done, my darling, 
 When the starry night is cool and sweet. 
 
 Do you know how with your glance of magic 
 You consume my heart beneath your feet?
 
 216 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 VIRGIN, mother of the sweet spring flowers! 
 
 O lovely May, in shining blossoms clad! 
 Why bring you not the blossom of my soul 
 
 Among your many-colored flowerets glad? 
 
 Ah me! Another angel may there be, 
 
 The May of the soul's flowers? Some happy day 
 Then may that angel come, and on my head 
 
 Shine with soft light an infinite pale May!
 
 MY DEATH. 217 
 
 MY DEATH. 
 
 HEN Death's pale angel stands before my face> 
 
 With smile unfathomable, stern and chill, 
 And when my sorrows with my soul exhale, 
 Know yet, my friends, that I am living still. 
 
 When at my head a waxen taper slim 
 
 With its cold rays the silent room shall fill, 
 
 A taper with a face that speaks of death, 
 Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 
 
 When, with my forehead glittering with tears, 
 They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill 
 
 As any stone, and lay me on a bier, 
 
 Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 
 
 When the sad bell shall toll that bell, the laugh 
 Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill 
 
 And when my bier is slowly borne along, 
 Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 
 
 When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere, 
 With incense and with prayers the air shall fill, 
 
 Rising together as they pass along, 
 
 Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.
 
 2 i8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 When they have set my tomb in order fair, 
 And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill, 
 
 My dear ones from the grave at length depart, 
 Yet know, my friends, I shall be living still. 
 
 But when my grave forgotten shall remain 
 
 In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, 
 
 When from the world my memory fades away, 
 That is the time when I indeed shall die !
 
 DAWN. 219 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 BY ARCHBISHOP KHORENE NAR BEY DE LUSIGNAN. 
 
 OSES upon roses 
 
 Spread in sheets below, 
 In the high blue ether 
 
 Clouds that shine like snow, 
 Lightly, brightly, softly, 
 Spread before thy feet, 
 In this tranquil season 
 
 Wait thy face to greet; 
 Waits in hope all nature, 
 O Aurora sweet! 
 
 Radiant, pure she rises, 
 
 In her veil of white, 
 With her floating tresses 
 
 Gleaming golden bright, 
 Spreading wide in ripples 
 
 By the zephyrs swayed, 
 And her pearly pinions 
 
 Opening, half displayed 
 Gracious, fair Aurora, 
 
 The celestial maid.
 
 220 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 On her brow bright jewels 
 
 Glow in loveliness, 
 And her joyous glances 
 
 Heaven and earth caress; 
 While her rose-lips, brighter 
 
 Than earth's blooming bowers, 
 Smiling blithely, scatter 
 
 Perfume sweet in showers, 
 Making yet more fragrant 
 
 Many-colored flowers. 
 
 Now the small birds twitter 
 
 'Mid the leaves so green, 
 Blending with their rustle; 
 
 Hail, O Dawn serene! 
 Hail ! Thou changest darkness 
 
 Into sunlight free, 
 The sad earth thou makest 
 
 Glad and full of glee. 
 All created beings 
 
 Cry "All hail!" to thee. 
 
 Unto thee each offers 
 
 Its first gift in love, 
 Tenderest gift and holiest; 
 
 Cloud that floats above, 
 Zephyr, crystal streamlet, 
 
 Flowers and nightingale 
 All with love are melted, 
 
 Praise thee, bid thee hail, 
 Heavenly maiden, lovely 
 
 In thy shining veil!
 
 DAWN. 
 
 Thou our hearts that charmest 
 
 Now with such delight, 
 Leave us not forsaken 
 
 In the grave's dark night! 
 When our eyes are closing, 
 
 Let it beam and shine 
 Still before our souls' eyes, 
 
 That sweet light of thine, 
 Full of hope and promise, 
 
 Dawn, thou maid divine!
 
 222 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE EXILE TO THE SWALLOW. 
 
 SWALLOW, swallow, was it thine, 
 
 This nest, all cold and drear, 
 That empty in this niche I found 
 
 When first I entered here? 
 At sight of it mine eyes o'erflowed 
 
 With bitter teardrops, born 
 Of the sad thought that my nest too 
 Lies empty and forlorn. 
 
 swallow, hasten to thy nest, 
 And have no fear of me! 
 
 In me a comrade thou shalt find; 
 A wanderer I, like thee. 
 
 1 know the longing of thy heart, 
 
 The yearning for thy home; 
 I know the bitter pains of those 
 As exiles forced to roam. 
 
 Happy art thou, O bird, to find 
 Thy little nest at last ! 
 
 The time of thy brief pilgrimage 
 Is over now and past. 
 
 Forget thy woes, chirp merrily! 
 Let grief be left to me,
 
 THE EXILE TO THE SWALLOW. 223 
 
 Who know not of my wanderings 
 When there an end shall be. 
 
 Swallow, thou hadst the hope of spring, 
 
 To reach thy home nest here; 
 My winter ends not; spring I lost, 
 
 Losing my country dear. 
 Oh, dark to me this foreign light! 
 
 The air is dull and dead, 
 Bitter the water that I drink, 
 
 And like a stone my bread ! 
 
 Swallow, when thou shalt seek again 
 
 This nest, to thee so dear, 
 Wilt thou still hear my trembling voice 
 
 Bidding thee welcome here? 
 If thou shalt find my humble cot 
 
 Empty and silent stand, 
 Bear to my grave a drop of dew 
 
 Brought from my fatherland !
 
 224 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL. 
 
 M. PORTOUKALIAN was among the founders of the Ar- 
 menian patriotic movement. Born in Constantinople about 
 1850, in his school days he came under the influence of Chri- 
 mian, and he devoted himself to spreading education in 
 Armenia. He became an editor and teacher, and organized 
 a strong society which founded many schools. In Van, 
 besides a Normal School for general purposes, he started a 
 Sunday school to teach patriotism. The young people were 
 so unwilling to study on Sunday that at first he had to pay 
 them ten cents apiece to come; but they became so enthusias- 
 tic that many of them later gave not only their money but their 
 lives to the cause. The Turkish government suppressed his 
 paper, and repeatedly closed his schools; but he had educated 
 a generation of boys in progressive ideas. About thirty 
 years ago he went to Marseilles, France, and started his 
 paper, "Armenia," which he has published ever since, at the 
 cost of much sacrifice. He organized the " Armenian Patriotic 
 Association," which soon spread into Persia, Turkey, Europe 
 and America. It was a great inspiration to all those 
 Armenians who cherished revolutionary ideals, and it 
 influenced the formation of the various revolutionary 
 societies, the Hunchagists, Trochagists, etc. Mr. Portouka- 
 lian, however, is not an ultra radical. He has always advised 
 against revolutionary demonstrations, foreseeing that they 
 would lead to massacres. He felt that the first necessity was 
 education. He has written a number of books and many 
 political pamphlets, as well as poems and patriotic songs. 
 For nearly half a century, he has been a devoted and self-sac- 
 rificing worker for his people. 
 
 N my country laid in ruins, where the wrecks 
 
 of churches, thrones, 
 Grand buildings, crowns and palaces upon the 
 
 ground are strewn, 
 You would think that their first glory they now 
 
 silently lament. 
 A gentle maid, with face of woe, I see there, all alone.
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL. 225 
 
 What is this voice of mourning that she utters from 
 
 her heart? 
 What is this flood of tear-drops from her eyes, as 
 
 deep she grieves? 
 They wet her red cheeks, covered by her dark curls, as 
 
 the dew 
 
 Of morn the rose's trembling head, all covered by its 
 leaves. 
 
 Why so abundant are the tears outgushing from her 
 
 eyes? 
 
 Lo, signs of blood (oh, terror!) upon her pupils soft! 
 Angels of heaven, who see those tears, have pity and 
 
 descend, 
 Collect them in a crystal cup and carry them aloft! 
 
 But no, not so; nay, leave them; to us those tears are 
 
 pearls. 
 
 They sweeten the sad rivers whose bitter waters flow 
 Forth from the ruins; from each tear the gentle maiden 
 
 sheds, 
 
 Amid the ruins, lilies white shall sprout, and bud, and 
 blow. 
 
 Like the spring breeze, a perfume sweet she leaves 
 
 where'er she walks. 
 She comes with trembling lips to kiss the ruins. 
 
 Kneeling low, 
 With hair disheveled, arms outstretched, and tearful 
 
 eyes upraised 
 
 Toward heaven, lo, lying prostrate, she laments in 
 grief and woe.
 
 226 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Oh, let all the world be silent! We must hear the 
 
 maid's lament. 
 Why mourns she thus? What sufferings are those 
 
 she has to bear? 
 What heart but must be horror-struck to hear her 
 
 trembling voice 
 Relate her sorrows infinite, in accents of despair? 
 
 "O God!" she cried, "how long wilt thou leave desolate 
 
 this land? 
 How long with pangs unnumbered shall my aching 
 
 heart be thrilled? 
 Which must I mourn the ruins, or my brothers' 
 
 shameful strife, 
 
 Who smite each other always? Oh, these days 
 with grief are filled! 
 
 "How wretched is my nation's lot, girt round with 
 
 many woes, 
 With snakes within and snakes without, beset on 
 
 every hand! 
 Sons, traitors, 'gainst their mother arm; base writers 
 
 who take bribes 
 
 Would teach the people conscience and the love of 
 native land! 
 
 "God ;,n 1 religion, cruel ones, for you exist no more; 
 
 Your god is gold, I know full well; for it you sacrifice 
 All things beside, whate'er they be; but oh! from your 
 hearts' depths 
 
 Does not one voice to torture you at any time arise?"
 
 THE ARMENIAN MAID'S LAMENT. 227 
 
 THE ARMENIAN MAID'S LAMENT. 
 
 JJHEN my Armenia's name I hear, my heart 
 
 with violence throbs; 
 When all her sorrows I recall, tears flood 
 
 my eyes like rain. 
 Was ever any country so luckless and forlorn? 
 
 With none to listen to her voice, she cries in bitter 
 pain. 
 
 Rise, Vartan, Dikran, Aram, and your Mother once 
 
 behold! 
 Let her laments awake you from the graves where ye 
 
 abide ! 
 And see, see how the house of Haig in exile wanders 
 
 now! 
 
 'Tis banished without pity, stricken sore on every 
 side. 
 
 Ah, Haiasdan, my mother dear, how long, alas! how 
 
 long 
 Shall your children sigh far from you? How long 
 
 must you still roam? 
 How long before this motherless Armenian maid shall 
 
 reach 
 
 Your sacred arms, and wet with tears your tender 
 hands, at home?
 
 228 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 If I could fly and lay my head upon my mother's breast, 
 And quench with joyful tears the flame with which 
 
 my heart is rife! 
 Let me be once caressed by her, and greet her with a 
 
 kiss, 
 
 Then let the foeman's whetted steel there sacrifice 
 my life ! 
 
 Come, brothers and fair sisters, join hands and let us 
 
 work ! 
 
 Our enemy is ignorance, look not for one elsewhere. 
 This foe has wrought us evil, from our mother made us 
 
 part. 
 
 We'll conquer it and drive it forth by study, love and 
 care. 
 
 Brothers and sisters, oh, how long will you indifferent 
 
 be? 
 How long must we let tares be sown amid our fields 
 
 of grain? 
 Ah, must we waken when the foe destroys and scatters 
 
 all 
 
 Unto the winds, till naught for a memorial shall 
 remain? 
 
 Maid, let your hopeless heart be cleft, your smothered 
 
 wail burst forth, 
 And let it ring on every side, beneath the heaven's 
 
 cope! 
 Yea, let it reach Armenia, and your mother, pitying, 
 
 hear! 
 
 Perhaps she will console you, since in aliens is no 
 hope.
 
 THE ARMENIAN MAID'S LAMENT. 229 
 
 Alas, I am afraid this pain will bring me to the grave, 
 And none will echo more my voice when I "Armenia!" 
 
 cry. 
 On every side is silence; you would think that here 
 
 death reigned, 
 And that, 'mid death and ruins, a lonely owl was I. 
 
 Ah, Haiasdan, to you I give my heart and soul! Accept! 
 
 Let me die, and my Armenia arise, if this may be! 
 Am I imprisoned for her sake, a palace is the jail; 
 
 And if my hands and feet are chained, that too is 
 joy to me. 
 
 If exiled, forced by want to roam, for my Armenia's 
 
 sake, 
 
 To me shall be a paradise each place beneath the sky. 
 Let me but reach my aim, and then be to the gallows 
 
 led; 
 
 "Armenia!" from the gallows-tree my strangling 
 voice shall cry.
 
 2 3 o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE IMPRISONED REVOLUTIONIST. 
 
 MIHRAN DAMADIAN was born in Constantinople about 
 1863. He was educated at the Armenian Catholic Seminary 
 at Venice, Italy. He became a teacher in the Sassoun 
 district, and was much beloved. With H. Murad, he led the 
 righting against the Turks, about the year 1893. He was 
 taken prisoner, and his captors broke his leg to prevent any 
 possibility of his escape. Pie was sent in chains to Constan- 
 tinople, and kept for some time in prison. He is now living 
 in Alexandria. 
 
 [EJOICE! Another revolutionist, 
 
 Turk, you have caught and in your prison 
 
 pent. 
 
 I too have fallen a victim to your wrath; 
 But know, O tyrant, that I am content. 
 
 This is that dungeon, terrible and dark, 
 
 To which in bonds your cruel hand, blood red, 
 
 Brought many another like me; but of them 
 Even the awful prison stood in dread. 
 
 Their hearts were dauntless and their wills of iron, 
 
 Their souls invincible by any foes. 
 You swallowed them, but straightway from their bones 
 
 Against you new avengers there arose.
 
 THE IMPRISONED REVOLUTIONIST. 231 
 
 Into this dungeon Greeks and Servians 
 
 Entered, and divers torments they passed through, 
 And Montenegrins, poor Bulgarians 
 
 But now with pride they all boast over you. 
 
 I kiss this rusty chain, with which you bound 
 Those heroes, who defied your utmost powers; 
 
 Whole nations have been ransomed by their blood. 
 Tremble, O tyrant! Future days are ours. 
 
 From the black clouds the lightning flashes out ; 
 
 Even the cold flint gives forth fire; at morn 
 In the dark heavens the glorious sun doth rise; 
 
 And from his mother's pangs the child is born. 
 
 So shall the future's joy and melody 
 
 Come from our present sighs and tears and pains. 
 Against you a whole nation shall arise, 
 
 Roused by the clanking of our bloody chains. 
 
 I enter prison gladly, kiss my chains, 
 
 Embrace the darkness with its chilling breath. 
 
 Better the gallows is than your base yoke, 
 And revolutionists can sport with death. 
 
 But you, O tyrant, wherefore do you quake, 
 You, brave and mighty? Are you terrified 
 
 Lest you should not forget my death? Why fear 
 When you have thrust your sword into my side?
 
 232 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 But no methinks that you at last have felt 
 Your persecutions will be futile all; 
 
 And that, despite your efforts, in the end 
 
 The Armenian nation will be freed from thrall. 
 
 Then what to me is prison, torture, chains? 
 
 "Long live Armenia!" my last sigh shall be. 
 What care I even for death? By this my death 
 
 The martyr nation shall at last be free!
 
 FURFURCAR (ROARING CLIFF}. 233 
 
 FURFURCAR (ROARING CLIFF). 
 
 FURFURCAR is an overhanging mountain with inaccessible 
 rocky sides, around which, at the mouth of each pass, were 
 ranged the seven villages that made up Dalvorig. Anyone 
 climbing the path from Porkh to Hosnood hears the roaring 
 (in local dialect furfur) of the wind. This peculiar sound is 
 caused by the fierce current of the wind striking the folds of 
 the rocks; and from this the place took its name. 
 
 Zovasar, Andok, Maratoog and Gepin are the highest 
 summits of the mountains of Sassoun. Furfurcar is not as 
 high, but the passes and valleys that surround it, and the 
 perpendicular height of its sides, make it almost impreg- 
 nable. For many years its brave mountaineers were able to 
 defend themselves successfully against all attacks. This 
 poem was written while they were still unconquered. 
 
 EFUGE of Dalvorig's valiant men, 
 
 Of strife and dangerous days! 
 Lo, all Armenia towards thee 
 To-day in hope doth gaze. 
 Thou black and naked mountain-side, 
 
 That, when winds o'er thee sweep, 
 Dost like a dragon hiss, or shore 
 
 Wave tortured of the deep 
 Thou wild and desert Roaring Cliff 
 O'er Porkh that risest steep!
 
 234 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Many Armenian hearts, methinks, 
 
 Till now are turned to stone; 
 No love or pity wakes in them 
 
 Their brothers', sisters' moan; 
 But passion and fierce jealousy 
 
 Have in them made their nest. 
 O that thine heights may dry our tears, 
 
 Put heart within our breast ! 
 O Roaring Cliff, protect the poor, 
 
 The plundered and oppressed ! 
 
 A monument of freedom, 
 
 All glorious dost thou stand; 
 The ice and snow, to torrents turned, 
 
 Lick at thy feet the sand. 
 Thee Zovasar and Maratoog, 
 
 Andok and Gepin see 
 With envy; those far-shadowing mounts 
 
 Are high, but thou art free. 
 Of our deliverance, Roaring Cliff, 
 
 Do thou the cradle be! 
 
 Lighthouse of the Armenians thou, 
 
 Fear of the wild Koord's heart; 
 Against the cruel tyrant Turk 
 
 Our fortress-wall thou art. 
 Only to lions dost thou give room, 
 
 In den and awful cave; 
 Only the eagle on thy peaks 
 
 A resting place may crave. 
 O Roaring Cliff, be evermore 
 
 The stronghold of the brave!
 
 FURFURCAR (ROARING CLIFF). 235 
 
 If against Dalvorig countless foes 
 
 Should come, and bid us pay 
 Twenty years' tax, " Come take it, then!" 
 
 The Armenian will say. 
 But, drawing to the Roaring Cliff, 
 
 He on the foe will rain 
 Bullets and stones, instead of gold 
 
 With interest in its train. 
 O wild and rocky Roaring Cliff, 
 
 Be then their shield again! 
 
 Let brave Armenians muster 
 
 From every village home, 
 From Berm, Karag and Khiyank, 
 
 From Khoulp and Muchtegh come; 
 Let Sim's heights too be populous; 
 
 Fight, o'er the precipice 
 Roll down the foe, that Roaring Cliff 
 
 May see a sight like this 
 Koords, Turks by thousands, fallen down 
 
 Within its deep abyss! 
 
 Let Sassoun's lions assemble, 
 
 Fierce roaring, on thy crown; 
 Thence, like a raging torrent, 
 
 Let them toward Moush rush down, 
 Mowing before them briar and thorn! 
 
 Let field and town arise, 
 And stretch, to help Sassoun's brave men, 
 
 Their hands, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 1 A favorite device of oppression was to demand over again 
 taxes that had already been paid.
 
 236 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 O Roaring Cliff, give to them strength, 
 Courage, and high emprise! 
 
 And when Armenia shall be free, 
 
 A fortress we will rear, 
 Named Roaring Cliff; Armenia's flag 
 
 Shall o'er it glitter clear. 
 Let the surrounding valleys 
 
 And mountains joyful be ! 
 Let the young matrons and the maids 
 
 All clap their hands for glee ! 
 And let the cannon, that great day, 
 
 Boom out, with loud acclaim; 
 Let Roaring Cliff, Armenia's pride, 
 
 Be aye an honored name; 
 And let our land, from age to age, 
 
 Still celebrate its fame!
 
 LAMENT OF MARTYRED SUM PAD'S MOTHER. 237 
 
 THE LAMENT OF MARTYRED SUMPAD'S 
 MOTHER. 
 
 THIS poem commemorates one out of countless acts of op- 
 pression. Sumpad, a young man of Alashgerd, had just 
 finished his studies at Erzerum, and was on his way to the 
 village of Pakarich as a teacher in 1888. He was arrested 
 and searched, and among his papers was found a poem one 
 line of which read, "The Turk is as wild as a wild cedar tree." 
 Sumpad was imprisoned and severely beaten. One morning 
 he was found dead in his cell, the body bearing marks of 
 poison. His mother and his sweetheart died of grief. 
 
 Y dearest Sumpad, my beloved son, 
 
 Flower of my heart and light of my sad eyes! 
 The Turk hath snatched thee from my arms, 
 
 alas ! 
 Thou for thy nation wast a sacrifice. 
 
 "As wild as a wild cedar is the Turk," 
 
 Thou saidst; the enemy thy speech o'erheard. 
 
 The more I think of it, the more I grieve; 
 
 The wicked one took vengeance for that word. 
 
 Hungering and thirsting for Armenian blood, 
 He threw thee into prison, O my dear, 
 
 And chained thee cruelly; thy pleading prayers 
 The God of the Armenians did not hear.
 
 238 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 In Erzerum's dungeon, in a corner flung, 
 Long didst thou pine, and pant for air in vain; 
 
 And when thou didst yield up thy latest breath, 
 Thou, for thy mother, couldst but clasp thy chain. 
 
 Oh, let it reach to highest heaven, the voice 
 Of my lament, a mother's sighing breath! 
 
 And let Armenia's valiant-hearted men 
 
 Take vengeance for my son's untimely death! 
 
 Short was thy life as that of any flower; 
 
 Soon came the sunset and the daylight's close. 
 Pass thou to heaven, afar from this sad earth! 
 
 There from thy sorrows thou shalt find repose. 
 
 Thither will come thy sweetheart, and I too, 
 To clasp each other, safe beyond earth's strife. 
 
 I curse my fate, but bless thee, O my son, 
 Since for thy country thou didst give thy life!
 
 THE SNOW. 239 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 ARSHAG MAHDESIAN, journalist and poet, was born in 
 Paloo. He was graduated from Euphrates College at Har- 
 poot, and took a graduate course in English literature at Yale 
 University. He has been actively connected with the Ar- 
 menian propaganda, has edited several periodicals in English 
 devoted to Armenian topics, and at present edits in New York 
 the English magazine, "The New Armenia." 
 
 HE crystal dream of the deep-souled sea, 
 
 Enthralled by the glances the blue sky 
 
 throws 
 The azure fairy that bends above 
 
 One day on the wind's wings toward her 
 rose. 
 
 But now, repulsed by her changing love, 
 It falls down sadly and silently, 
 
 To be crushed on earth under careless feet 
 The crystal dream of the deep-souled sea. 
 
 When it weeps its way to the sea once more, 
 Forgetting sorrow and bitterness, 
 
 Toward the azure fairy again 'twill soar, 
 Allured by the golden sun's caress.
 
 240 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THUS SPAKE MAN. 
 
 |EEP sunk in thought I wandered in a city 
 
 dead by fire, 
 Where walls, like blackened skeletons, in ruin 
 
 rose on high. 
 Enshrouded by the shadow of Destruction all things 
 
 seemed, 
 
 Smothered beneath the sun that shone within a tomb- 
 like sky. 
 
 Destruction with its breath of flame in triumph boasted 
 
 high: 
 "Thus in one day, one moment, I destroy the pride 
 
 and grace 
 Of works that Man has taken years to rear upon the 
 
 earth; 
 And low he lies before me when I show him my stern 
 
 face!" 
 
 But Man, of mighty will power, when he heard this 
 
 haughty boast, 
 Raised up his sorrow-laden head, and like a giant 
 
 cried : 
 "Destruction, you arc longing for my downfall and 
 
 defeat, 
 But you are all in error, you are blinded by your pride.
 
 THUS SPAKE MAN. 241 
 
 "Creating, still creating, I shall combat you for aye. 
 You may destroy, but I shall build forevermore, with 
 
 joy, 
 Till Godhood shall awake in me, and when that day 
 
 shall dawn 
 Then even grim Destruction itself I shall destroy!"
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 LOVE SONG. 
 
 NAHABED KOUTCHAK lived in the latter part of the 
 century. Although he wrote only love songs, he is revered 
 as a saint, and his grave near Van is a place of pilgrimage. 
 
 HY face is like a moon that shines on earth, 
 
 Like a thick night thy clustering tresses be; 
 Apples of paradise thy temples are, 
 
 And thy deep eyes were lent thee by the sea. 
 
 Thou hast arched brows and dark, dark eyes, my love; 
 
 Peerless art thou among earth's countless girls. 
 Thine eyelashes are arrows to my heart; 
 
 Thy mouth is a moist tulip, full of pearls.
 
 THE LAKE OF VAN. 243 
 
 THE LAKE OF VAN. 
 
 RAFFI (Hagop Melik Hagopian) was born in the village of 
 Phayajouk in Salmast, Persia, in 1835, the son of a prominent 
 merchant. Business reverses forced his father to take him 
 from school and put him to work. In 1858 he traveled 
 through Turkish Armenia, and his soul was stirred by the 
 injustice and oppression suffered by the Armenians. In 1872, 
 when Ardzrouni started in Tiflis his famous paper, "Mushak" 
 (The Workman), Raffi became a regular contributor. Aroused 
 by the terrible events of those days, he wrote for it, as serials, 
 a number of patriotic novels "The Fool," "Sheik Jelalled- 
 din" and others which thrilled the people's hearts and at- 
 tained immense popularity. Some were historical novels 
 in the style of Sir Walter Scott. He died in 1888, much 
 regretted. 
 
 EEP silence everywhere a hush profound! 
 
 One might imagine nature to be dead. 
 Sitting here mournfully, a pilgrim lone, 
 O brilliant moon, I see thee overhead. 
 
 Since the beginning of the world and time, 
 
 Moon, thou hast run thy course. Oh, hast thou seen 
 
 The poor Armenians, once so fortunate, 
 
 And dost thou now behold their sufferings keen? 
 
 I wonder if thou too, like me, O moon, 
 
 Seeing Armenia 'neath barbarian feet, 
 Dost shed salt tears of grief and bitterness, 
 
 And in thy heart do piercing arrows meet?
 
 244 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Thy heart is like a rock, thy conscience dead. 
 
 How many massacres have met thine eye, 
 How many a carnage! yet thou buildest now 
 
 Again a bright arch o'er Armenia's sky. 
 
 Wherefore this silence? Speak to me, O lake! 
 
 Wilt thou not weep with me, whose heart is rent? 
 O breezes, stir the waves to billows high, 
 
 And with these waters let my tears be blent ! 
 
 From the beginning all things thou hast seen 
 That in Armenia happened. Tell us, pray, 
 
 Whether Armenia, once a garden fair, 
 Shall always be a thorny desert gray? 
 
 Oh, can it be, our nation, full of woe, 
 
 Shall 'neath a foreign prince's sway lie prone? 
 
 Oh, can it be, the Armenians and their sons 
 Are found unworthy before God's high throne? 
 
 Will a day come when from Mt. Ararat 
 A banner shall be seen, by breezes fanned, 
 
 And when Armenian pilgrims everywhere 
 Shall start for their beloved fatherland? 
 
 'Tis hard, O Heavenly Ruler! but inspire 
 
 Their souls, and let Thy light of knowledge flame 
 
 O'er them, to show them what is human life 
 They by their works shall glorify Thy name !
 
 THE LAKE OF VAN. 245 
 
 Upon the lake there shone a sudden light; 
 
 A graceful maid rose from the waters there; 
 A lighted lantern in one hand she bore, 
 
 In one a shining lyre of ivory fair. 
 
 Was she some nymph, some peerless angel? Nay, 
 A matchless fair Armenian Muse was she. 
 
 Muse, read the fate of the Armenians! 
 The present and the future tell to me! 
 
 That sweet celestial spirit spoke: "Good news 
 I bring to thee, young pilgrim! Dry thine eyes. 
 
 New, happy days shall come; when reigns God's will 
 Freely, the Golden Age again shall rise. 
 
 "Armenia's Muses will awake again, 
 
 And her Parnassus blossom gloriously; 
 The car of Phoebus, shedding light abroad, 
 
 Shall circle round Armenia's gloomy sky. 
 
 "We too, like thee, passed many mournful days, 
 
 When a dark night, that seemed it ne'er would cease, 
 
 Enwrapped Armenia; and we too, dear youth, 
 Have now received the olive branch of peace. 
 
 "Wipe thy lyre's rusted strings with joy to-day, 
 Go to Armenia with an ardent song! 
 
 Awake the zeal of the Armenians, 
 
 Their zeal benumbed in lethargy so long.
 
 246 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 "The time has come, the time so long desired; 
 
 Fulfilled is now the old prophetic word; 
 The day will dawn; behold the morning star, 
 
 A sign made visible thus saith the Lord!" 
 
 Then darkness fell, the figure disappeared; 
 
 But long was heard the voice of sweetness rare, 
 Mixed with the murmur of the lapping waves, 
 
 And aromatic fragrance filled the air. 
 
 O happy news! O tidings glad and sweet! 
 
 What joy, fair Muse, for sad and sorrowing men! 
 Tell us, reveal if it be possible 
 
 For a dead corpse to wake and live again!
 
 THE EAGLE'S LOVE. 247 
 
 THE EAGLE'S LOVE. 
 
 SHOUSHANIK KOURGHINIAN was born at Alexandropol in 
 1876. She soon became known through her contributions to 
 the press. Her first volume of collected poems, "The Tolling 
 Bells at Dawn," appeared in 1907. Most of them are poems 
 of freedom and of the labor movement. She has had little 
 schooling, but has educated herself. 
 
 HE eagle sat upon the rocky verge; 
 
 He sat and sang the wild notes filled 
 
 the air. 
 He saw the maiden in the vale below; 
 
 He marked how beautiful she was, how fair. 
 
 "Good girl, thou maiden like the reindeer fleet! 
 
 How sad it is thou hast not learned to fly! 
 In silence, in that place of shadow deep, 
 
 Thou like a flower wilt fade away and die. 
 
 "O lovely maid, if thou couldst only fly, 
 
 Queen would I make thee of my rocky steep ! 
 
 And if thine eyes grew heavy, on my wings 
 I with sweet songs would cradle thee to sleep. 
 
 "To me those eyes of thine are darksome night, 
 Thy smile a burning sun, like that above. 
 
 The heaven vast would not rule over thee, 
 But would become thy vassal, for thy love.
 
 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 "I wonder if thou canst not fly at all? 
 
 Who gave thee birth, devoid of wings for flight? 
 I wonder if thou never in thy life 
 
 Hast longed to soar in air, all free and light?" 
 
 Thus the proud eagle from the rocky verge 
 Sang, longing for the maiden for his mate. 
 
 He flew away, and soared o'er hills and vales, 
 Mourning and grieving for the maiden's fate.
 
 FATHERLAND. 249 
 
 FATHERLAND. 
 
 AVEDIK ISSAHAKIAN was born in Alexandropol in 1875. He 
 received part of his education in Germany. He began to 
 write in 1891. His collected poems, " Songs and Wounds," 
 appeared in 1903. 
 
 f 
 |E, my fatherland, how lovely thou art i 
 
 Thy mountain peaks are lost in the mists 
 of heaven. 
 
 Thy waters are sweet, thy breezes are sweet; 
 Only thy children are in seas of blood. 
 May I die for thy soil, thou priceless fatherland! 
 Oh, it is little if I die with one life! 
 Would that I had a thousand and one lives 
 To offer thee, all from my heart, 
 To die for thy sorrow with a thousand lives! 
 Let me offer myself for thy children, for love of thee! 
 Let me keep for myself only one life, 
 That I may sing the praise of thy glory, 
 That I may soar high like the skylark 
 On the rising of thy new day, noble fatherland, 
 And sing sweetly, praise loudly 
 Thy bright sun, thou free fatherland!
 
 25 o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE SURE HOPE. 
 
 BY RAPHAEL PATKANIAN. 
 
 ET the wind blow cold, let it beat my face, 
 Let the clouds above heavy snow-flakes fling, 
 Let the north wind blow, raging all it will, 
 Yet I live in hope soon or late comes spring. 
 
 Let the heavy clouds make the clear sky dark, 
 Let the dense fogs cover the earth from sight, 
 Let the elements be together mixed, 
 Yet I know the sun will again be bright. 
 
 Let harsh trials come, persecutions rage, 
 And the light grow dim of the sun on high; 
 To Armenian hearts, pain is naught to dread 
 But the poor man's hope must not fade and die!
 
 THE LULLAB Y OF NAZI. 251 
 
 THE LULLABY OF NAZI. 
 
 AVEDIS AHARONIAN, born at Igtir, Erivan, in 1866, has 
 written novels, short stories, literary criticisms, dramas and 
 poems. At the time of Abdul Hamid's massacres, he was 
 living near the frontier between Turkey and Russia, and he 
 saw the sufferings of the refugees, and took part in the relief 
 work. His graphic tales, called out by these events, made a 
 deep impression. While in the Caucasus a few years ago, he 
 was imprisoned by the Russian government as a political 
 offender, and he came out with broken health. His writings 
 are highly esteemed. 
 
 H, sleep, my little one ; oh, sleep once more ! 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept 
 full sore. 
 
 The blind wild geese flew, screaming mournfully, 
 Across our heavens black, o'er vale and hill. 
 
 Blinded they were among our mountains high! 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. 
 
 The gale is moaning in the forests dark; 
 
 'Tis the lament of homeless corpses chill. 
 Ah, many and many a corpse unburied lies! 
 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. 
 
 Laden with tears, the caravan passed by, 
 
 Knelt in the forest black, and stays there still. 
 
 It was our land's calamities and woes! 
 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill.
 
 252 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Beads have I strung and on thy cradle bound, 
 To guard thee from the foeman's evil eye. 
 
 Oh, sleep and grow, my little one, make haste! 
 
 Thou need'st not weep; my tears were seldom dry. 
 
 My milk has frozen on thy pallid lips; 
 
 'Tis bitter, and thou dost not want it more; 
 With it is mixed the poison of my grief. 
 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept full sore. 
 
 Oh, with my milk drink in my black grief too! 
 
 Let it black vengeance in thy soul instill! 
 Shoot up, my darling, grow to stature tall! 
 
 Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill.
 
 THE MARTYRS OF AVARAIR. 253 
 
 THE MARTYRS OF AVARAIR. 
 
 BY BISHOP KAREKIN SERVANTZDIANTZ. 
 
 F Coghtn's patriot bards are silent now, 
 
 Whose songs of old wreathed heroes with 
 
 renown, 
 
 Then let immortal spirits come from heaven, 
 Let them descend, Armenia's brave to crown. 
 
 Let flocks of angels come from heaven, and sit 
 On Ararat's high top, where cloud-wreaths brood. 
 
 God has descended unto Haiasdan 
 
 To scent the savor of Armenian blood. 
 
 O clouds, fly far away from Shavarshan ! 
 
 Shed there no more your dews through darkening air, 
 For Shavarshan is watered by the blood 
 
 Of the Armenian brave who perished there. 
 
 No grass, no rose springs up or blossoms there 
 Upon that field which is our heroes' tomb; 
 
 But where the mighty Vartan fell and died, 
 The flower of sacred faith shall bud and bloom. 
 
 Brave Egiche, the sculptor, to Ardaz 
 
 Comes with his pen in hand, and fair and straight 
 He cuts and measures, he inscribes and stamps 
 
 The valiant Vartan's life and death and fate.
 
 254 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 O Ararat, raise monasteries, shrines, 
 
 Domes cross surmounted, temples fair to see, 
 
 Gospel and cross, a lasting monument 
 That worthy of great Vartan's name shall be! 
 
 Shine on the mountain chain of Kaght, O sun! 
 
 In its dark niches let your beams arise. 
 'T was there brave Humayag in battle fell, 
 
 'T is there that he, a holy martyr, lies. 
 
 Moon, o'er the bones of the Armenians 
 
 Watch with your wakeful eye from heaven's blue deep, 
 And with the happy dews of smiling May 
 
 Sprinkle the lonely graves wherein they sleep! 
 
 Eagles and falcons of Armenia, 
 
 And cranes, her summer guests from age to age, 
 Over this land keep watch, and let the house 
 
 Of the Armenians be your heritage! 
 
 Perch on the ashes; in the ruins old, 
 
 Armenian birds, make ye your nests, your home, 
 And let the flitting swallow come and go, 
 
 Until for the Armenians spring shall come !
 
 THE WAVES ON THE SHORE. 255 
 
 THE WAVES ON THE SHORE. 
 
 BEDROS ADAMIAN, a famous Armenian actor, was born 
 in 1849, and died in 1891. He wrote many poems and 
 translations. 
 
 HE day is bright June weather, 
 
 The cool nor h wind blows free; 
 Why swells thy breast, old ocean? 
 
 Hast thou good news for me? 
 Thy billows, coming, coming, 
 Leap high, then sink away, 
 And on the shore forever 
 Scatter their foaming spray. 
 
 O billows, ocean billows, 
 
 These rocks and sands that fret! 
 Bring tidings of the dear ones 
 
 My heart can ne'er forget ! 
 Coming and ever coming, 
 
 And breaking o'er and o'er, 
 Bring some glad news to cheer me, 
 
 A pilgrim on this shore. 
 
 Consumed by mournful yearning, 
 
 Far distant from my sight, 
 E'en now my dearest suffers, 
 
 She sorrows day and night.
 
 256 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Her tears are ever flowing, 
 Her sad heart full of care; 
 
 O billows of the ocean, 
 To her my greeting bear ! 
 
 Open, ye waves, and swallow 
 
 The salt tears from mine eyes, 
 And bury in your bosom 
 
 My grief, my bitter sighs! 
 O billows, now receding 
 
 Back toward the ocean blue, 
 Receive me as your comrade 
 
 And let me go with you ! 
 
 Take me, O waves, and cast me 
 
 Like wreckage at their feet, 
 A witness to the love and grief 
 
 That bid my sad heart beat ! 
 O billows, ocean billows, 
 
 Waves of the great salt sea, 
 Come, bear me to my dear ones; 
 
 Your comrade I wil^be!
 
 THE DYING POET. 257 
 
 THE DYING POET. 
 
 BY TIGRANE YERGATE. 
 
 j]HY should not I, like the great poet, wear 
 
 Laurels upon my hair? 
 And why around my heart, for my relief, 
 Should they not ring, those songs deep sorrows sing, 
 Which from the heart like some dark essence spring, 
 Making the mourning great as is the grief? 
 
 When fate oppresses me and lays me low, 
 Why should I yield to woe, 
 
 Nor lift my brow with curses on my breath? 
 Grief can like wine intoxicate, in truth, 
 And grief can sing your glory and your youth, 
 
 Then lay you low in death ! 
 
 What matter that at twenty years you die 
 If fame immortal shall your memory crown, 
 And o'er your bier the Angel of Renown 
 
 Exalt you to the sky? 
 
 Would you, a frail old man, drag out your days 
 
 Amid the foolish throng, 
 And let them mock you as your life decays, 
 
 While for your goods they long?
 
 2S 8 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Come, dream no longer! Take your harp and sing. 
 
 When on our lakes a bird falls nigh to death, 
 Far rings his voice, more touching is his note; 
 
 The tall reeds shiver with a sighing breath. 
 
 He spreads his wings in a last flight, and looks 
 At the far heights his song with sorrow rife 
 
 And then falls, shattered at his high cliff's foot. 
 Naught has he carried with him out of life; 
 
 Yet a vague memory of boundless grief 
 
 Shall linger long upon the shore, the waves, 
 
 Like magic sweetness of a broken lute, 
 Or sound of teardrops falling upon graves. 
 
 Sing, poet, sing to-day your latest hymn! 
 
 In your endeavor, Glory smiles on you. 
 Poet, remember, to the world you speak, 
 
 And you in dying shall be born anewl
 
 THE BOUQUET. 259 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 BY KHORENE M. ANTREASSIAN. 
 
 WILIGHT'S last ray is fading from the world; 
 Hushed are the varied sounds of grief and 
 
 mirth; 
 
 And, like a jealous consort, exiled Night 
 Is now returning to embrace the earth. 
 
 Sitting beside the open window here, 
 
 Mine eyes are fixed upon the sweet bouquet 
 
 Whose myriad petals silently repose, 
 
 Leaning fair head to head, in loving way. * 
 
 Thou art not mine, thou beautiful bouquet, 
 That seemest mystic sentiments to teach; 
 
 Unknown to me the hand that gathered here 
 
 These flowers, which once were strangers each to each. 
 
 Yet over me a nameless sadness steals, 
 
 As, dreaming silently, I gaze on thee; 
 And in my stormy heart old thoughts awake, 
 
 And many a sweet, soul-moving memory. 
 
 Thou hast a secret that I cannot pierce. 
 
 Perchance an ardent message from some heart 
 Thou hidest deep among thy petals fair; 
 
 Interpreter of silent thoughts thou art.
 
 260 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 With thy rich hues, so stainless and so bright, 
 Thou stirrest my sad soul victoriously. 
 
 Full many a long and dreary year has passed 
 Since any friend bestowed a flower on me. 
 
 Not for this only, on this foreign shore, 
 
 Thou movest me with memories of the past; 
 
 Thou dost evoke a question from my heart 
 A question sorrowful, profound and vast. 
 
 These flowers of many hues bloomed far apart, 
 And each unknown to each, until this day; 
 
 Yet with what ease they here unite to form 
 A lovely and harmonious bouquet! 
 
 A hand, a gentle hand, collected them, 
 
 And now without complaint, without a care, 
 
 They wait their fate together, lip to lip, 
 
 Till the last sleep shall overtake them there. 
 
 Ah, why from this world's garden great and wide, 
 When human flowers together meet and stay 
 
 Flowers differing in fragrance, form and hue 
 Seldom can they unite in a bouquet? 
 
 rf/i
 
 UNHAPPY DAYS. 261 
 
 UNHAPPY DAYS. 
 
 BY DJIVAN. 
 
 [HE mournful and unhappy days, like winter, 
 
 come and go. 
 We should not be discouraged, they will end, 
 
 they come and go. 
 
 Our bitter griefs and sorrows do not tarry with us long; 
 Like customers arrayed in line, they come, and then 
 they go. 
 
 Over the heads of nations persecutions, troubles, woes, 
 Pass, like the caravan along the road; they come and 
 go. 
 
 The world is like a garden, and men are like the flowers; 
 How many roses, violets and balsams come and go! 
 
 Let not the strong then boast themselves, nor let the 
 
 weak be sad, 
 For divers persons of all kinds pass on, they come and 
 
 go. 
 Fearless and unafraid the sun sends forth his beaming 
 
 light; 
 
 The dark clouds toward the house of prayer float 
 past, they come and go.
 
 262 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Earth to her well-taught son belongs, with motherly 
 
 caress, 
 
 But the unlettered races like nomads come and go. 
 Djivan, a guest-room is the world, the nations are the 
 
 guests; 
 
 Such is the law of nature; they pass they come and 
 go.
 
 THE PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW. 263 
 
 THE PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW. 
 
 STRAYED and wandering swallow, little bird, 
 
 How sadly by my prison dost thou sing! 
 Dost thou lament because thy lovely mate 
 Has left thee, and naught else can comfort 
 bring? 
 
 Grieve, then, like me! Yet thou art fortunate, 
 Thrice fortunate, for thou canst fly afar, 
 
 Flit through the valleys and across the hills 
 On thy swift wings, unstayed by bolt or bar. 
 
 But here the sun itself with pallid ray 
 
 To my dark prison cannot penetrate; 
 No gentle breeze blows here to bear my voice 
 
 Unto my dear ones, telling of my fate. 
 
 At least thou goest to find my well beloved. 
 
 Oh, swiftly dart! But then return once more 
 Near me, the wretched one, and tarry here, 
 
 O swallow, tarry till this night be o'er. 
 
 Stay here to-night and witness my sad death, 
 And, twittering o'er my grave with dew-drops wet, 
 
 Do thou, at least, O bird, remember me 
 Remember me, and mourn, and ne'er forget!
 
 264 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 WAS a quince-bush growing on a rock. 
 
 A rocky cliff that rose above the dell; 
 They have uprooted and transplanted me 
 
 Unto a stranger's orchard, there to dwell; 
 
 And in this orchard they have watered me 
 With sugar-water, that full sweetly flows. 
 
 O brothers, bear me back to my own soil, 
 And water me with water of the snows!
 
 THE PRISONER'S DREAM. 265 
 
 THE PRISONER'S DREAM. 
 
 AM a bird, a small wild bird, 
 
 In freedom wont to dwell; 
 But men have caught and caged me up 
 
 Within this narrow cell. 
 
 From my companions parted now, 
 My heart is sad and sore 
 
 Because I mingle with the flock 
 No more, alas! no more. 
 
 If they should bring to sing to me, 
 Here where I pine apart, 
 
 The nightingale and turtledove, 
 It would not cheer my heart; 
 
 Nor if they brought me as a gift 
 
 A thousand feathers fair 
 Of every hue, nor richest wine, 
 
 Nor candies sweet and rare; 
 
 Nor if they gave me power to sway 
 Vast kingdoms at my word, 
 
 Or made me of a myriad men 
 The master and the lord;
 
 2 66 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 Or gave me servants in a crowd, 
 And countless horsemen bold, 
 
 Or built for me a palace fair, 
 Adorned with gems and gold. 
 
 But could I from this cell escape 
 In which my life they lock, 
 
 And fly away, and soar toward heaven, 
 And see again my flock, 
 
 And mingle with it, sporting wild, 
 Singing with gladsome voice, 
 
 My heart, that aches with loneliness, 
 Would 'mid the flock rejoice.
 
 THE MOTHER IS LIKE BREAD. 267 
 
 THE MOTHER IS LIKE BREAD. 
 
 j HE mother is like warm bread; he who eats of it 
 
 feels satisfied. 
 The father is like pure wine; he who drinks of it 
 
 feels intoxicated. 
 
 The brother is like the sun, which lights up the moun- 
 tains and the valleys.
 
 268 ARMENIAN PO&MS. 
 
 PARTING SONG. 
 
 Sung as the bride leaves her home. 
 THE CHORUS: 
 
 | HE evening wind has risen, 
 The chief men have gathered. 
 May I be a sacrifice for thy soul which goes 
 
 into exile! 
 
 The strings of the purse have been unloosed, 
 The daughter has been parted from her mother. 
 The avalanche is coming down from Dilif, 
 It is carrying away our little moon! 
 The foot is in the stirrup; 
 The mother weeps to see her go. 
 
 THE BRIDE: 
 
 I do not want to go, mamma! I do not want to go! 
 
 They are taking me by force! 
 
 Do thou, little mother, wish that it may bring me good 
 
 luck, 
 The milk that thou hast given me, that it may bring 
 
 me good fortune! 
 Do thou, little father, wish that it may bring me good 
 
 luck, 
 The bread that thou hast earned for me, that it may 
 
 bring me good fortune! 
 Do not groan, threshold of my home;
 
 PARTING SONG. 269 
 
 It is for me to groan. 
 Do not creep, O sun! 
 It is for me to creep. 
 Do not shake, little tree! 
 It is for me to shake. 
 Do not f all, O leaf! 
 It is for me to fall. 
 Do not shine, O star! 
 It is for me to shine. 
 Do not rise, O moon! 
 It is for me to rise. 
 Do not weep, mamma! 
 It is for me to weep.
 
 2 7 o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 H, heavy hearted is the wanderer 
 
 In foreign lands, who hath his country left! 
 In gazing on the fever of his heart, 
 Even the rocks with sorrow would be cleft. 
 
 When you on any man would call a curse, 
 Say, "Be a wanderer from your native land! 
 
 And may your pillow be the mountain side, 
 And may you sleep at night upon the sand! 
 
 "And, when you think upon your fatherland, 
 May you from head to foot be full of pains!" 
 
 My heart is a cracked vase; in vain I pour 
 Water therein; unfilled it still remains. 
 
 Each bird of heaven hath its companion found, 
 
 I am alone and solitary still; 
 Each stone is fixed and quiet in its place; 
 
 I roll forevermore by vale and hill.
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 271 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 LOOK and weep, I, this child's mother. I say, 
 "Alas for me! What will become of me now, 
 unhappy that I am? I have seen my golden 
 son dead!" 
 
 The fragrant rose has been snatched from my bosom; 
 my soul faints within me! My beautiful golden dove 
 has been made to take flight from my arms; my heart 
 is broken! 
 
 My pretty, softly-cooing turtle-dove, death's falcon 
 has struck it, and has wounded me. My sweet-voiced 
 little lark has been taken from me and carried away 
 to heaven. 
 
 My verdant pomegranate tree, all covered with 
 flowers, the hailstorm has destroyed it before mine 
 eyes the reddening apple upon my tree, the fragrant 
 fruit among my leaves! 
 
 My beautiful almond tree all in blossom, they have 
 shaken it and left it without a fruit; they have seized 
 it and thrown it to earth, and trampled the ground 
 where it lies. 
 
 Oh, what will become of me, unhappy that I am! 
 Many griefs have come upon me. At least, O God, 
 receive the soul of my child, and let it rest in thy 
 bright heaven!
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE DEAD WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 AM going to turn into an eagle. I shall go and 
 perch before thy window; I shall lament so 
 bitterly that sleep will flee away from thee 
 
 forever. Anyone else may sleep; but thou and I, 
 
 henceforth, shall know sleep no more!
 
 THE SISTER'S LAMENT. 273 
 
 THE SISTER'S LAMENT. 
 
 |HE brother is the artery of his sister's heart. 
 He has. only to speak one gentle word to make 
 her happy. 
 
 Come, my brother! Come, water of my fountain! 
 I am athirst for thee; whither hast thou gone? 
 
 Thou hast left me in the shadow; make light spring 
 forth! 
 
 The wall of my love has crumbled; come and rebuild 
 it!
 
 274 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF THE EMIGRANT'S WIFE. 
 
 |HE road on which my absent husband passes, I 
 wish I were that road! The water-course where 
 he goes to drink, I wish I were the spring of that 
 water! He would have stooped to drink of that water, 
 and the wish of my heart would be fulfilled. 
 
 In the city where he alights, I wish I were the inn- 
 keeper, so that he would come and alight at my inn! 
 I would take him to my best room, I would twine my 
 arms about his neck, and talk with him sweetly.
 
 THE ORPHAN'S LULLABY. 275 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S LULLABY. 
 
 AHAG is on the mountain, 
 
 Thy father 'neath the stone; 
 The reeds thy cradle are, thy roof 
 The arching rock alone. 
 
 Oh, may the south wind rock thee, 
 
 Beneath the midnight sky, 
 And may the little stars of heaven 
 
 Sing thee a lullaby! 
 
 And may the wild ewe nourish thee 
 
 Upon her milk so white, 
 That thou may'st bud, that thou may'st bloom, 
 
 And grow in strength and height! 
 
 Oh, hushaby, my darling! 
 
 Lilies on thy pink face! 
 Sleep, child, and may the wind that sings 
 
 Blow o'er thy cradle-place! 
 
 Oh, may the wild ewe suckle thee, 
 
 And be thy nurse the sun! 
 May the moon sing thy cradle song! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, my little one!
 
 276 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. 
 
 |HE wind that from the lofty summits blew 
 Knocked at the door; the young wife rose 
 
 and ran, 
 
 In haste, with eager steps and beating heart, 
 To fling it wide. Alas, 'twas not her man! 
 
 With breaking heart she to the hearth returned. 
 
 Her husband's mother spoke, to comfort fain: 
 "Daughter-in-law, my little daughter, say, 
 
 Why dost thou weep? Tell me, where lies thy pain?" 
 
 "Mother, my little mother! Everywhere 
 
 I am in pain, so for thy son I yearn." 
 "Weep not, my little daughter! To my son 
 
 A letter I will write, and say, 'Return' ! " 
 
 "If to thy son thou writest to return, 
 
 May'st thou enjoy the light of God's bright throne! 
 But, if thou dost not write him to return, 
 
 Receive my curse, and turn into a stone!"
 
 THE SONG OF THE GOAT. 277 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GOAT. 
 
 [HE goat went to play on the ice. She fell and 
 broke her foot. She said: "Ice, then you are 
 very strong?" 
 "If I were very strong," said the ice, "the sun would 
 
 not have thawed me." 
 
 She went to the sun and said, "Sun, then you are 
 
 very strong?" 
 
 "If I were very strong," said the sun, "the cloud 
 
 would not have covered me." 
 
 "Cloud," said she, "then you are very strong?" 
 "If I were very strong, the wind would not have 
 
 scattered me." 
 
 "Wind," she said, "then you are very strong?" 
 "If I were very strong, I should not have been able 
 
 to glide through the chink in the wall." 
 
 "Chink in the wall, then you are very strong?" 
 "If I were very strong, the mouse would not have 
 
 reigned over me." 
 
 "Mouse," she said, "then you are very strong?" 
 "If I were very strong, the cat would not have 
 
 caught me." 
 
 " Cat," said she, "then you are very strong?" 
 
 The cat said, shaking his tail, "lam strong, I am 
 
 strong, I am the chief of the strong! I am the fur of 
 
 great lords; I am the head-dress of great ladies. In 
 
 the village in summer, and by the fireside in winter, I 
 
 sleep a sweet sleep. If anyone says, 'Scat!' I scud 
 
 away, I go and sit in the top of a tree."
 
 278 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 THE DARK DAMSELS. 
 
 SPRING on Mount Menzour flows out under 
 the long-haired willow tree. Two beautiful 
 dark damsels have come to fill their pitchers. 
 Two young men, as strong as athletes, are passing 
 by on horseback. 
 
 "Young girl, by the youth of thy brother, give me a 
 drop of water from thy pitcher!" 
 
 "The water in my pitcher is not cold, it is hot. More 
 men than one have died because they loved us." 
 
 "Pour me a drop, let me drink, and let me die also, 
 and let it be with me as if my mother had never 
 given me birth!"
 
 PLAYMATES. 279 
 
 PLAYMATES. 
 
 BABY, in your little bed 
 How beautiful you are ! 
 Whom shall I bring to play with you, 
 
 Searching both near and far ? 
 For playmates I will bring to you 
 The moon and morning star!
 
 2 8o ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 |HE nightingale, for love of the rose, cannot 
 sleep the whole night long. He cannot sleep 
 during the night, nor during the day until the 
 evening. Go to bed, and sleep sweetly, until the 
 morning light comes, until the good light comes! Then 
 my nightingale will wake again, my nightingale will 
 wake again, with eyes half open and half closed.
 
 LULLABY. 281 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 SING the cradle song so that when you hear it, 
 you may lie down and fall sweetly asleep. Go 
 to sleep, my child, and grow grow and be- 
 come a great man; spread out and become a village! 
 In the village where there is no great man, become the 
 great man of that village. Become a great forest, burying 
 your roots deep in the earth; plunge your roots down 
 into the very depths of the earth, and may your trees 
 with their branches cast their shadow everywhere!
 
 282 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 HUSHABY. 
 
 JUSHABY, hushaby! The does have come. 
 They have come, the does, they have come 
 down from the mountains. They have 
 brought thee sweet sleep, they have poured it into 
 thine eyes, as large as seas; they have put thee to 
 sleep with a sweet slumber; they have satisfied thee 
 with their sweet milk. 
 
 Hushaby, hushaby! May the Lord give thee sleep! 
 May Mother Mary grant thee peace; may Mother 
 Mary grant thee peace so that thou mayest lie down 
 and fall softly asleep! Of Mother Mary we will make 
 thy mother, and of her only son thy protector. I will 
 go to church to beg the saints to p ay for us. Of the 
 holy crucifix I will make a brother, that it may keep 
 its arms stretched out over us forever.
 
 SAD SNOW. 283 
 
 SAD SNOW. 
 
 HAT art thou, O thou light and fleecy snow? 
 
 A flower, a coverlet, a winding sheet? 
 That o'er Armenia's plains thou spreadest far, 
 Unfolded white and wide, the sky to meet? 
 
 Or art thou a white dove from Paradise, 
 That, when it saw the Holy Virgin there, 
 
 Shook down the snowy feathers from its wings 
 To form a scarf upon her shoulders bare? 
 
 Or cam'st thou from the angels up above, 
 
 Who sometimes seek their future fate to know, 
 
 Playing on high, "To die or not to die?" 1 
 With roses white, whose petals drift below? 
 
 Or art thou downy cotton or soft wool 
 That the north wind upon Armenia sheds, 
 
 A pure and restful pillow to become 
 Beneath our martyred sires' and brothers' heads? 
 
 If 'tis a feathery scarf thou art, O snow! 
 
 Be swaddling bands and cradle soft as silk 
 To children small who perished at their birth, 
 
 Ere they had tasted of their mothers' milk! 
 
 1 The Armenians play, "To die or not to die?" with flower 
 petals as we play, "He loves me, he loves me not."
 
 284 ARMENIAN POEMS. 
 
 If thou art rose-leaves, pure and stainless snow, 
 Oh, then bud forth, a fresh and dewy wreath, 
 
 Upon the lowly and forsaken mounds 
 
 Where slim Armenian maidens sleep in death ! 
 
 O mournful snow, fall thick and heavily 
 
 And cover mount and valley, rock and plain! 
 
 Cover the graves, that through the days to come 
 Unbroken their sweet slumber may remain ! 
 
 Those martyrs for their nation and the cross, 
 Now and forever, silent and alone, 
 
 In hope of immortality in heaven, 
 
 Repose in death, with no memorial stone. 
 
 C$1
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN WOMEN. 
 
 | HE following extract from an Armenian classic 
 will give some idea of the poetical prose of 
 the Armenians. Eghiche, an Armenian 
 bishop and historian of the fifth century, writing nine 
 hundred years before Chaucer, gives a graphic account 
 of the Persian invasion of 451 A. i>., of which he -was 
 an eye-witness. In the eighth chapter he speaks as 
 follows of the fortitude shown by the Armenian women 
 after the princes and nobles had been killed or carried 
 away into captivity, and the country reduced almost to 
 a desert : 
 
 " But I cannot enumerate all the wives of the heroes, 
 both of those who were in fetters, and those who had 
 fallen in battle; for there are more whom I do not know 
 than those whom I know. I know by name and by sight 
 about five hundred ; not only those who were the highest 
 in rank, but many of low degree. All of them toge.ther. 
 being kindled by a holy emulation, put on the same virtue 
 of fidelity. They forgot even the name of the luxury 
 belonging to their hereditary freedom, and becatne like 
 men who have suffered from the beginning after the 
 manner of peasants, and who have passed their lives in
 
 286 APPENDIX. 
 
 this world amid hardships. The elder ones took upon 
 themselves the greater endurance. They were comforted 
 by the invisible force of the eternal hope, and accepted 
 the heavy burden of bodily pain. For although each of 
 them had had hereditary servants, there was now nothing 
 to distinguish between mistress and maid. All wore the 
 same dress, and all alike slept on the ground. Neither 
 one made the other's bed. There was no distinction 
 even in their food. All the mattresses were of the same 
 dark color, and all the pillows were alike black. They 
 had no special makers of spiced dishes, nor bread-makers 
 set apart for service at table, but everything was in com- 
 mon. None poured water on the other's hands, neither 
 did the younger ones offer towels to the elder. The deli- 
 cate women had no soap, nor was oil offered to them for 
 rejoicing. No costly platter was set before them, neither 
 were cup-holders found at their festivals. For none of 
 them did an usher stand at the door, neither were the 
 nobles called by them. 
 
 " The bridal chambers of the young brides became 
 dusty and dim, and spiders' webs were spun in their 
 sleeping-rooms. The high seats of their palaces were 
 destroyed, and the vessels of their table service were in 
 disorder. Their palaces fell, and the fortresses of their 
 refuge crashed down in ruin; their flower-gardens dried 
 up and withered, and the wine-bearing vines of their 
 vineyards were torn up. With their eyes they saw the 
 spoiling of their goods, and with their ears they heard of 
 the sufferings of their dear ones. Their treasures were 
 confiscated, and nothing at all was left of the ornaments 
 of their faces. 
 
 " The delicately reared women of the land of Armenia, 
 who had been brought up in luxury and petted in costly 
 clothing and on soft couches, went untiringly to the 
 houses of prayer, on foot and bare-footed, asking with 
 vows that they might be enabled to endure their great
 
 APPENDIX. 287 
 
 affliction. Those who from childhood had been reared 
 on oxen's brains and the choicest pieces of deer, now 
 were glad to eat vegetable food, like savages. The skins 
 of their bodies, blackening, became dark, because by day 
 they were sun-burned, and all night they slept on the 
 ground. The everlasting psalms were the murmurs of 
 their lips, and their complete comfort was in the reading 
 of the prophets. 
 
 " The women paired off two by two, like the animals, 
 as equal and harmonious, drawing straight the furrow of 
 the kingdom, that they might reach the harbor of peace 
 without fail. They forgot their womanly weakness, and 
 became brave males in the spiritual warfare. Doing 
 battle, they fought against the cardinal sins ; they pulled 
 up and threw away their deadly roots. With simplicity 
 they conquered guilefulness, and with sacred love they 
 washed away the dark coloring of envy. They cut off 
 the roots of avarice, and the death-bearing fruits of its 
 branches dried up. With humility they trampled upon 
 arrogance, and with the same humility they reached the 
 heavenly height. With prayers they opened the closed 
 doors of heaven, and with holy petitions caused the 
 angels of redemption to descend. They heard the good 
 tidings from afar, and glorified God in the highest. 
 
 "The widows among them became again as virtuous 
 brides, and put away from them the reproach of widow- 
 hood. And the wives of those who were in fetters 
 willingly restrained the physical appetites, and became 
 partakers of the sufferings of the imprisoned saints. In 
 their lives they resembled the brave martyrs in their 
 deaths, and from a distance they became teachers of 
 consolation to the prisoners. With their fingers they 
 worked and were fed, and the pensions granted them by 
 the court they sent year by year to their husbands, for 
 their comfort. They became like the bloodless cricket, 
 which lives without food, by the sweetness of its song.
 
 288 APPENDIX 
 
 " The snows of many winters melted, the spring ar- 
 rived, the new birds came, life-loving men saw and re- 
 joiced ; but they could never see those for whom they 
 longed. The spring flowers reminded them of their 
 loving husbands, and their eyes longed in vain to see the 
 desirable beauty of their faces. Their hounds died, and 
 their hunting excursions were ended. No yearly festi- 
 vals brought them from afar. The women looked on 
 their dining-places and wept; and they remembered them 
 in all their assemblies. Many monuments were raised to 
 them, and the names of each inscribed thereon. 
 
 " But while thus upon all sides their minds were storm- 
 beaten, the women did not retreat, nor weaken in heavenly 
 virtue. To outsiders they appeared mourning and sor- 
 rowful widows, but in their own souls they were adorned 
 with heavenly love. They ceased to ask any one who 
 had come from a distance, " When shall we see our dear 
 ones ? " The desires of their prayers to God were .only 
 that they might finish their course with courage, filled 
 with heavenly love, even as they had begun. 
 
 " And may we and they inherit together the Mother 
 City of goodness (the heavenly Jerusalem) and those 
 things which are promised to the beloved of God in 
 Christ Jesus Our Lord ! Amen."
 
 APPENDIX. 289 
 
 THE ARMENIAN CHURCH. 
 
 [HE Armenian Church may be roughly described 
 as about half way between the Greek Church 
 and High Church Episcopalianism. Its head, 
 called the Catholicos, has his see in a very ancient 
 monastery at Etchmiadzin in Russian Armenia, near 
 the foot of Mt. Ararat. 
 
 Under the preaching of missionaries, a part of the 
 Armenians have become Protestants, and another part 
 Roman Catholics ; but the great bulk of them still 
 adhere to their ancient national church. 
 
 The Armenians are eager for education, and have 
 flocked in large numbers to the many schools and 
 colleges that have been maintained in Asia Minor 
 for years by the American Board of Foreign Missions, 
 until the massacres and deportations of 1915-16 de- 
 prived them of almost all their pupils. 
 
 Owing to centuries of persecution, Armenian colonies 
 are scattered all over the world. There are said to be 
 fully 250,000 Armenians in the United States, and some 
 estimates place the number much higher.
 
 ago APPENDIX. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 FULL bibliography of the Armenian troubles, 
 compiled by Professor W. W. Rockwell, may 
 be had from the American Committee for 
 
 Armenian Relief, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York. 
 
 Price, 10 cents. 
 
 Persons who wish to look into Armenian history, 
 
 literature, folklore- etc., will find the following works 
 
 of interest: 
 
 "Armenia: Travels and Studies," by Henry F. B. Lynch, 
 London, Longmans, Green Co., 1901; "Armenia and 
 Europe," by J. Lepsius, London, 1897; "Armenia and the 
 Armenians,'' by E. J. Dillon (a section in his " Russian Char- 
 acteristics") ; "Historical Sketches of Armenia and the Ar- 
 menians in Ancient and Modern Time," with special reference 
 to the present crisis, by an old Indian, London, 1896; "Turk- 
 ish Armenia and Eastern Asia Minor," by H. F. Tozer, 
 London, 1881; "Twenty Years of the Armenian Question," 
 by James Bryce in his " Transcaucasia and Ararat," pages 
 446-525, 1890; "Travel and Politics in Armenia," with an 
 Introduction by Viscount Bryce, and a contribution on Ar- 
 menian history and culture by Aram Rafti, by Noel Edward 
 Buxton and Harold Jocelyn Buxton, London, Smith, Elder 
 & Co., 1914; "Through Armenia on Horseback," by George 
 H. Hepwurth, New York, Dutton & Co., 1898; "Travels in 
 Armenia," by A. H. Layard, London, 1853; "The Armenian 
 Church History, Liturgy, Doctrines, and Ceremonies," 
 by Edward Francis Fortescue, London, J. T. Hayes, 1872; 
 "The Rule of the Turk," by Frederick D. Greene, New York, 
 Putnam, 1896; "Turkey and the Armenian Atrocities," by E.M. 
 Bliss; "Travelsand Researches in Mesopotamia and Armenia,'' 
 by W. F. Ainsworlh, London, 1842; "Armenia and the Arme- 
 nians, "by R. D.James Issaverdens, Venice, 1878; "Researches 
 in Armenia," by F. Smith, Boston, 1833; "Impressions of 
 Turkey during Twelve Years' Wandering," by W. M. Ram- 
 say, New York, Putnam, 1897; "England's Responsibility
 
 APPENDIX. 291 
 
 toward Armenia," by Malcolm MacColl, London, Longmans, 
 1895; "Armenian Women, Their Folk Poesy," by L. M. J. 
 Garnet in her " Women of Turkey," pages 270-296; "Arme- 
 nians, Kurds and Turks," by J. Creagh; " Life and Adventures 
 in Trebizond, Erzerum, Tabriz," by A. Vambery, London, 
 1886; "Armenia and the Campaign of 1877," by C. B. Nor- 
 man, London, 1878; "The Armenian Campaign," by C. 
 Williams, London, 1878; "The Armenians, or the People of 
 Ararat," by M. C. Gabrielian, Philadelphia, Allen, Lane & 
 Scott, 1892; "The Leavening of the Levant," by Joseph K. 
 Greene, Revell Press, 1916; "The Golden Maiden and Other 
 Folk and Fairy Tales Told in Armenia," by A. G. Seklemian, 
 with Introduction by Alice Stone Blackwell, Cleveland, O., 
 Helman Taylor Co., 1898; "Armenian Mythology," com- 
 piled by Zabel S. Boyajian, London, G. M. Dent & Sons, 
 1916; "The Blackest Page of Modern History," by Herbert 
 Adams Gibbons, New York, Putnam, 1916. 
 
 In French: "Contes Arme'niens, Traduits de I'Armenien 
 Moderne," by Frederic Macler, Leroux, Paris, 1905; "Mek- 
 hitaristes de Saint Lazare, Histoire d'Armenie, Litterature 
 Armenienne," by Paul Emile Le Vaillant de Florival, Venice, 
 Typographic Armenienne de Saint Lazare; "L'Armenie Chre- 
 tienne et sa Litterature," by Felix Neve, C. Peters, Louvain, 
 1886; "L'Armenie; son Histoire, sa Litterature, son Role 
 en L'Orient, avec une Introduction par Anatole France," by 
 Archag Tchobanian, Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1897; "Poemes Armeniens, Anciens et Modernes, Precedes 
 d'une Etude de Gabriel Mourey sur la Poesie et 1'Art Ar- 
 meniens," by Archag Tchobanian, Paris, Librairie A. Charles, 
 1902; "Chants Populaires Armeniens, Preface de Paul Adam," 
 by Archag Tchobanian, Paris, Societe d'Editions Litteraires 
 et Artistiques, 1903; "Petite Bibliotheque Armenienne, Pub- 
 liee sous la Direction de Frederic Macler," Paris; "L'Orient 
 Inedit, Legendes et Traditions Armeniennes," by Minas 
 Tcheraz, Paris, Leroux, 1912; "Etudes sur la Miniature 
 Armenienne," by Seraphin Abdullah et Frederic Macler, 
 Paris, 1909; " Au Milieu des Massacres Journal de la Femme 
 d'un Consul de France en Armenie," by Emilie Carlier, 
 Paris, Juven, 1903. 
 
 In German: "Die Armenische Literatur," by Franz Niko- 
 laus Finck, Berlin, 1906; "Geschichte der Armenischen Lit- 
 eratur," by Franz Nikolaus Finck, Leipzig, 1909; "Kirchen 
 und Moscheen in Armenien und Kurdistan," Hinrichs, Leipzig, 
 1913; 71 plates. Maps. Plans.
 
 2 9 2 APPENDIX. 
 
 COMMENT ON THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The work is admirably done. Boston Post. 
 
 A valuable addition to our poet lore. Philadelphia Press. 
 
 Miss Blackwell seems to have brought to her work rare 
 intelligence and excellent taste. Boston Journal. 
 
 We are grateful for this introduction to authors some of 
 whom have evidently high poetic powers. San Francisco 
 Chronicle. 
 
 Contains many choice bits of verse, and is ample evidence 
 that the spirit of poetry is the same the world over, whether 
 in sunny Italy, pastoral England or persecuted Armenia. 
 New York Journal. 
 
 Miss Blackwell has succeeded in carrying over much of 
 the native fire into her translations. . . . These verses 
 give us a very high opinion of the literary capacity of the 
 race which produced them. Congregationalist. 
 
 Miss Blackwell has caught, we believe, the Armenian 
 literary spirit. Whatever these poems may have been in the 
 original, they are certainly gems in the English dress in which 
 she has clothed them. Boston Advertiser. 
 
 That a second edition of the Armenian Poems is already in 
 press, although the first has not yet been out a fortnight, 
 shows how strong is the interest in this graceful and forceful 
 interpretation of the life of an oppressed people. Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 The translator has been remarkably successful in giving in 
 English forms an extremely interesting series of noteworthy 
 poems from the literary stores of a long-suffering people. 
 Buffalo Commercial.
 
 APPENDIX. 293 
 
 A most interesting product of Armenian poetical genius. 
 It is a real service to let Americans and Englishmen realize 
 that the nation for which we plead is a cultivated one, with 
 not only a history, but a still living and productive literary 
 power. Rt. Hon. James Bryce. 
 
 The poems cover a wide range of subjects, and extend 
 through all the passions that go to make up man's life love, 
 hate, liberty, religion, home, etc. Miss Blackwell's work has 
 been well done, and she has brought to it rare intelligence, taste 
 and poetic ability. Boston Times. 
 
 A collection of poems revealing unexpected beauties. The 
 lines are full of rich similes, and are pleasantly melodious, and 
 altogether the translator's venture into an almost unknown 
 literature has been most successful. Chicago Post. 
 
 The great sympathy everywhere aroused for the Armenians 
 will heighten the interest in their poetic literature, and their 
 poetry is, of itself, worth attention. Almost every note is 
 touched; of patriotism, love, religion. The volume offers a 
 poetic study of very curious interest. Lillian Whiting in 
 Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 A volume of Armenian poems is now issued, and it gives a 
 new idea of the romantic nature of the Christian victims of 
 Turkish rapacity and bigotry. The poems show an unusual 
 love of nature, and are full of tender and delicate sentiments. 
 These people are not, as increasing evidence shows, a half- 
 savage, ignorant, immoral race, but a fine-tempered and 
 intelligent body of men and women. N. Y. Commercial 
 Advertiser. 
 
 "Beautiful!" is the exclamation of a pleased reader, laying 
 aside this collection of poems. They breathe a gentle fra- 
 grance. The soul is broader because of their perusal. They 
 speak with a strange fascination. New inspiration is gath- 
 ered from these simple yet wonderfully profound gems of 
 poetic literature. . . . The work has been well done, and we 
 are delighted to place this treasure in our library. Baltimore 
 Methodist. 
 
 These poems are truly Oriental in the fire of their passion 
 and the splendor of their imagery. . . . We can better 
 understand the song of Solomon after reading these. A 
 tinge of sadness colors many of these exquisite poems, 
 for they have been written in a land desolated by fire
 
 294 APPENDIX. 
 
 and sword. But, beyond all else, they breathe a spirit 
 of the purest and most exalted patriotism, and are all aglow 
 with love of truth and liberty. Christian Work. 
 
 The poems expressing the hopes, fears, sorrows, aspirations 
 and ideals of this people have a double interest, that of litera- 
 ture and that of life. . . . The melancholy earnestness and 
 true poetic feeling found in such verse will commend it to a 
 wide and sympathetic circle of readers, who may learn from 
 this literary source, as from nowhere else, something of the 
 deeper-lying traits and tendencies of the Armenian folk. And 
 the qualities that come out in the poems are such as to quicken 
 one's admiration and increase one's sympathy. Hartford 
 Courant. 
 
 The poems are interesting as revealing , to a hitherto un- 
 equaled extent, the poetic genius and character of this be- 
 trayed and suffering people. It will doubtless surprise many 
 to find that Armenia has both a classic literature and a rich 
 fund of nineteenth-century poetry; that her poets have written 
 with a vigor of thought, a delicacy of imagination, and a 
 direct simplicity of expression, such as characterizes the 
 best poetry of any country; that the verses are interesting in 
 themselves, for the same reasons that the Bosnian and Ser- 
 vian poetry is interesting. Christian Register. 
 
 These poems reveal as by a searchlight the deepest quali- 
 ties of the Armenian character. They show forth an in- 
 grained heroism and an ardent aspiration worthy of the 
 martyr people of this so-called Christian century. No gener- 
 ous man or woman can read them without instinctively desir- 
 ing to send help to a people capable of thoughts so lofty and 
 sentiment so tender. Frances E. Willard. 
 
 I think your translation of the poems admirable. Dr. 
 Cyrus Hamlin. 
 
 I have read with much pleasure your translations of the 
 Armenian poems, especially my brother's. Prince Guyde 
 Lusigna n. 
 
 General A. W. Greely wrote from Washington, D. C.: "I 
 spoke on this subject (the Armenian question) before the 
 Parish Union of All Souls' Church. The literary part of the 
 address consisted in reading your admirable t ranslations of the 
 beautiful songs, 'Nightingale,' 'Cradle Song,' 'Mother 
 Araxcs,' etc., which were very much praised. An Armenian
 
 APPENDIX. 295 
 
 was most persistent in seeking for copies of these songs, which 
 brought his country back vividly to his mind and heart." 
 
 Miss Alice Fletcher wrote concerning the meeting of a 
 Literary Society in Washington, D. C.: "I read on that oc- 
 casion several of your beautiful translations of Armenian 
 poems, and was delighted with the interest and enthusiasm 
 they evoked. The meeting was at the residence of Dr. Wil- 
 liam T. Harris, Commissioner of Education. There were 
 many learned and famous folk there, as the Literary Society 
 has in its membership some of our brightest men and women. 
 Armenian poetry was a new realm to almost all, and stirred 
 an interest in the (Armenian) people in a new manner, along 
 new lines."
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 BEDROS TOURIAN. 
 
 PACK 
 
 LITTLE LAKE 13 
 
 WISHES FOR ARMENIA 16 
 
 To LOVE 19 
 
 NEW DARK DAYS 22 
 
 WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE ? 25 
 
 I HAVE LOVED THEE 28 
 
 IN MEMORIAM OF VARTAN LUTFIAN 30 
 
 SHE 32 
 
 LITTLE GIFTS 33 
 
 MY GRIEF 34 
 
 COMPLAINTS 35 
 
 REPENTANCE 38 
 
 MICHAEL NALBANDIAN. 
 
 LIBERTY 39 
 
 DAYS OF CHILDHOOD 41 
 
 ARCHBISHOP KHORENE NAR BEY DE 
 LUSIGNAN. 
 
 ARMENIA 43 
 
 THE WANDERING ARMENIAN TO THE CLOUD ... 45 
 
 To MY SISTER 47
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GENTLE BREEZE OF ARMENIA 49 
 
 LET us LIVE ARMENIANS 52 
 
 LET us DIE ARMENIANS 55 
 
 THE FIRST GREEN LEAVES 58 
 
 MUGURDITCH BESHIKTASHLIAN. 
 
 DEATH OF A YOUTH OF ZEITOUN 60 
 
 SPRING 62 
 
 A BRAVE SON OF ARMENIA 63 
 
 WE ARE BROTHERS 64 
 
 RAPHAEL PATKANIAN. 
 
 CRADLE SONG 66 
 
 THE TEARS OF ARAXES 68 
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL 72 
 
 THE NEW GENERATION 74 
 
 LULLABY 75 
 
 To MY NIGHTINGALE 77 
 
 SHALL WE BE SILENT? 79 
 
 IF 82 
 
 PRAISE TO THE SULTAN 84 
 
 WHAT SHALL WE Do ? 85 
 
 THE SAD-FACED MOON 86 
 
 COMPLAINT TO EUROPE ... 90 
 
 SONG OF THE VAN MOTHER 92 
 
 EASTER SONG 94 
 
 LEO ALISHAN. 
 
 THE VIRGIN'S TEARS 95 
 
 EASTER SONG 97 
 
 THE EXILES 98 
 
 MOON IN THE ARMENIAN CEMETERY 99 
 
 THE LILY OF SHAVARSHAN 103 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR 107 
 
 A SONG OF FATHERLAND no 
 
 WEEP NOT . 112
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE CHRIST-CHILD St. Gregory of Narek 115 
 
 HYMN Nerses the Graceful . 116 
 
 LOVE SONG Sa'iat R'ova . . . . 119 
 
 A GOOD COMRADE Djivan 121 
 
 THE YOUTH AND THE STREAMLET 122 
 
 THE LAKE OK VAN "A'<^T' 124 
 
 THOU AND I 125 
 
 To MY SWEETHEART Kontcharian ... 127 
 
 THE CHRAGHAN PALACE . . . Terzyan 128 
 
 THE WANDERING ARMENIAN TO 
 
 THE SWALLOW Totochinn .... 130 
 
 SONG OF REVOLUTION 132 
 
 THE LAMENT OF MOTHER ARMENIA 133 
 
 THE SON OF DALVORIG .... Damadian .... 135 
 
 PART II. 
 
 ATOM YARJANIAN (SIAMANTO). 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT 141 
 
 THE MOTHER'S DREAM 152 
 
 PRAYER 155 
 
 MY TEARS 157 
 
 THE YOUNG WIFE'S DREAM 159 
 
 THIRST 161 
 
 THE STARVING 162 
 
 DANIEL VAROUJAN. 
 
 THE LONGING LETTER 168 
 
 THE WORKING GIRL 170 
 
 ALMS 172 
 
 THE AGED CRANE 1 73
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 ARCHAG TCHOBANIAN. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BOND 175 
 
 To THE MOON 177 
 
 THE WIND 1 79 
 
 WITHIN MY HEART 180 
 
 THE LULLABY OF MOTHER ARMENIA 181 
 
 HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN. 
 
 WHEN SOME DAY 186 
 
 BEFORE A PAINTING BY Ayvasovsky 187 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE 188 
 
 HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN. 
 
 NEW SPRING 190 
 
 THE POET 192 
 
 SONG 194 
 
 ZABEL ASSATOUR (MADAME SYBIL). 
 
 THE INCENSE 195 
 
 THE IDEAL 197 
 
 TEARS 199 
 
 MUGURDITCH CHRIMIAN HAIRIG. 
 
 MURMURS OF A PATRIOT 
 
 THE MEMORIAL CF THE LAMENTING SOLDIER . . . 206 
 
 GARINE 209 
 
 BEDROS TOURIAN. 
 
 AT EVENING 214 
 
 To MAY 216 
 
 MY DEATH . 217
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP KHORENE NAR BEY DE 
 
 LUSIGNAN. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DAWN 219 
 
 THE EXILE TO THE SWALLOW 222 
 
 M. PORTOUKALIAN. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN GIRL 224 
 
 THE ARMENIAN MAID'S LAMENT 227 
 
 MIHRAN DAMADIAN. 
 
 THE IMPRISONED REVOLUTIONIST 230 
 
 FURFURCAR 233 
 
 THE LAMENT OF MARTYRED SUMPAD'S MOTHER . . 237 
 
 ARSHAG D. MAHDESIAN. 
 
 THE SNOW 239 
 
 THUS SPAKE MAN 240 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 LOVE SONG Nahabed Koutchak. . . 242 
 
 THE LAKE OF VAN . . Hagop MelikHagopian (Raffi)2^ 
 
 THE EAGLE'S LOVE . . Shoushanig Khourghinian 247 
 
 THE FATHERLAND . . Avcdik Jssahakian . . 249 
 
 THE SURE HOPE . . . Raphael Patkanian . . 250 
 
 THE LULLABY OF NAZI . Avedis Aharonian . . . 251 
 
 THE MARTYRS OF AVARAIR Karckin Scrvantzdiantz . 253 
 
 THE WAVES ON THE SHORE Bcdros Adamian . . . 255 
 
 THE DYING POET . . . Tigrane Yergate ... 257 
 
 THE BOUQUET .... Khorbne M. Anlreassian 259 
 
 UNHAPPY DAYS .... Djivan 261
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOH 
 
 THE PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW 263 
 
 HOMESICKNESS 264 
 
 THE PRISONER'S DREAM 265 
 
 THE MOTHER Is LIKE BREAD 267 
 
 PARTING SONG 268 
 
 THE WANDERER 270 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT 271 
 
 THE DEAD WIFE TO HER HUSBAND 272 
 
 THE SISTER'S LAMENT 273 
 
 SONG OF THE EMIGRANT'S WIFE . 274 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S LULLABY 275 
 
 A KNOCK AT THE DOOR 276 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GOAT 277 
 
 THE DARK DAMSELS 278 
 
 PLAYMATES 279 
 
 CRADLE SONG 280 
 
 LULLABY 281 
 
 HUSHABY 282 
 
 SAD SNOW 283 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN WOMEN 285 
 
 THE ARMENIAN CHURCH 289 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 290 
 
 ARMENIAN POEMS COMMENT . . . . . . 22
 
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