Chapter II: Introduction (1)

Severed for many centuries from Western Europe by the flood of Turkish barbarism which descended upon their country in the Middle Ages, and subjected for the last two generations to oppressions and cruelties such as few civilised people have ever had to undergo, the Armenians have been less known to Englishmen and Frenchmen than their remarkable qualities and their romantic history deserve. Few among us have acquired their language, one of the most ancient forms of human speech that possess a literature. Still fewer have studied their art or read their poetry even in translations. There is, therefore, an ample field for a book which shall present to those Englishmen and Frenchmen, whose interest in Armenia has been awakened by the sufferings to which its love of freedom and its loyalty to its Christian faith have exposed it, some account of Armenian art and Armenian poetical literature. Miss Boyajian, the authoress of this book, is the daughter of an Armenian clergyman, whom I knew and respected during the many years when he was British Vice-Consul at Diarbekir on the Tigris. She is herself a painter, a member of that group of Armenian artists some of whom have, like Aïvazovsky and Edgar Chahine, won fame in the world at large, and she is well qualified to describe with knowledge as well as with sympathy the art of her own people.

That art has been, since the nation embraced Christianity in the fourth century of our era, chiefly ecclesiastical. The finest examples of ancient Armenian architecture are to be seen in the ruins of Ani, on the border where Russian and Turkish territory meet, a city which was once the seat of one of the native dynasties, while the famous church of the monastery of Etchmiadzin, at Vagarshabad, near Erivan, is, though more modern, a perfect and beautiful existing representative of the old type. Etchmiadzin, standing at the north foot of Mount Ararat, is the seat of the Katholikos, or ecclesiastical head of the whole Armenian church. There was little or no ecclesiastical sculpture, for the Armenian church discouraged the use of images, and fresco painting was not much used for the decoration of churches; missals, however, and other books of devotion and manuscripts of the Bible were illuminated with hand paintings, and adorned with miniatures; and much skill and taste were shown in embroideries. Metal work, especially in silver and in copper, has always been a favourite vehicle for artistic design in the Near East and is so still, though like everything else it has suffered from the destruction, in repeated massacres, of many of the most highly skilled artificers.

One of the most interesting features in the history of Armenian art is that it displays in its successive stages the various influences to which the country has been subject. Ever since it became Christian it was a territory fought for by diverse empires of diverse creeds. As in primitive times it lay between Assyria on the one side and the Hittite power on the other, so after the appearance of Islam it became the frontier on which the East Roman Christian Empire contended with the Muslim Arab and Turkish monarchies. Persian influences on the East, both before and after Persia had become Mohammedan, here met with the Roman influences spreading out from Constantinople. The latter gave the architectural style, as we see it in those ecclesiastical buildings to which I have referred, a style developed here with admirable features of its own and one which has held its ground to the present day. The influence of Persia on the other hand was seen in the designs used in embroidery, in carpets, and in metal work. The new school of painters has struck out new lines for itself, but while profiting by whatever it has learnt from Europe, it retains a measure of distinctive national quality.

That quality is also visible in Armenian poetry of which this volume gives some interesting specimens. The poetry of a people which has struggled against so many terrible misfortunes has naturally a melancholy strain. But it is also full of an unextinguishable patriotism.

Those who have learnt from this book what the Armenian race has shown itself capable of doing in the fields of art and literature, and who have learnt from history how true it has been to its Christian faith, and how tenacious of its national life, will hope that the time has now at last come when it will be delivered from the load of brutal tyranny that has so long cramped its energies, and allowed to take its place among the free and progressive peoples of the world. It is the only one of the native races of Western Asia that is capable of restoring productive industry and assured prosperity to these now desolated regions that were the earliest homes of civilisation.

BRYCE.

3, Buckingham Gate,
July 1916.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Preface vii
Introduction ix

Reproaches xv
A Trial of Orthodoxy xvi

The Exile’s Song 1
The Apple Tree 3
My Heart is turned into a Wailing Child 4
O Night, be long 5
Black Eyes 6
Yesternight I walked Abroad 7
Vahagn, King of Armenia 10
Huntsman, that on the Hills above 11
Liberty 12
I beheld my Love this Morning 14
The Fox, the Wolf, and the Bear 15
Incense 17
The Little Lake 18
Spring 20
Cradle Song 21
Ara and Semiramis 23
Lament over the Heroes fallen in the
Battle of Avarair 25
The Song of the Stork 27
Ye Mountain Bluebells 29
The Sun went down 30
Birthday Song 31
Morning 32
The Founding of Van 33
I have a Word I fain would say 35
The Song of the Partridge 36
The Lily of Shavarshan 37
Cradle Song 41
The Wind is howling through the Winter Night 42
The Armenian Poet’s Prayer 43
The Chragan Palace 44
The Dream 46
The Sorrows of Armenia 47
Artashes and Satenik 48
My Death 50
The Eagle’s Love 51
Concerning the Rose and the Nightingale 52
The Arrival of the Crusaders 58
Like an Ocean is this World 59
The Rock 60
The Crane 62
The Hawk and the Dove 63
Artavasd 65
Charm Verses 67
The Tears of Araxes 69
The Eve of Ascension Day 73
“Thy Voice is Sweet” 74
Christ and Abgarus 75
Araxes came devouringly 77
The Parrot’s Song 78
Earth and Sky 79
O’er the Mountains High he went 81
Complaints 82
A Day After 84
Without Thee what are Song and Dance to Me? 85
The Lake of Van 86
Spring 89
The Fox 90
The Tale of Rosiphelee 91
The Song of the Vulture 98
Dance Song 101
Ballad 103
No Bird can reach the Mountain’s Crest 106
The Nightingale of Avarair 108
Thou art so Sweet 110
The Wandering Armenian to the Swallow 111
The Christ-Child 113
The Castle of Anoush 114
Happiness 118
Concerning Death 119
Love One Another 121
Pasqua Armena 122
“Io Vidi” 123
Armenia: its Epics, Folk-Songs, and Mediaeval Poetry 125

Chronological Index to Authors 193
Index to First Lines 195

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Armenia Frontispiece
The Birth of Vahagn, King of Armenia facing page 10
Ara and Semiramis 23
The Founding of Van 33
Artashes and Satenik 48
The Wedding 49
Artavasd 65
Christ’s Letter to Abgarus 75
The Lake of Van 86
The Vision of Rosiphelee, Princess of Armenia 91
The Lady and the Minstrel 102
The Castle of Anoush 114

REPROACHES

By “FRIK”

(Died 1330)

O God of righteousness and truth,
Loving to all, and full of ruth;
I have some matter for Thine ear
If Thou wilt but Thy servant hear.

Lo, how the world afflicteth us
With wrongs and torments rancorous;
And Thou dost pardon every one,
But turnest from our woes alone.

Lord, Thou wilt not avenge our wrong
Nor chase the ills that round us throng;
Thou knowest, we are flesh and bone,
We are not statues made from stone!

We are not made of grass or reeds,
That Thou consumest us like weeds;—
As though we were some thorny field
Or brushwood, that the forests yield.

If that ourselves are nothing worth—
If we have wrought no good on earth,
If we are hateful in Thy sight
That Thou shouldst leave us in this plight—

Then blot us out;—be swift and brief,
That Thy pure heart may find relief;
This well may be, by Thy intent,
Great Lord and good, omnipotent.

How long must we in patience wait
And bear unmurmuringly our fate?
Let evil ones be swept away
And those whom Thou dost favour, stay!

A TRIAL OF ORTHODOXY

(Sonnet on Armenia)

By WILLIAM WATSON

The clinging children at their mother’s knee
Slain; and the sire and kindred one by one
Flayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless done,
Not to be told: while imperturbably
The nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,
Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,
And where great armies glitter in the sun,
And great Kings rule, and man is boasted free!
What wonder if yon torn and naked throng
Should doubt a Heaven that seems to wink and nod,
And having mourned at noontide, “Lord, how long?”
Should cry, “Where hidest Thou?” at evenfall,
At midnight, “Is He deaf and blind, our God?”
And ere day dawn, “Is He indeed at all?”

THE EXILE’S SONG

FOLK SONG

Belovèd one, for thy sweet sake,
By whirlwinds tossed and swayed I roam;
The stranger’s accents round me wake
These burning thoughts that wander home.
No man such longings wild can bear
As in my heart forever rise.
Oh that the wind might waft me there
Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet,
That bends her vines and roses sweet.

For I am piteous and forlorn,
As is the bird that haunts the night;
Who inconsolably doth mourn
Whene’er his rose is from his sight.
O’er earth and ocean, everywhere
I gaze in vain, with weary eyes.
Oh that the wind might waft me there
Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.
I would I were yon cloud so light,—
Yon cloudlet driven before the wind.
Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight:
My heart’s true way I soon would find!
Oh, I would be the wind so fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.

THE APPLE TREE

FOLK SONG

The door of Heaven open seemed
And in thy house the sunlight gleamed.

As through the garden’s willow’d walks I hied
Full many a tree and blossom I espied.
But of all trees, the Apple Tree most fair
And beautiful did unto me appear.
It sobbed and wept. Its leaves said murmuringly:
“I would that God had ne’er created me!
The badge of sin and wickedness I am
E’en at thy feast, O Father Abraham. [1]
The apple growing on me first
From Eden came ere it was cursed,
Alas, alas, I am undone!
Why fell I to that evil one?”

MY HEART IS TURNED INTO A WAILING CHILD

By N. KOUCHAK

(Fifteenth Century)

My heart is turned into a wailing child,
In vain with sweets I seek to still its cries;
Sweet love, it calls for thee in sobbings wild
All day and night, with longing and with sighs.
What solace can I give it?

I showed my eyes the fair ones of this earth
And tried to please them—but I tried in vain.
Sweet love, for them all those were nothing worth—
Thee—only thee my heart would have again.
What solace can I give it?

O NIGHT, BE LONG

By N. KOUCHAK

O Night, be long—long as an endless year!
Descend, thick darkness, black and full of fear!
To-night my heart’s desire has been fulfilled—
My love is here at last—a guest concealed!

Dawn, stand behind seven mountains—out of sight,
Lest thou my loved one banish with thy light;
I would for ever thus in darkness rest
So I might ever clasp him to my breast.

BLACK EYES

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

(Born 1875)

Do not trust black eyes, but fear them:—
Gloom they are, and endless night;
Woes and perils lurking near them—
Love not thou their gleaming bright!

In my heart a sea of blood wells,
Called up by their cruel might,
No calm ever in that flood dwells—
Love not thou their gleaming bright!

YESTERNIGHT I WALKED ABROAD

ANONYMOUS

Yesternight I walked abroad.
From the clouds sweet dews were falling,
And my love stood in the road,
All in green, and to me calling.
To her home she led me straight,
Shut and barred the gate securely;
Whoso tries to force that gate
Brave I’ll reckon him most surely!

In the garden she did go,
Gathered roses dewed with showers;
Some she gave her lover, so
He might lay his face in flowers.

Garments loose and snowy breast,
I slipped in her bosom tender
And I found a moment’s rest,
Clasped within those arms so slender.
Then I raised my hands above—
Grant, O Lord, that I wake never;
On the bosom of my love
May I live and die forever!

What have I from this world gained?
What advantage gathered ever?
For the hunt my falcon trained
I let fly—it went forever!

Ah, my falcon, woe the day!
Tell me, whither art thou flying?
I will follow all the way—
Since thou wentest I am dying.

I am ill, and near my end—
With an apple [2] hasten to me.
I shall curse thee if thou send
Strange physicians to undo me.

No physicians strange for me—
All my griefs in thee I centre.
Come and take my bosom’s key,
Open wide the door and enter.
Once again I say, ’twas not
I that came—’twas thy love brought me.
In my heart thy love hath got
And its dwelling-place hath wrought me.

When the falcon hunger feels
Then he finds the game and takes it;
When love thirsts, the lover steals
Kisses from his love and slakes it.
But thou hold’st me with thy charms;
When I kiss thee thou dost bind me:
’Twas but now I left thine arms,
And my looks are turned behind me.
I am ever, for thy love,
Like the sands in summer, burning:
Looking up to heaven above,
For one little raindrop yearning.

I would kiss thy forehead chaste,
And thine eyes so brightly gleaming;
Fold mine arms about thy waist—
Thick with all thy garments seeming.

Oft and often have I said
For my love make garments shining:
Of the sun the facing red,—
Of the moon cut out the lining;
Pad it with yon storm-cloud dark,
Sewn with sea weed from the islets:
Stars for clasps must bring their spark—
Stitch me inside for the eyelets!

VAHAGN, KING OF ARMENIA

From the History of Armenia, by

MOSES OF KHORENE

(Fifth Century)

Concerning the birth of this king the legends say—

“Heaven and earth were in travail,
And the crimson waters were in travail.
And in the water, the crimson reed
Was also in travail.
From the mouth of the reed issued smoke,
From the mouth of the reed issued flame.
And out of the flame sprang the young child.
His hair was of fire, a beard had he of flame,
And his eyes were suns.”

With our own ears did we hear these words sung to the accompaniment of the harp. They sing, moreover, that he did fight with the dragons, and overcame them; and some say that his valiant deeds were like unto those of Hercules. Others declare that he was a god, and that a great image of him stood in the land of Georgia, where it was worshipped with sacrifices.

HUNTSMAN, THAT ON THE HILLS ABOVE

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

“Huntsman, that on the hills above
To hunt the deer hast been,
Tell me, I pray thee, if my love—
My wild deer thou hast seen?

“He sought the hills his grief to quell—
My darling love, my sun.
He wandered out upon the fell,
My flower, my only one.”

“Maiden, I saw your lover true,
All girt with red and green.
Upon his breast a rose tree grew
Where once your kiss had been.”

“Huntsman, I pray, who is the bride
Of my beloved, my sun?
Who tends him, watching by his side,
My flower, my only one?”

“Maiden, I saw him with his head
Upon a stone at rest.
And for his love, a bullet red
Into his heart was pressed.

“The mountain breeze caressingly
Played with his jet-black hair,
And blossoms wept unceasingly
Your flower, your lover there.”

LIBERTY

By MIKAEL NALBANDIAN

(1829–1866)

When the God of Liberty
Formed of earth this mortal frame,
Breathed the breath of life in me,
And a spirit I became,

Wrapped within my swaddling bands,
Bound and fettered helplessly, [3]
I stretched forth my infant hands
To embrace sweet Liberty.

All night long, until the dawn,
In my cradle bound I lay;
And my sobbing’s ceaseless moan
Drove my mother’s sleep away.

As I begged her, weeping loud,
To unbind and set me free;
From that very day I vowed
I would love thee, Liberty!

When upon my parents’ ear
First my lisping accents fell,
And their hearts rejoiced to hear
Me my childish wishes tell,

Then the words that first I spoke
Were not “father, mother dear”:
“Liberty!” the accents broke
In my infant utterance clear.

“Liberty!” The voice of Doom
Echoed to me from above,
“Wilt thou swear until the tomb
Liberty to serve and love?

“Thorny is the path, and dim;
Many trials wait for thee:
Far too small this world for him
Who doth worship Liberty!”

“Liberty!” I made reply,
“O’er my head let thunders burst,
Lightnings flash, and missiles fly—
Foes conspire to do their worst;

“Till I die, or meet my doom,
On the shameful gallows-tree,—
Till the portals of the tomb,
I will shout forth Liberty!”

I BEHELD MY LOVE THIS MORNING

By SAYAT NOVA

(1712–1795)

I beheld my love this morning, in the garden paths she strayed, All brocaded was the ground with prints her golden pattens made; Like the nightingale, I warbled round my rose with wings displayed, And I wept, my reason faltered, while my heart was sore dismayed. Grant, O Lord, that all my foemen to such grief may be betrayed!

Love, with these thy whims and humours thou hast wrecked and ruined me. Thou hast drunk of love’s own nectar, thy lips speak entrancingly. With those honeyed words how many like me thou hast bound to thee! Take the knife and slay me straightway—pass not by me mockingly. Since I die of love, ‘twere better Beauty stabbed and set me free.

For I have no love beside thee—I would have thee know it well. Thou for whom e’en death I’d suffer, list to what I have to tell. See thou thwart not thy Creator,—all the past do not dispel: Anger not thy Sayat Nova, for when in thy snare he fell He was all bereft of reason by thy whims’ and humours’ spell.

THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE BEAR

FOLK SONG

The little fox, the wolf and bear made peace;
Like kinsfolk all, they bade their warfare cease.
The fox they consecrate a hermit now;—
False monk, false hermit, false recluse’s vow!

The little fox a sack found in the street
Through which he thrust his head; then shod his feet
With iron shoes, and got a staff, I trow—
False monk, false hermit, false recluse’s vow!

The fox has sent the wolf to fetch the bear.
“For him,” he said, “I live this life of care;
Yet never hath he sent me aught to eat:—
Sore are my knees with walking, sore my feet!”

At morning dawn forth to the hunt they creep;
A ram they catch, a lambkin and a sheep.
Holy dispenser is the wolf proclaimed—
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!

He gives the sheep as portion to the bear;
The lambkin falls to the poor hermit’s share.
“The ram for me,” he said, “I’m tired and lamed”—
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!

The bear was wroth, and turned him round about,
And with one blow the wolf’s two eyes put out.
“That sheep for me, a bear so great and famed?
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!”

The little fox is sore afraid, and sees
A trap laid ready with a piece of cheese.
“O uncle, see, I’ve built a convent here,”
He said, “a place of rest, a place of prayer!”

The bear stretched out his paw for the repast,
The trap upon his neck closed hard and fast.
“Help me, my little nephew, for I fear
This is no convent, ’tis no house of prayer!”

The little fox with joy beheld the whole
And sang a mass for his great uncle’s soul.
“The wrong thou didst the wolf has brought thee there;
It is a house of rest, a house of prayer!”

O sovereign Justice, much thou pleasest me—
Who wrongs another soon shall cease to be.
And fasting in the trap must lie the bear,—
For ’tis a house of rest, a house of prayer!

INCENSE

By ZABELLE ESSAYAN

(Born 1878)

The incense at the altar slowly burns
Swayed in the silver censer to and fro;
Around the crucifix it coils and turns,
The brows of saints it wreathes with misty glow.

And tremulous petitions, long drawn out,
Beneath the lofty arches faint away;
To weary eyes the candles round about
Heave as they flicker with their pallid ray.

The sacred columns, grey and mouldering,
Support a veil that stirs with voiceless sobs.
Beneath it, like the incense smouldering,
A woman’s darkened heart in anguish throbs.

Consumed within the censer now, and burned,
The incense through the boundless ether soars.
What Matter was to Fragrance sweet is turned—
The cleansing fire its purity restores.

Nor shall that woman’s smouldering heart be freed,—
Saved from its cold and adamantine shell,—
Till it is melted, tried, and cleansed indeed,
Till the pure flames shall all its dross expel!

THE LITTLE LAKE [4]

By BEDROS TOURIAN

(1852–1872)

Why 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.

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.”

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!

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

SPRING

By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN

(Born 1869)

None await thy smiling rays;
Whither comest thou, O Spring?
None are left to sing thy praise—
Vain thy coming now, O Spring!

All the world is wrapped in gloom,
Earth in blood is weltering:
This year brought us blackest doom—
Whither comest thou, O Spring?

No rose for the nightingale,
No flower within park or dale,
Every face with anguish pale—
Whither comest thou, O Spring?

CRADLE SONG

By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

(1830–1892)

Mother

Sweet slumber now creeps o’er thee slow,
Sweet breezes rock thee to and fro:
My baby sleeps, so soft and low
With sweetest songs I’ll sing oror. [5]

Baby

O Mother dear, thou art unkind
My sleepless eyes so long to bind. [6]
Anon I’ll rest, and sleep resigned;—
Release me now, sing not oror.

Mother

Why dost thou shed those tears that flow
Down thy sad cheeks with pearly glow?
Thou’lt break thy heart with sobbing so,—
Whom wilt thou have to sing oror?

Baby

At least my hands and feet unbind—
My tender limbs are all confined;
That gentle sleep my eyes may find,
Then tie me in, and sing oror.

Mother

That tongue of thine is passing sweet,
Yet with thy yards I cannot mete.
Thou wilt not sleep, but at thy feet
Wouldst have me sit, and sing oror.

Baby

All piteously I raise my prayer,
I sob and cry, thou dost not hear.
Thy sweet voice seems to charm thine ear—
I weep, thou singest still oror.

Mother

Hush, hush, and sleep, my baby dear.
My love shall guard thee, year by year,
Until my rose-tree blossoms fair,
Then ‘neath his shade I’ll sing oror.

Baby

Thy heart is made of stone, I see.
I wept and wept, all uselessly.
Now I shall sleep, I can’t be free,
All night, all night sing me oror!

ARA AND SEMIRAMIS

From the History of Armenia, by

MOSES OF KHORENE

For a few years before the death of Ninus, Ara reigned over Armenia under his Protectorate, and found the same favour in his eyes as his father Aram had done. But that wanton and lustful woman Semiramis, having heard speak for many years of the beauty of Ara, wished to possess him; only she ventured not to do anything openly. But after the death or the escape to Crete of Ninus, as it hath been affirmed unto me, she discovered her passion freely, and sent messengers to Ara the Beautiful with gifts and offerings, with many prayers and promises of riches; begging him to come to her to Nineveh and either wed her and reign over all that Ninus had possessed, or fulfil her desires and return in peace to Armenia, with many gifts.

And when the messengers had been and returned many times and Ara had not consented, Semiramis became very wroth; and she arose and took all the multitude of her hosts and hastened to the land of Armenia, against Ara. But, as she had beforehand declared, it was not so much to kill him and persecute him that she went, as to subdue him and bring him by force to fulfil the desires of her passion. For having been consumed with desire by what she had heard of him, on seeing him she became as one beside herself. She arrived in this turmoil at the plains of Ara, called after him Aïrarat. And when the battle was about to take place she commanded her generals to devise some means of saving the life of Ara. But in the fighting the army of Ara was beaten, and Ara died, being slain by the warriors of Semiramis. And after the battle the Queen sent out to the battlefield to search for the body of her beloved amongst those who had died. And they found the body of Ara amongst the brave ones that had fallen, and she commanded them to place it in an upper chamber in her castle.

But when the hosts of Armenia arose once more against Queen Semiramis to avenge the death of Ara, she said: “I have commanded the gods to lick his wounds, and he shall live again.” At the same time she thought to bring Ara back to life by witchcraft and charms, for she was maddened by the intensity of her desires. But when the body began to decay, she commanded them to cast it into a deep pit, and to cover it. And having dressed up one of her men in secret, she sent forth the fame of him thus: “The gods have licked Ara and have brought him back to life again, thus fulfilling our prayers and our pleasure. Therefore from this time forth shall they be the more glorified and worshipped by us, for that they are the givers of joy and the fulfillers of desire.” She also erected a new statue in honour of the gods and worshipped it with many sacrifices, showing unto all as if the gods had brought Ara back to life again. And having caused this report to be spread over all the land of Armenia and satisfied the people she put an end to the fighting. And she took the son of Ara whom his beloved wife Nouvart had borne unto him and who was but twelve years old at the time of his father’s death. And she called his name Ara in memory of her love for Ara the Beautiful, and appointed him ruler over the land of Armenia, trusting him in all things.

LAMENT OVER THE HEROES FALLEN IN THE BATTLE OF AVARAIR

By KAREKIN SRVANSTIAN

(1840–1892)

If Goghtan’s bards no longer crown
Armenia’s heroes with their lays,
Let deathless souls from Heaven come down,
Our valiant ones to praise!

Ye shining angel hosts, descend:
On Ararat’s white summit pause;
Let God Himself the heavens rend,
To come and judge our cause.

Fly, clouds, from Shavarshan away,
Pour not on it your gentle rain:—
’Tis drenched with streams of blood to-day
Shed by our brave ones slain.

Henceforth the rose and asphodel
No more shall on our plains appear;
But in the land where Vartan fell
Shall Faith her blossoms rear.

Fit monument to Vartan’s name,
Mount Ararat soars to the sky.
And Cross-crowned convents tell his fame,
And churches vast and high.

Thy record too shall ever stand,
O Eghishé, for where they fell,
Thou forthwith camest, pen in hand,
Their faith and death to tell.

Bright sun, pierce with thy rays the gloom,
Where Khaghdik’s crags thy light repel,
There lies our brave Hmayag’s tomb,—
There, where he martyred fell.

And, moon, thy sleepless vigil keep
O’er our Armenian martyrs’ bones;
With the soft dews of Maytime steep
Their nameless funeral stones.

Armenia’s Stork, our summer guest,
And all ye hawks and eagles, come,
Watch o’er this land—’tis our bequest—
We leave to you our home.

About the ashes hover still,
Your nests among the ruins make;
And, swallows, come and go until
Spring for Armenia break!

THE SONG OF THE STORK

FOLK SONG

Stork, I welcome thy return.
Thou stork, I welcome thy return.
Thy coming is the sign of spring,
And thou dost joy and gladness bring.

Stork, upon our roof descend.
Thou stork, upon our roof descend.
Upon our ash-tree build thy nest,
Our dear one, and our honoured guest.

Stork, I would complain to thee:—
Yes, stork, I would complain to thee.
A thousand sorrows I would tell,
The griefs that in my bosom dwell.

Stork, when thou our house didst leave,—
When last our ash-tree thou didst leave,
Cold, blasting winds the heavens filled,
And all our smiling flowers were killed.

Clouds obscured the brilliant sky;
Dark clouds obscured the brilliant sky.
Up there in flakes they broke the snow,
And Winter killed the flowers below.

From the mountain of Varag,
From that great hill they call Varag,
The snow did all the earth enfold:—
In our green meadow it was cold.

In our garden all was white.
Our little garden all was white.
Our tender rose-trees, fresh and green,
All died of Winter’s frost-bite keen.

YE MOUNTAIN BLUEBELLS

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

Ye mountain bluebells, weep with me,
And flowers in coloured crowds;
Weep, nightingale, on yonder tree,—
Cool winds dropped from the clouds.

All dark around the earth and sky,
All lonely here I mourn.
My love is gone,—light of my eye;
I sob and weep forlorn.

Alas, no more he cares for me—
He left me unconsoled;
He pierced my heart, then cruelly
Left me in pain untold.

Ye mountain bluebells, weep with me,
And flowers in coloured crowds;
Weep, nightingale, on yonder tree,—
Cool winds dropped from the clouds.

THE SUN WENT DOWN

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

The sun went down behind the hill,
No light was on the lea,
The fowls and birds slept calm and still,
But sleep came not to me.

The moon peeped in beneath the eaves,
The Balance rose on high,
The fresh night-wind that stirred the leaves
Spoke to the starry sky.

Ah, gentle winds and stars of light,
Where is my love to-night?
Ye painted eyes of heaven so bright,—
Saw you my love to-night?

Day dawned,—unbolted was our door:—
The snowflakes whirled like foam,
’Tis cloud and storm, the wild winds roar—
Why comes my love not home?

BIRTHDAY SONG

By NAHABED KOUCHAK

On the morning of thy birth
We were glad but thou wert wailing,
See that when thou leav’st the earth
Thou art glad and we bewailing.

Let me speak unto thy heart,—
List if thou hast understanding;
Keep thyself from fools apart,
All their flatteries withstanding.

For the fool, like fire and heat,
Scorcheth everything, and burneth;
But the wise, like water sweet,
Deserts into gardens turneth.

MORNING

By HAROUTUNE TOUMANIAN

Day dawned. Bright tongues of scarlet flame
Shot up into the sky,
The livid heav’ns blushed, and became
A sea of crimson dye.

The sun his fiery beams unrolled
Like strands of coloured thread;
Embroidered all the clouds with gold,
And blue, and green, and red.

Then o’er the mountain, full in view,
Nature’s great Monarch rose:
And from his tent of Royal blue
Hurled darts upon his foes.

Eternal foe of Gloom and Night,
On high he raised his arm;
His shield of gold, all shining bright,
Sheltered the world from harm.

THE FOUNDING OF VAN

From the History of Armenia, by

MOSES OF KHORENE

And after these things Semiramis, having remained in the plain called Aïrarat after Ara, went into the hill country towards the south. For it was summer time and she wished to disport herself in the valleys and the flowery plains. And seeing the beauty of the land and the purity of the air, the clearness of the fountains and the murmuring of the gliding rivers, she said, “It is needful that we build for ourselves a city and palaces in this balmy clime and beautiful country, by the side of these pure waters; so that we may spend the fourth part of the year, which is the summer season, with enjoyment in the land of Armenia; and the three cool seasons of the year we will spend in Nineveh.”

And passing over many places she came to the eastern shore of the salt lake. And on the shore of the lake she saw a long hill lying towards the setting sun. And south of the hill was a wide valley like unto a plain, which came down from the eastern flank of the hill unto the shore of the lake, spacious and of goodly shape. And the rills of sweet water descending from the mountains ran down the ravines, and meeting around the spurs of the hills they hastened to join the river. And there were not a few buildings erected in the valley on the right and left banks of the waters. And she selected a small hill on the eastern side.

After gazing thence for a while that evil and hard-hearted woman Semiramis commanded that twelve thousand unskilled workmen and six thousand of her chosen men skilled in all manner of wood, stone, copper, and iron work should be brought from Assyria and all other lands to the desired place. And it was done according to her command. And immediately a great multitude of diverse workmen were brought, and of wise and gifted workers in all the arts. And she commanded first to make the dyke of the river, of boulders and great rocks cemented together with clay, of great width and height; the which it is said remains firm until this day, so that in the clefts of these dykes pirates and exiles do fortify themselves as in the caves of the mountains, none being able to wrench even one stone from the dyke. And when one looked upon the cement it appeared like a torrent of fat. Thus having taken the dyke round over much ground she brought it unto the intended site of the city. There she commanded the multitude of the workers to be divided into diverse sections, placing over each section a chosen master of the arts. And under such oppression did she keep them that after a few years the wondrous rampart with its gates of wrought copper was completed. And she made beautiful buildings in the city, and palaces of different stones decorated with colours, two stories and three stories high. For each one she did build summer-houses, separating the various quarters of the town from each other by beautiful streets. She built also wondrous baths in the midst of the city for the use of the people, and divided the water passing through the town into two parts, one for watering the fragrant orchards and flower-gardens, and the other for the drinking water of the city and its surroundings. On the east, north, and south of the city she built pleasure houses, and planted orchards with leafy trees that bore diverse kinds of fruit and foliage; she also planted many vines. The whole city she surrounded with stately ramparts, and caused great multitudes to dwell therein.

But concerning the far end of the city, and the miraculous works that were done there, it surpasseth the power of a man to tell, neither can they be understood by man. For there, surrounded by fortifications, she did construct the Royal Palace, in great mystery. For the entrances were hard, and the passages leading out of it like those of hell. Concerning the manner of its making we have never read a true description, neither do we propose to weave it into our history; but we only say that of all royal works it is, as we have heard, esteemed the first and greatest. And on the west side of the rock—whereon no man can now make any impression, even with iron—in this adamantine substance she constructed many temples, bed-chambers, and treasure-houses; and great trenches, so that none knoweth for what manner of things she made these marvellous preparations. And smoothing the face of the rock as one would smooth wax with a pen, she wrote many inscriptions thereon; so that even to look at it causeth a man to be amazed.

I HAVE A WORD I FAIN WOULD SAY

By SAYAT NOVA

I have a word I fain would say—list patiently, Light of my Eyes; A ceaseless longing fills my heart thy face to see, Light of my Eyes. How have I sinned that thou shouldst thus offended be, Light of my Eyes? The world is sated with the world,—I starve for thee, Light of my Eyes.

A sea of blood is in my heart, and tears forever fill my eyes; No salve can heal my wound, the cure in my beloved’s presence lies. All sick of love I lay, and watched her pathway with my longing eyes; When I was dead she came; ’twas but the layer-out who heard her sighs.

Fair springtime now is fully here, the meadows gay with leaf and flower; The hill-sides strewn with violets, the nightingale sent to the bower. But why cannot his voice be heard? O thorn-tree, whence thy cruel power? Thy branches pierced his heart; the rose was mourning left within her tower.

The scarlet poppy thought to tempt and lure the wandering nightingale, When he was dreaming of the rose tied round with wisps of basil pale. None pitied him—the rose was plucked by those who first came to the vale. Alas, poor nightingale, the hedge has caught and pierced thy body frail!

God knows my life I count but nought; for thee I’d give it joyfully. Come, let us taste of love’s delights, let him that listeth envious be. No wish of thine shall be refused, so but thy face I radiant see. If immortality thou’dst have, my love shall e’en bring that to thee.

And if I had a thousand woes no murmur from my lips would rise: Thou art my Ruler, none beside; no sovereign own I otherwise. Sayat Nova says, “Heartless one, death is not death for him who dies So thou but mourn him with thy locks spread over him, Light of my Eyes.”

THE SONG OF THE PARTRIDGE

FOLK SONG

The sun has touched the mountain’s crest,
The partridge rises from her nest;
And down the hillside tripping fast,
Greets all the flowers as she goes past.

I breakfast on my roof at morn
When to my ear her voice is borne—
When swinging from the mountain side,
She chirps her song in all her pride.

Thy nest is dewed with summer showers;
Basil, narcissus, lotus flowers,
Enamel it, and breathe to thee
Perfumes of immortality.

Soft feathers all thy body deck,
Small is thy beak, and long thy neck.
Thy wings are worked with colours rare,
The dove is not so sweet and fair.

The little partridge flies aloft
Upon the branch, and warbles soft;
He cheers the world, and heals the smart
When seas of blood well in the heart.

THE LILY OF SHAVARSHAN

By LEO ALISHAN

(1820–1901)

Armenian 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.
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.

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.

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 you! [7]

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

CRADLE SONG

By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

Nightingale, 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 findest thy joy,
With thy tales of gold and profit
Come and soothe my wailing boy!
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.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

THE WIND IS HOWLING THROUGH THE WINTER NIGHT

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

The wind is howling through the winter night,
Like to a pack of angry wolves that cry.
My hapless willows bend before its might;
Their broken branches in the garden lie.

Alas, my heart, thy love since childhood’s days
Hath wept; thy dream was understood by none.
Seek not in vain a friend to know thy ways—
The soul is born eternally alone.

Thou from thy hopeless heart that love shalt cast—
That child of earth, false, illegitimate:
Shalt fling it to the night and wintry blast—
Out in the storm—there let it find its fate.

There motherless and orphaned let it weep,
And let the wind its sobbings onward bear
Unto some desert place, or stormy deep—
But not where human soul its voice may hear.

The wind is howling in its agony
All through this snow-bound night, with piercing cry;
Alas, beneath the broken willow tree
My shattered love lies dying—let it die.

THE ARMENIAN POET’S PRAYER

By ALEXANDER DZADOURIAN

(Born 1870)

O God, ’tis not for laurel wreaths I pray,
For pompous funeral or jubilee;
Nor yet for fame beyond my life’s decay—
All these my country will accord to me.

One favour, Lord of Heaven, I implore—
One that my land to me will never give:
Grant me a crust of bread, or else such store
Of grace that I on air may learn to live!

THE CHRAGAN PALACE

By THOMAS TERZYAN

(1842–1909)

Have 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 [8]
Did the master builder rear it there.

By the windows, rich with twisted scroll-work,
Rising upward, marble columns shine,
And the sunbeams lose their 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 Carrara 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.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

THE DREAM

By SMPAD SHAHAZIZ

(1840–1897)

Soft and low a voice breathed o’er me,
Near me did my mother seem;
Flashed a ray of joy before me,
But, alas, it was a dream!

There the murmuring streamlet flowing
Scattered radiant pearls around,
Pure and clear, like crystal glowing—
But it was a dream, unsound.

And my mother’s mournful singing
Took me back to childhood’s day,
To my mind her kisses bringing—
’Twas a dream and passed away!

To her heart she pressed me yearning,
Wiped her eyes which wet did seem;
And her tears fell on me burning—
Why should it have been a dream?

THE SORROWS OF ARMENIA

In many a distant, unknown land,
My sons belovèd exiled roam,
Servile they kiss the stranger’s hand;
How shall I find and bring them home?

The ages pass, no tidings come;
My brave ones fall, are lost and gone.
My blood is chilled, my voice is dumb,
And friend or comfort I have none.

With endless griefs my heart is worn,
Eternal sorrow is my doom;
Far from my sons, despis’d, forlorn,
I must descend the darksome tomb.

Thou shepherd wandering o’er the hill,
Come weep with me my children lost;
Let mournful strains the valleys fill
For those we loved and valued most.

Fly, crane, Armenia’s bird, depart;
Tell them I die of grief; and tell
How hope is dead within my heart—
Bear to my sons my last farewell!

ARTASHES AND SATENIK

From the History of Armenia,

by

MOSES OF KHORENE

At this time the Alans united with all the people of the mountain country, and having taken possession of the half of Georgia, spread themselves in great multitudes over our land. And Artashes collected a mighty host together, and there was war between the two great nations. The Alans retreated somewhat, and crossing over the river Kur they encamped on its northern bank. And when Artashes arrived, he encamped on the southern bank, so that the river was between them. But because the son of the King of the Alans was taken captive by the Armenian hosts and brought to Artashes, the King of the Alans sought peace, promising to give to Artashes whatsoever he should ask. And he swore an eternal peace unto him, so that the sons of the Alans might not be carried away captive into the land of the Armenians. And when Artashes would not consent to give back the youth, his sister came to the river’s bank and stood upon a great rock. And by means of the interpreters she spoke to the camp of Artashes, saying:—“O brave Artashes, who hast vanquished the great nation of the Alans, unto thee I speak. Come, hearken unto the bright-eyed daughter of the Alan King, and give back the youth. For it is not the way of heroes to destroy life at the root, nor for the sake of humbling and enslaving a hostage to establish everlasting enmity between two great nations.” And on hearing such wise sayings, Artashes went to the bank of the river. And seeing that the maiden was beautiful, and having heard these words of wisdom from her, he desired her. And calling Smpad his chamberlain he told him the wishes of his heart, and commanded that he should obtain the maiden for him, swearing unto the great Alan nation oaths of peace, and promising to send the youth back in safety. And this appeared wise in the eyes of Smpad, and he sent messengers unto the King of the Alans asking him to give the lady Satenik his daughter as wife unto Artashes. And the King of the Alans answered, “From whence shall brave Artashes give thousands upon thousands and tens of thousands upon tens of thousands unto the Alans in return for the maiden?”

Concerning this the poets of that land sing in their songs:—

“Brave King Artashes
Mounted his fine black charger,
And took the red leathern cord
With the golden ring.
Like a swift-winged eagle
He passed over the river,
And cast the golden ring
Round the waist of the Alan Princess;
Causing much pain
To the tender maiden
As he bore her swiftly
Back to his camp.”

Which being interpreted meaneth that he was commanded to give much gold, leather, and crimson dye in exchange for the maiden. So also they sing of the wedding:—

“It rained showers of gold when Artashes became a bridegroom.
It rained pearls when Satenik became a bride.”

For it was the custom of our kings to scatter coins amongst the people when they arrived at the doors of the temple for their wedding, as also for the queens to scatter pearls in their bridechamber.

MY DEATH

By BEDROS TOURIAN