Chapter III: Introduction (2)

When Death’s pale angel comes to me,
And smiling sweetly on my head,
Bids all my pains and sorrows flee,—
Believe not then that I am dead.

When my cold limbs they shroud with care,
And on my brow love’s tear-drops shed,
And lay me on my ebon bier,—
Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the tolling bell shall ring
To my black coffin’s muted tread
—Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,—
Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the black-robed priests shall sing,
And prayers and incense round me spread,
With faces dark and sorrowing—
Believe not still that I am dead.

When on my tomb they heap the clay,
And leave me in my lonely bed,
And loved ones turn with sobs away—
Then never think that I am dead.

But if my grave neglected lie,
My memory too be gone and fled,
And dear ones pass unheeding by,
Ah, then believe that I am dead!

THE EAGLE’S LOVE

By SHUSHANIK GOURGHINIAN

(Born 1876)

An eagle sat upon the fell,—
He sat and sang alone.
A pretty maid passed in the dell,
He saw—his heart was won.

“Ah, lovely maid, enchanting maid,
Alas, thou canst not fly!
Down in the vale thou soon shalt fade,
And like a floweret die.

“I’d make thee queen, if thou could’st fly,
Of all my mountains steep;
At night I’d sing thy lullaby,
And in my wings thou’dst sleep.

“Those eyes are like black night to me,
That smile like sunshine bright;
And heaven itself would quickly be
Subdued before thy might.

“Good Lord, canst thou not fly at all?
Who made thee without wings?
Art thou content down there to crawl
With loathsome creeping things?”

Thus on his rock the eagle proud
Sat singing, then he sailed
O’er hill and valley, and aloud
The maiden’s fate bewailed.

CONCERNING THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE

By GRIGORIS OF AGHTAMAR

(Fifteenth Century)

The Rose was gone. When to the empty tent
The Nightingale returned, his heart was torn.
He filled the night with mourning and lament,
And wandered through the darkness lone and lorn.

“To thee I speak, O Garden, answer me,
Why did’st thou not preserve my precious Rose,
Whose perfume breathed of immortality,
Whose colour made her queen of all that grows?

“May’st thou become a desert parched and dry,
And may the flowers that grow within thee fade;
May thy protecting walls in ruin lie—
By ruthless feet thy soil in waste be laid.

“Ye trees, now cast away your verdant leaves,
And rushing torrents, your swift courses stay.
Reckless I speak, as one who sorely grieves,
For they have taken my sweet love away.

“My Rose is gone and I am desolate.
Light of my eyes was she, now darkness reigns.
Both day and night I weep disconsolate.
My reason leaves me, and my spirit wanes.

“Was it the gardener took her away
And grieved my soul? If never more again
I should behold her face, what shall I say?
Instead of joy, I’ll sing of grief and pain.

“Or else I fear the mighty wind arose,
And blasted with its strength her petals frail;
Or did the scorching sunbeams burn my Rose
Within her leaves, and turn her beauty pale?...

“I think perhaps the flowers were wroth with me
And hid her from my sight; I’ll go to them.
Or else the clouds in cruel enmity
Sent hailstones down that broke her from the stem!”

Then all the flowers together made reply,
“We have no tidings of the Rose at all,
She left us suddenly, we know not why.
We have no tidings of the Rose at all.”

The Nightingale then rose into the air,
“I’ll ask the birds in friendly wise,” he said,
“If they can tell me why she went, and where;
If not, a sea of tears my eyes shall shed.

“Birds, do you know what came to pass to-day?
The lovely Rose was stolen from her home.
Know you perchance who carried her away?
Have you seen aught, or heard where she doth roam?”

They said, “The Lord Creator knoweth all;
No secrets of the heart from Him are hid.
On Him as witness reverently we call—
We have not seen or touched her—God forbid!”

The Nightingale then sadly made reply,
“What will become of me? From night to morn
I have no rest, and I shall surely die,
Parted from her, with ceaseless longings worn.

“If in her stead the world to me were given
I would esteem it but a paltry thing;
If choirs of minstrels sang the songs of heaven,
To me their songs as discords harsh would ring.

“Oh, in what corner have they buried thee?
How shall I e’er forget thy tenderness?
My heart and soul are wounded grievously,
All flowers are dead—this place a wilderness.

“The Psalmist’s words are now fulfilled in me;
Mournful I go, and like a pelican
About the wilderness roam hopelessly,
Or like an owl the sandy desert scan.”

The gardener then with soothing words drew near,
“Weep not, she will return, O Nightingale.
The Violet, her forerunner, is here,
And brings thee messages and words of hail.”

Then he rejoiced and blessed the gardener,
“May’st thou in peace upon this earth abide,
Thy garden flourish with its bright allure,
Its circling walls renew their former pride.

“May all thy plants grow verdant once again,
And gently sway about upon the breeze,
May they receive fresh brightness from the rain,
And waft sweet perfume human hearts to please!”

Then did the Nightingale write a letter unto the Rose who collected all the Flowers and caused it to be read in their presence.

They took the letter to the Rose’s Court,
Where Hazrevart, her minister austere,
Stood on his feet with stately mien and port
And read it out for all the flowers to hear:—

“I greet thee, O beloved of my heart,
And fain would hear concerning this thy rape.
I trust through God’s protecting care thou art
Perfect in health, as faultless in thy shape.

“For which with outstretched hands I ever pray,
And beg that length of days be granted thee;
All flowers bend to thee and homage pay,
Thou rulest them in all thy majesty.

“Thy hue is beautiful, thy perfume sweet,
Each morn thou shinest brighter than the sun.
Happy the day when thee once more I meet,—
For thou art full of grace, my spotless one.

“Apart from thee, in humble reverence,
I worship thee, and pray for thy return.
I have no sleep at night for this suspense,
Now Spring is here I ever weep and mourn.

“The icy winter passed—I lived it through,
Still suffering many things because of thee;
They mocked at me, and said thou wast not true—
My Rose had no more love or care for me.”

Then sent the Rose unto the Nightingale,
And said: “Behold, I send him many flowers.
And they shall cover mountain, hill, and dale,
My Nightingale shall dwell within those bowers.

“I cannot there return immediately;
A little he must wait, in patient wise:
But if his love is perfectly with me,
Tell him to look for it in Paradise.”

The Nightingale rejoiced on hearing this
And said: “The beauteous Rose shall then return!
What tidings wonderful of untold bliss!
For all the world her ransom could not earn.”

And when the sun into the Ram had passed,
The thunder rolled, the storm-clouds broke in showers;
Myriads of blossoms o’er the earth were cast:—
He sought the Rose—she was not of those flowers.

Until one morn he saw her foliage green,
Lovely and fresh as it had been before:
The Rose was hidden in a silken screen
And every flower worshipped her once more.

The Nightingale beheld and said: “Thank Heaven!
Blessing and praise from every mouth be breathed;
To Heaven’s King be endless glory given—
For in her bud I saw the Rose ensheathed!”

Foolish Aghtamartzi, beware this bane,
For this world’s love is ever linked with thorn;
A little while ’tis gladness, then ’tis pain—
What boots the joy which needs must make us mourn?

THE ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS

By SAINT NERSES SHNORHALI

(1102–1173)

Once more God hither moves their course;
With countless infantry and horse,
As swell the waves towards the strand,
Fierce and tempestuous, they land.
Like sands that by the ocean lie,
Or like the stars that strew the sky,
They fill the earth where’er they go
And whiten it as wool or snow.
Their voice is like the northern wind,
Driving the storm-cloud from behind.
They clear the land from end to end,
The unbelievers forth they send,
Redeeming from such hopeless plight
All Christians held within their might.
Now in the churches cold and dark,
Once more shall burn the taper’s spark;
And you, my sons, late forced to flee
To distant lands, afar from me,
Shall now return in chariots fair
Drawn by brave steeds with trappings rare.
And I shall lift mine eyes above
Beholding near me those I love.
My arms about you I shall fold,
Rejoicing with a joy untold;
And my black robes aside will lay
To dress in greens and crimsons gay.

LIKE AN OCEAN IS THIS WORLD

By HOVHANNES ERZINGATZI

(Born 1260)

Like an ocean is this world;
None undrenched may cross that ocean.
My ship too its sails unfurled,
Ere I knew it was in motion.

Now we draw towards the land,
And I fear the sea-board yonder:—
Lest the rocks upon the strand
Break and tear our planks asunder.

I will pray God that He raise
From the shore a breeze to meet us,—
To disperse this gloomy haze,
That a happy land may greet us.

THE ROCK

By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN

Above the waters, like a hoary giant,
The rock stands up, majestic and defiant.
The little waves, as to and fro they move,
Greet him with kisses and with looks of love.

The wavelets of the river laugh and dance,
As in their arms the mirrored sunbeams glance;
And with their smiles of winning, child-like grace,
They woo the rock, and murmur in his face:

“O Aged-One, why art thou never glad?
The lines that seam thy countenance are sad.
The world is ever changing; thou alone
Art still the same with thy dark face of stone.

“Free children of the mountains ever free,
We bring rich gifts of jewels unto thee;
Scent thee with perfumes of the mountain rose—
Heaven’s daughter fair, that on our margin grows.

“Sweet strains of gentle melody we breathe,
And call the fishes from our depths beneath;
And gilded with the spring-tide’s golden rays,
We make thee on our merry revels gaze.

“And songs of love we warble in thine ear,
From morning dawn until the stars appear:—
We fondle thee, and on thine aged breast
Our passions lull, and bid them sink to rest.”

The wavelets hasten, moving to and fro,
The rock still sorrows o’er his ancient woe;
The wavelets play, and laughing onward press—
The rock remains, gloomy and motionless.

THE CRANE

By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN

(Born 1869)

The Crane has lost his way across the heaven,
From yonder stormy cloud I hear him cry,
A traveller o’er an unknown pathway driven,
In a cold world unheeded he doth fly.

Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?

Farewell, belovèd bird, where’er thou roam
Spring shall return and bring thee back once more,
With thy sweet mate and young ones, to thy home—
Thy last year’s nest upon the sycamore.

But I am exiled from my ruined nest,
And roam with faltering steps from hill to hill,
Like to the fowls of heaven in my unrest
Envying the boulders motionless and still.

Each boulder unassailed stands in its place,
But I from mine must wander tempest tossed—
And every bird its homeward way can trace,
But I must roam in darkness, lone and lost.

Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?

THE HAWK AND THE DOVE

FOLK SONG

The Hawk said to the Dove, “My dear,
Why dost thou shed tear after tear,
That go to swell the streamlet clear?”
The Dove said to the Hawk, “I fear
That spring is gone and autumn’s here;
The rills have ceased their glad career,
The leaves and flowers are dead and sere,
The partridges no more we hear;
So I shall weep in my despair,
And from my eyes shed many a tear:—
How shall I find my babies’ fare?”
He said, “Weep not this autumn drear,
For spring will come another year,
And sunshine bring the world its cheer,
And Hope shall for the poor appear.
Upon my pinions thee I’ll bear
Where those tall trees their summit rear,
And high upon those mountains bare
I’ll build a nest with tender care,
I’ll make for thee a dwelling there,—
A hearth laid in that rocky lair,
With chimney open to the air;
The smoke shall to the clouds repair—
And to the South Wind fly our care!”
Autumn gave place to springtime fair,
The rills were loosed on their career
And went to swell the streamlet clear,
Like blood-drops from the boulders bare.
Bright yellow flowers the hills did wear,
And violets, with perfume rare,
And flowers of countless colours fair;
And birds with music filled the air,
And bleating lambs called everywhere
To God for all His love and care.

ARTAVASD

From the History of Armenia, by

MOSES OF KHORENE

After the death of Artashes his son Artavasd reigned, and he drove all his brothers and sisters to the lands of Aghyovd and Arberan, that they might not live in Aïrarat, on the territory of the King. And when he had reigned but a little while, as he was riding over the bridge of Artashat to hunt deer and wild asses on the banks of the Ghin, he was seized by some visionary terror and lost his reason. And urging his horse down a steep bank he fell into a chasm, wherein he sank and disappeared.

The singers of Ghogtan tell concerning him, that when his father was dying many people killed themselves according to the customs of the heathen; and they say that Artavasd was wroth, and said unto his father:

“Now that thou art gone
And hast taken with thee the whole land,
How shall I reign over the ruins?”

Therefore Artashes cursed him, and said:

“When thou ridest forth to hunt
Over the free heights of Ararat,
The Strong Ones shall have thee,
And shall take thee up
On to the free heights of Ararat.
There shalt thou abide,
And never more see the light.”

Old women also tell of him how that he is confined in a cavern and bound with iron chains. And his two dogs do daily try to gnaw through the chains to set him free, that he may come and put an end to the world; but at the sound of the hammers striking on the anvil, the chains are strengthened. So also even in our own times many blacksmiths do keep up the tradition and strike the anvil three or four times on a Monday, to strengthen, as they say, the chains of Artavasd. But the truth concerning him is as we have declared above.

Others say that at his birth the women of the house of Ahasuerus did try to bewitch him, and therefore Artashes tormented them much; and these same singers say also that the Children of the Dragons stole the infant Artavasd and put a devil in his place. But unto us it seemeth that being full of wickedness from his very birth, so also did he end.

CHARM VERSES [9]

FOLK SONGS

Snowless hang the clouds to-night,
Through the darkness comes no light;
While my lover, far away,
Line or letter will not write.

* * * * *

Snowless hang the clouds to-night,
Through the darkness comes no light;
On this lonely pillow now,
Never more shall sleep alight.

* * * * *

Like a star whose brightness grows
On the earth my beauty shows;
Thou shalt long for yet, and seek
My dark eyes and arching brows.

* * * * *

I beheld a dream last night,
Saw these haystacks all alight;—
They have borne thy love away,—
Wilt not come and for her fight?

* * * * *

Soft winds move beneath the trees
And thy locks wave in the breeze.
Whilst thou roamest hill and field
Sleep my eyelids ever flees.

* * * * *

Eden’s smile my vineyard wore,
Flowers bloomed, a goodly store;
Handsome youth and ugly maid—
This was never seen before!

* * * * *

For the mountain air I’d die,
For his form so fair I’d die,
Now he’s far off, for the eyes
That have seen him there I’d die.

* * * * *

’Tis a moonlight night to-night,
Eyes so black and cheeks so bright.
Give me but the one I love—
Peace to you then, and good-night!

* * * * *

On my finger is a ring,
Crimson rubies, glistening.
He that parts me from my love,—
Satan to his soul shall cling.

* * * * *

Long and lone this night to me
Passing slow and wearily;
Passing full of sighs and tears—
Love, what doth it bring to thee?

* * * * *

Round the moon a halo grew,
In its depths the storm-cloud drew;
Go and ask them who it was
Turned from me my lover true.

* * * * *

Dainty is the frock I wear,
Bright the gauze upon my hair:
Since my love is coy with me,
I’ll be coy, and will not care!

THE TEARS OF ARAXES

By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

I 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.

“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.

“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 splendour,
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?

“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.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

THE EVE OF ASCENSION DAY [10]

By DERENIK DEMIRJIAN

Night with her ebon hair and starry crown
Upon the hills came down.
Her loosened tresses floated all unbound
And veiled her form around.

The fountain murmured like an endless tale
On her entrancing lips; and it would seem
As if God spake within the silent vale,
And sleeping Earth were listening, in a dream.

Like blackened clouds, in Jorokh’s stream arise
Those rocks that through her savage waters pierce;
Like dragons twain, they glare with threatening eyes,
Facing each other, arrogant and fierce.

Wild Jorokh through that fearsome valley flows—
Flows like a caravan that onward sweeps;
First roaring loud, then hushed into repose,
Groping its way through darkness, on it creeps.

The sounds of Earth are melted into rest,
While strikes the hour of expectation deep;
Earth’s waters heave, against each other pressed,
And breathless listening, all their vigils keep.

Decked out like lovely brides stand all the flowers;
With nuptial joy the forests trembling wait:
Until Heaven’s blessing fall in sacred showers,
And whispering softly, each may clasp its mate.

“THY VOICE IS SWEET”

By SAYAT NOVA

Thy voice is soft, thy speech all sweetness flows;
May he protect who hath thy heart, my love!
Thy waist is the gazelle’s, thy hue the rose,
Brocade from Franguistan thou art, my love!

If I compare thee to brocade, ‘twill fray;
If to a plane-tree, ‘twill be felled one day;
All girls are likened to gazelles thou’lt say—
How then shall I describe thee truly, love?

The violet is wild, and low of birth;
Rubies are stones, for all their priceless worth:
The moon itself is made of rocks and earth—
All flame, thou shinest like the sun, my love.

Thy door I seek as pilgrims seek a shrine:
Thine eyes are roses, new-blown eglantine;
Thy tongue a pen, thy hands like paper fine,
A flower fresh from the sea thou art, my love!

Within my soul thy hand has placed love’s seed;
Thy wiles and coyness make my heart to bleed:
Thy Sayat Nova thou hast slain indeed,
Thine evil fate he bears for thee, my love.

CHRIST AND ABGARUS

From the History of Armenia, by

MOSES OF KHORENE

Abgar the son of Arsham began to reign in the twentieth year of the reign of Arshavr King of Persia. This Abgar was called the Great Man because of his exceeding meekness and wisdom. In the third year of his reign the whole of Armenia fell under the jurisdiction of Rome.... Therefore the Romans sent commissioners unto the land of Armenia who brought the image of Cæsar and placed it in all the temples.

At this time was born our Saviour Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

And there was a dispute between Abgar and Herod. For Herod commanded that his image also should be placed in the temples of Armenia, with that of Cæsar; to which Abgar not acceding, the anger of Herod was kindled against him. And he sent his brother’s son with a great army against him. And Abgar met and fought him; and he was slain in the battle and his army fled.

Soon after these things Augustus died, and Tiberius reigned over the Roman Empire; and Germanicus sent messengers from Rome unto Arshavr and Abgar concerning the battle in which Herod’s brother’s son was slain. Whereupon Abgar was displeased, and thought to prepare for revolt and war. Then did he build the city of Edessa wherein to keep the hosts of Armenia, and removed thither his court from Mdzpin, with all his idols: Nebog, Bel, Batnikol, and Tarata; also with the Royal Palace he removed the books of the schools belonging to the temples.

But strife had arisen between his kinsmen of the reigning house of Persia, and Abgar collected his armies and went to reconcile and pacify them. And having settled their disputes he returned home; not sound in his body, but tormented with a painful disease.

At that time Marinus was governor over Phœnicia, Palestine, Assyria, and Mesopotamia. And Abgarus sent two of his notables unto him to show him the treaty of peace between Arshavr and his brother (for the Romans suspected that he had been to Persia to collect armies against them). And Marinus received them with peace and great honour, sending word unto Abgarus, “Fear nothing, only hasten to raise all the taxes.”

And on their return the messengers went up to Jerusalem to see our Saviour Christ, having heard of His wonderful deeds.

And when they had seen Him with their own eyes they returned and told Abgar; at which the king marvelled, and believed Him to be the very Son of God. And because His body was tormented with a painful disease contracted in the land of Persia seven years before, and he was not able to find any cure by men, he sent unto Him a letter asking Him to come and heal him of his disease.

The Letter of Abgarus to our Saviour Jesus Christ.

“Abgarus, a prince of the world, unto Jesus, the Saviour and Benefactor, Who hast appeared in the City of Jerusalem, greetings.

“I have heard of Thee and of the healings wrought by Thy hands, without drugs and without roots; for it is said that Thou givest sight to the blind, Thou makest the lame to walk, and Thou cleansest the lepers; Thou curest those who have been long tormented by diseases, and raisest even the dead. And when I heard all this concerning Thee I thought that either Thou art God come down from Heaven that workest these things, or the Son of God. I have written unto Thee that Thou shouldest trouble Thyself to come unto me, and heal me of my disease. I have heard also that the Jews murmur against Thee, and think to torture Thee. My city is a small one, but it is beautiful, and it is sufficient for us twain.”

And taking the letter they found Him in Jerusalem. And unto this the gospel beareth witness, saying: “There were some amongst the heathen that came up to Him.” But our Saviour did not undertake to come at the time when they called Him, but made Abgarus worthy of a letter thus.

The Answer to the Letter of Abgarus, written at the command of our Saviour by the Apostle Thomas.

“Blessed is he who believeth on Me though he hath not seen Me. For it is written concerning Me thus: ‘They that have seen Me believed not on Me, but they that have not seen Me shall believe and live.’ And concerning that which thou hast written unto Me to come down unto thee, it is needful that I fulfil all that for which I was sent; and when I have fulfilled it I will ascend unto Him that sent Me. And after My ascension I will send one of My disciples, who shall heal thee of thy disease, and give Life unto thee and unto all them that are with thee.”

This letter did Anan the messenger bring unto Abgarus, with the Image of the Saviour, which remaineth in the city of Edessa until this day.

ARAXES CAME DEVOURINGLY

By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN

Araxes came devouringly,
Swept o’er her boulders scouringly—
Where shall I lay my aching head
Bowed down with grief o’erpoweringly?

Oh my Araxes, flow serene;—
Tell me, hast thou my sweet love seen?
My heart’s desire is unfulfilled;—
Arax, hast thou more happy been?

Mount Ararat with clouds is veiled,
My love is lost, my hope has failed.
For pity’s sake an answer give
To my sad heart with grief assailed.

I sob and weep the livelong night;
Till dawn I watch—I watch and write;
Arax, ere sunrise gild thy waves
To thee I bring my spirit’s blight.

Upon the rocks the sunbeams dart,
Red flames devour my mourning heart;
Those eyes and brows have left with me
A sorrow which shall ne’er depart.

THE PARROT’S SONG

By RAFFI

(1837–1888)

With nuts and sweets and dainty fare,
My lady feeds me oft.
She decks my cage with tender care,
And hands so white and soft.

But not a moment’s joy can give
This pampering care to me,
Since as a prisoner here I live,
In gilded misery.

EARTH AND SKY

By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN

The Sky bent down his piercing gaze one day
On Mother Earth, that far beneath him lay.
And as he looked on mountain, sea, and grove,
On hill and dale, he burnt with thoughts of love.

Earth lying numbed and frozen ‘neath the snow,
Sudden awoke to springtime’s ardent glow,
And flames of fire her beating heart consumed,
While myriad flowers the air around perfumed.

And thus they loved, though never side by side,
Though Nature willed they should be parted wide—
The Earth and Sky.

But when has love accepted with content
An obstacle? When o’er the earth steals night,
The starry Sky, his vision downward bent,
Opens his thousand eyes of shining light,
And gazes on his love in worship still,
Gazes till dawn, and cannot take his fill.

And as he gazes, all his starry eyes
Are strewn into Earth’s breast of waters blue,
Which foam, and heave, and swell, and strive to rise,
Longing to reach and join her lover true.

He, more and more inflamed by passion’s fire,
In all the splendours of the night arrayed,
Pours in her ear his longing and desire,
And shows her all his pomp and pride displayed;
Towards her turning
And ever yearning.

But when he finds his love is out of reach
He turns away, nor utters sound nor speech;
And in the dark the tears that dim his sight
Fall on earth’s cheeks in showers of dewdrops bright,—
Dewdrops of pearl—the tears that heaven weeps,
And then Earth’s bosom swells. Her thousand deeps,
Her boundless oceans, rise once more to meet
The far-off loved one; and her mountain peaks
Like myriad lips rise up the clouds to greet,—
To kiss their gloomy forms, and sullen cheeks.

And love torments her with its ceaseless fire.
Her waters foam, and writhe, and are convulsed,
Yet never may they reach their heart’s desire,—
Restlessly sobbing, ever more repulsed.

And from her gloomy throne,
Behind the clouds, alone,
The moon beheld it with her sleepless eye.
And told the Poet how she did espy
That in the darkness of the silent night
Earth heaved her bosom up to Heaven above;
And that the sky smiled on her with delight,
As they exchanged the secret kiss of love;
And for each other sweetest songs they sing
And they embrace each other and caress,
Like living souls, each other gladdening.

Then on the Poet fell a deep distress,
A jealous sorrow—for he fain would, too,
Possess a love as noble and as true.

O’ER THE MOUNTAINS HIGH HE WENT

FOLK SONG

O’er the mountains high he went,
Love, love!
In the meadows above
I seek for my love.
With a weary sigh he went.
Love, love!
To fight thou art gone
While I stay here alone.

Neither quail nor partridge stirred.
Love, love!
In the meadows above
I look for my love
And he left without a word.
Love, love!
To fight thou art gone
While I stay here alone.

Like a flower’s fragrance sweet
He came past, and vanished fleet.
I beheld him and I loved—
But we never more shall meet.

When my lover rode away
Not a farewell did I say;
None there is to help him now—
Sourb Carapet, [11] bless his way!

COMPLAINTS

By BEDROS TOURIAN

Farewell, thou Sun, and Thou, O Power Divine,
That far above my spirit dimly shine.
I go to add another star to heaven:—
For what are stars, but anguished curses, riven
From innocent and hapless souls, that fly
To burn the brow of Heaven? and they supply
Fresh armaments, and jewels fiery red,
To God, the source of lightning flashes dread!

Alas, what do I say? Send forth thy fires,
O God! Consume this brain that thus aspires
To soar, and dares to pierce the depths of heaven;
And e’en to climb unto the stars has striven!

Creator of our trembling beings, hail!
Of light and youth, of age when forces fail;
Thou that the roses from my brow hast wrenched,
Hast stilled my trembling lips, my longings quenched;
Mist to mine eyes hast given, sobs to my breath:—
Yet thou hast sworn to smile on me in death!
Ah, surely thou hast kept for me a life
Of fragrance, light, and prayer beyond this strife!
But if my latest breath must perish here
All silently, in this dark atmosphere—
From now a flash of lightning I would be,
Coiled round thy name, and, murmuring ceaselessly,
A curse I would become to pierce Thy side—
God, the Arch Enemy, I would deride!

Ah me, I tremble, and am pale as death.
My brain seethes like a hell; a sobbing breath
I am amongst the mournful cypress trees,
An autumn leaf soon wafted by the breeze!

Oh, I would live!—give me of life one spark!
To dream—and then embrace the grave so dark?
My God, how black is this decree of doom
Writ in the lees of dread sepulchral gloom!
Oh, give my soul one drop of living fire—
To love—and live for ever I desire!
Ye stars of heaven, into my spirit fall,
There live, and hear your hapless lover call!

To my pale brow the springtime brings no rose.
No smile for me in this world’s sunbeams glows.
Night is my coffin, stars for lights flame round.
The moon all weeping seeks my funeral mound.
There are some men for whom no mourners sigh—
It was for them He placed that moon on high;
And he that to death’s portals draweth near
First life would have—and then a mourner’s tear.

In vain the stars of heaven spelt “Love” for me
And nightingales explained its mystery.
In vain of Love I learnt to know the truth,
And crystal waves reflected back my youth.
In vain the forest silent lay around—
The secret leaves gave forth no breath or sound;
They would not break upon my reverie—
They let me dream of Love eternally.
All, all in vain I saw the flowers of spring
Their incense to my dreams’ fair altar bring;
With their delights they all have mocked at me—
And all the world is but God’s mockery!

A DAY AFTER

By BEDROS TOURIAN

Slumbering darkly yesterday,
As in deathly sweats I lay,
And two roses fiery red
On my faded cheeks were spread—
On my brow perchance a ray
Of Death’s pallor trembling lay.
And I prayed and longed for death.
Then I heard a sobbing breath....
I unclosed my weary eyes
And beheld my mother’s tears—
Saw those priceless pearls arise,
Tokens of her love, her fears.
In her heart what grief she bore!
And I was that anguish sore.
Ah, I raged tempestuously,
That black torrent outward leapt [12]:—
God of mercy, pardon me,
For the tears my mother wept!

WITHOUT THEE WHAT ARE SONG AND DANCE TO ME?

By SAYAT NOVA

Without thee what are song and dance to me?
The castagnettes I throw down wearily.
My heart and thoughts are ever filled with thee,
So rhymes and verses leave me, one by one.

How can one bandage serve for gashes twain?
How on two masters wait a single swain?
Would not one gardener tend two groves in vain?
For he must graft the saplings one by one.

Well said our fathers, speaking of such woes,
“I made a garden, others plucked the rose.
Theirs was the sweetness, mine the thorny close.”
In sooth these things befell me one by one!

Without thee what are riches unto me?
What worth could I in silks or cashmeres see?
Arrayed in rags and sackcloth I would be,
Wandering around the convents, one by one,

To meet perchance with some one, who might tell,
My fair one, how to free me from thy spell;
For Sayat Nova’s torments far excel
The Seven Wise Men’s complaints told one by one!

THE LAKE OF VAN

By RAFFI

Unutterable silence here is spread
On every hand, and Nature might be dead.
A lonely exile, here I sit and weep,
And far above, bright Moon, I see thee sweep.

From Earth’s creation till the skies shall parch
And she dissolve, thou circlest Heaven’s high arch:
Saw’st thou the laurels on Armenia’s brow?
And dost behold her hopeless sorrows now?

Mournful as I! I wonder dost thou see
How she is ground by heels of tyranny!
And do thine eyes with bitter tear-drops smart
When barbèd arrows pierce her through the heart

Thy heart is stone, thy pity stark and cold,
For fields of innocent blood thou dost behold
Without a word, and o’er Armenia’s land
Thy nightly compass of the dome hast spanned
With all the brightness that was thine of old.

O Lake, make answer! Why be silent more?
Wilt not lament with one whose heart is sore?
And you, ye Zephyrs, hurl the waters high
That I may feed them from a mourner’s eye!

A garden once, luxuriantly fair,
Now is Armenia choked with thorn and tare:
Thou who hast seen her fortunes wax and wane,
Tell me, I pray thee! Must she thus remain?

Must this unhappy nation ever be
By foreign princes held in slavery?
Is the Armenian and his stricken race
Counted unworthy in God’s judgment-place?

Comes there a day, comes there a season that
Shall hail a flag on topmost Ararat,
Calling Armenians, wheresoe’er they roam,
To seek once more their loved and beauteous home?

Hard tho’ it be, O heavenly Ruler, raise
Armenia’s spirit, and her heart’s dark ways
Light with Thy knowledge: understanding so
The mystery of life, her works shall show
That all she does is ordered to Thy praise.

Then suddenly the surface of the lake
Grew luminous, and from its depths did break
A lovely maid that bore a lantern and
A lyre of shining ivory in her hand.
Was she an Angel in a strange disguise?
Was she a Houri fled from Paradise?
Nay, rather was she of the form and hue
Of the Armenian Muses!
“Tell me true,
O Muse,” I cried, “our people’s destiny!
Speak of the Now and of the Yet-to-be!”

Then the sweet heavenly Spirit made reply,
“Wipe, O sad youth, the salt tears from thine eye!
I bring glad tidings: better days shall break,
New days of joy, that carry in their wake
The reign of God, Whose will is free and just:
A Golden Age again shall gild the dust!

“Armenia’s Muses shall awake anew,
And her Parnassus bloom with vernal hue,
And the bright car Apollo whirls on high
Shall sweep the shadows from her clouded sky.

“For many a day, like thee, we mourned aloud
While the thick darkness wrapped her in its shroud:
Now, O belovèd, may the weeping cease,—
To us has come the olive branch of peace!

“Cleanse from thy lute the rust that soils its string;
Hasten thee back, and, as thou goest, sing
Such joyful lays as yet may re-inspire
Hearts that are dead with new and tameless fire.
His Will is done; the Time is here; the Day
Dawns; and the Morning Star, so God doth say,
Shall be thy sign.”
Then darkness fell again;
The vision fled; but long there did remain
An echo of the thrilling voice, that blended
With the wild waves whose depths she had descended;
And flowery perfumes filled the air like rain.

O message dear, and sweet prophetic strain!
What happiness is come to us,—but Oh!
Beautiful Muse, yet one thing would we know—
Can a dead corpse rise up and live again?

Translated by G. M. Green.

SPRING

By MUGGURDICH BESHIGTASHLIAN

(1829–1868)

O little breeze, how fresh and sweet
Thou blowest in the morning air!
Upon the flowers caressingly,
And on the gentle maiden’s hair.
But not my country’s breath thou art:
Blow elsewhere, come not near my heart!

O little bird among the trees,
The sweetness of thy joyful voice
Entrances all the Hours of Love,
And makes the listening woods rejoice.
But not my country’s bird thou art:
Sing elsewhere, come not near my heart!

How peacefully thou murmurest,
O gentle, limpid little brook;
Within thy mirror crystal-bright
The rose and maiden bend to look.
But not my country’s brook thou art:
Flow elsewhere—come not near my heart!

Although Armenia’s breeze and bird
Above a land of ruins fly;
Although through mourning cypress groves
Armenia’s turbid stream flows by,—
They are the sighing of her heart,
And never shall from mine depart!

THE FOX

FOLK SONG

The fox ran up into the mill,
He raised his paws, and danced his fill.
Brave Master Fox, ’tis but your due,
In all the world there’s none like you!

A peck of corn he ground that day,
Which on his back he bore away.

He ate the village chickens brown,
And trod the upland cornfields down.

The fox lies on his shaggy side,
His paws stretched out before him wide.

Sable and fox this fall we’ll catch,
And for my son I’ll make a match.

Alas, this year no price they made:—
My Hovhannes unmarried stayed!

THE TALE OF ROSIPHELEE

From the “Confessio Amantis” by

JOHN GOWER

(Died 1408)

Of Armenye, I rede þus,
Ther was a king, which Herupus
Was hote, and he a lusti Maide
To dowhter hadde, and as men saide
Hire name was Rosiphelee;
Which þo was of gret renomee,
ffor sche was boþe wys and fair,
And scholde ben hire fader hair.
Bot sche hadde o defalte of Slowþe
Towardes loue, and þat was rowþe;
ffor so wel cowde noman seie,
Which mihte sette hire in þe weie
Of loues occupacion
Thurgh non ymaginacion;
That scole wolde sche noght knowe.
And þus sche was on of þe slowe
As of such hertes besinesse,
Til whanne Venus þe goddesse,
Which loues court haþ forto reule,
Haþ broght hire into betre reule,
fforþ wiþ Cupide and wiþ his miht:
ffor þei merueille how such a wiht,
Which þo was in hir lusti age,
Desireþ nother Mariage
Ne ȝit þe loue of paramours,
Which euere haþ be þe comvn cours
Amonges hem þat lusti were.
So was it schewed after þere:
ffor he þat hihe hertes loweþ
Wiþ fyri Dartes whiche he þrovreþ,
Cupide, which of loue is godd,
In chastisinge haþ mad a rodd
To dryue awei hir wantounesse;
So þat wiþinne a while, I gesse,
Sche hadde on such a chance sporned,
That al hire mod was ouertorned,
Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere:
ffor þus it fell, as þou schalt hiere.
Whan come was þe Monþe of Maii,
Sche wolde walke vpon a dai,
And þat was er þe Sonne Ariste;
Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste,
And forþ sche wente priuely
Vnto þe Park was faste by,
Al softe walkende on þe gras,
Til sche cam þer þe Launde was,
Thurgh which þer ran a gret riuere.
It þoghte hir fair, and seide, Here
I wole abide vnder þe schawe:
And bad hire wommen to wiþdrawe,
And þer sche stod al one stille,
To þenke what was in hir wille.
Sche sih þe swote floures springe,
Sche herde glade foules singe,
Sche sih þe bestes in her kinde,
The buck, þe do, þe hert, þe hinde,
The madle go wiþ þe femele;
And so began þer a querele
Betwen loue and hir oghne herte,
ffro which sche couþe noght asterte.
And as sche caste hire yhe aboute,
Sche syh clad in o suite a route
Of ladis, wher þei comen ryde
Along vnder þe wodes syde.
On faire amblende hors þei sete,
That were al whyte, fatte and grete,
And euerichon þei ride on side:
The Sadles were of such a Pride,
Wiþ Perle and gold so wel begon,
So riche syh sche neuere non:
In kertles and in Copes riche
Thei weren cloþed, alle liche,
Departed euene of whyt and blew;
Wiþ alle lustes þat sche knew
Thei were enbrouded oueral.
Here bodies weren long and smal,
The beaute faye vpon her face
Non erþly þing it may desface;
Corones on here hed þei beere,
As ech of hem a qweene weere,
That al þe gold of Cresus halle
The leste coronal of alle
Ne mihte haue boght after þe worþ:
Thus come þei ridende forþ.
The kinges dowhter, which þis syh,
ffor pure abaissht drowh hire adryh
And hield hire clos vnder þe bowh,
And let hem passen stille ynowh;
ffor as hire þoghte in hire avis,
To hem þat were of such a pris
Sche was noght worþi axen þere,
ffro when þei come or what þei were.
Bot leuere þan þis worldes good
Sche wolde haue wist hou þat it stod,
And putte hire hed alitel oute;
And as sche lokede hire aboute,
Sche syh comende vnder þe linde
A womman vp an hors behinde.
The hors on which sche rod was blak,
Al lene and galled on þe back,
And haltede, as he were encluyed,
Wherof þe womman was annvied;
Thus was þe hors in sori plit,
Bot for al þat a sterre whit
Amiddes in þe front he hadde.
Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde,
In which þe wofull womman sat,
And natheles þer was wiþ þat
A riche bridel for þe nones
Of gold and preciouse Stones.
Hire cote was somdiel totore;
Aboute hir middel twenty score
Of horse haltres and wel mo
Ther hyngen ate þo.
Thus whan sche cam þe ladi nyh,
Than tok sche betre hiede and syh
This womman fair was of visage,
ffreyssh, lusti, ȝong and of tendre age;
And so þis ladi, þer sche stod,
Beþoghte hire wel and vnderstod
That þis, which com ridende þo,
Tidinges couþe telle of þo,
Which as sche sih tofore ryde,
And putte hir forþ and preide abide,
And seide, Ha, Suster, let me hiere,
What ben þei, þat now riden hiere,
And ben so richeliche arraied?
This womman, which com so esmaied,
Ansuerde wiþ ful softe speche,
And seiþ, Ma Dame, I schal ȝou teche.
These ar of þo þat whilom were
Seruantz to loue, and trowþe beere,
Ther as þei hadde here herte set.
ffare wel, for I mai noght be let:
Ma Dame, I go to mi seruise,
So moste I haste in alle wise;
fforþi, ma Dame, ȝif me leue,
I mai noght longe wiþ ȝou leue.
Ha, goode Soster, ȝit I preie,
Tell me whi ȝe ben so beseie,
And wiþ þese haltres þus begon.
Ma Dame, whilom I was on
That to mi fader hadde a king;
Bot I was slow, and for no þing
Me liste noght to loue obeie,
And þat I now ful sore abeie.
ffor I whilom no loue hadde,
Min hors is now so fieble and badde,
And al totore is myn arai;
And euery ȝeer þis freisshe Maii
These lusti ladis ryde aboute,
And I mot nedes suie here route
In þis manere as ȝe now se,
And trusse here haltres forþ wiþ me,
And am bot as here horse knaue.
Non oþer office I ne haue,
Hem þenkþ I am worþi nomore,
ffor I was slow in loues lore,
Whan I was able forto lere,
And wolde noght þe tales hiere
Of hem þat covþen loue teche.
Now tell me þanne, I ȝov beseche,
Wherof þat riche bridel serueþ.
Wiþ þat hire chere awei sche swerueþ,
And gan to wepe, and þus sche tolde:
This bridel, which ȝe nov beholde
So riche vpon myn horse hed,—
Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded,
Whan I was in mi lusti lif,
Ther fel into myn herte a strif
Of loue, which me overcom,
So þat þerafter hiede I nom,
And þoghte I wolde loue a kniht:
That laste wel a fourtenyht,
ffor it no lengere mihte laste,
So nyh my lif was ate laste.
Bot now, allas, to late war
That I ne hadde him loued ar:
ffor deþ cam so in haste bime,
Er I þerto hadde eny time,
That it ne mihte ben achieued.
Bot for al þat I am relieued,
Of þat mi will was good þerto,
That loue soffreþ it be so
That I schal swiche a bridel were.
Now haue ȝe herd al myn ansuere:
To godd, ma Dame, I ȝou betake,
And warneþ alle for mi sake,
Of loue þat þei ben noght ydel,
And bidd hem þenke vpon mi brydel.
And wiþ þat word al sodeinly
Sche passeþ, as it were a Sky,
Al clene out of þis ladi sihte.
And þo for fere hire herte afflihte,
And seide to hirself, Helas!
I am riht in þe same cas:
Bot if I liue after þis day,
I schal amende it, if I may.
And þus homward þis lady wente,
And changede al hire ferste entente,
Wiþinnne hire herte and gan to swere
That sche none haltres wolde bere.

THE SONG OF THE VULTURE

By ELIA DEMIRJIBASHIAN

(1851–1908)

A great black bird like to a great black cloud
Hovers forever o’er my spirit bowed.
He is my guardian angel, but alack!
Darker than night he is—than hell more black.

A fearful-looking bird, with wings wide spread,
Ill-omened as the Devil, and as dread;
He hovers round my wasted body, till
I wonder if I yet have life or will.

Upon his wings no spot of white appears,
His plumage black sheds horror down, and fears.
Black are his talons—sharp, like daggers fell;
And like a hound I hear him howl and yell.

His wide-spread pinions hide the light from me;
Heaven dark, and earth a dungeon black I see.
All is in shadow—air and earth and skies—
He even hides the lightning from my eyes.

I cannot see the paleness of my face,
I cannot see the maiden’s smiling grace;
Black is the lake, the stars and lilies dark;
What was that cry? The bird’s dread calling!—Hark!

I seem to totter on the brink of hell
And think the evil fowl my corpse can smell.
I seem to hear the goblins fight with him—
Away with thee!—ours is this booty grim!”

But he is cruel, strong, and merciless—
This great black bird;—he heeds not my distress.
Ten years I’ve lived beneath his deadly wings—
Ten years unceasingly my death-bell rings.

Ten years ago one night it came to pass
On Moda’s rock I sat and dreamed; alas,
My foe came to me—Carnal was his name:
He shouted, “Vain are Life and Love and Fame!”

Youthful I was, and armed with Love and Hope
I struggled. “Oh, my soul, arise and cope
With this thy foe, and vanquish him,” I cried.
But ’twas in vain, as I full soon espied.

My sun and joy since then are on the wane.
My foe cries out, “I, only I, shall reign!
O’er all the universe none rules but me!”—
Then rose a Siren’s voice alluringly....

Nirvana and the flesh held me that hour:
God was asleep—my soul was in their power.
Then on the moon I saw a spot appear;—
It grew, and grew ... my heart turned sick with fear.

I was as dead. The carrion-eating bird
Had left that heavenly corpse—the moon—allured
To earth by me. It sought my bosom where
The image of Christ crucified lay bare.

Beneath those evil wings I hopelessly
Roam over the earth;—my guardian angel he;
No more the cross I wear, nor in my breast
Dwells holy faith; ’tis death: death without rest.

Like to the moon, whether I wax or wane
Still am I lifeless, cursed with this bane.
I give the vulture of my flesh to tear,
And shiver when the name of “love” I hear.

While yet I live he is devouring me:
I cannot bear this pain—Oh, set me free!
I am not dead—Love still dwells with me here.
I am alive—and some call me the “Ner.” [13]

Ah, gruesome bird, art thou not yet content
These ten long years my body to have rent?
Ah, vulture black—black earth and ebon sky,
’Tis time that I should lay me down and die.

DANCE SONG [14]

FOLK SONG

“I have loved your winsome face,
And your never-fading grace.
If they give you not to me
May God send them black disgrace!”

“Mountain sorrel, fresh with dew,
Sweets I send and honey new;
Is a dainty maid like me
Fit to wed a youth like you?”

“You are arch, my little maid,
In four plaits your hair you braid,
Make no more pretence to me—
For you love me, I’m afraid!”