Armenian Literature Part 8

Fly, lays of mine, but not to happy wives, Whose days are one unending flow of bliss, But seek the maidens whose unfruitful lives Have known as yet no lover's pa.s.sionate kiss.

Fly, lays of mine, and like the nightingales, Whose liquid liltings charm away the night, Reveal in song the sweets of summer's gales, Of lover's pleadings and of love's delight.

And tell my lady, when your quests are o'er, That I, away from her, my heart's desire, Yearn for the blissful hour when I shall pour Down at her feet a love surcharged with fire.

MUGURDITCH BESHETTASHLAIN.

THE WOE OF ARAXES

Meditating by Araxes, Pacing slowly to and fro, Sought I traces of the grandeur Hidden by her turgid flow.

"Turgid are thy waters, Mother, As they beat upon the sh.o.r.e.

Do they offer lamentations For Armenia evermore?

"Gay should be thy mood, O Mother, As the sturgeons leap in glee: Ocean's merging still is distant, Shouldest thou be sad, like me?

"Are thy spume-drifts tears, O Mother, Tears for those that are no more?

Dost thou haste to pa.s.s by, weeping, This thine own beloved sh.o.r.e?"

Then uprose on high Araxes, Flung in air her spumy wave, And from out her depths maternal Sonorous her answer gave:

"Why disturb me now, presumptuous, All my slumbering woe to wake?

Why invade the eternal silence For a foolish question's sake?

"Know'st thou not that I am widowed; Sons and daughters, consort, dead?

Wouldst thou have me go rejoicing, As a bride to nuptial bed?

"Wouldst thou have me decked in splendor, To rejoice a stranger's sight, While the aliens that haunt me Bring me loathing, not delight?

"Traitress never I; Armenia Claims me ever as her own; Since her mighty doom hath fallen Never stranger have I known.

"Yet the glories of my nuptials Heavy lie upon my soul; Once again I see the splendor And I hear the music roll.

"Hear again the cries of children Ringing joyfully on my banks, And the noise of marts and toilers, And the tread of serried ranks.

"But where, now, are all my people?

Far in exile, homeless, lorn.

While in widow's weeds and hopeless, Weeping, sit I here and mourn.

"Hear now! while my sons are absent Age-long fast I still shall keep; Till my children gain deliverance, Here I watch and pray and weep."

Silent, then, the mighty Mother Let her swelling tides go free.

And in mournful meditation Slowly wandered to the sea.

RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.

THE ARMENIAN MAIDEN

In the hush of the spring night dreaming The crescent moon have you seen, As it shimmers on apricots gleaming, Through velvety ma.s.ses of green.

Have you seen, in a June-tide nooning, A languorous full-blown rose In the arms of the lilies swooning And yielding her sweets to her foes?

Yet the moon in its course and the roses By Armenia's maiden pale, When she coyly and slowly discloses The glories beneath her veil.

And a lute from her mother receiving, With a blush that a miser would move, She treads a soft measure, believing That music is sister to love.

Like a sapling her form in its swaying, Full of slender and lissomy grace As she bends to the time of her playing, Or glides with a fairy-light pace.

The lads for her beauty are burning, The elders hold forth on old age, But the maiden flies merrily spurning Youth, lover, and matron and sage.

RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.

ONE OF A THOUSAND

Sweet lady, whence the sadness in your face?

What heart's desire is still unsatisfied?

Your face and form are fair and full of grace, And silk and velvet lend you all their pride.

A nod, a glance, and straight your maidens fly To execute your hest with loving zeal.

By night and day you have your minstrelsy, Your feet soft carpets kiss and half conceal; While fragrant blooms adorn your scented bower, Fruits fresh and rare lie in abundance near.

The costly narghile exerts its power To soothe vain longing and dispel all fear: Envy not angels; you have paradise.

No lowly consort you. A favored wife, Whose mighty husband can her wants suffice; Why mar with grieving such a fortunate life?

So to Haripsime, the Armenian maid, On whom the cruel fortune of her lot had laid Rejection of her faith, spake with a sigh The wrinkled, ugly, haggard slave near by.

Haripsime replied not to the words, But, silent, turned her face away. With scorn And sorrow mingled were the swelling chords Of pa.s.sionate lament, and then forlorn, Hopeless, she raised her tearful orbs to heaven.

Silent her lips, her grief too deep for sound; Her fixed gaze sought the heavy banks of cloud Surcharged with lightning bolts that played around The gloomy spires and minarets; then bowed Her head upon her hands; the unwilling eyes Shed tears as heavy as the thunder-shower That trails the bolt to where destruction lies.

There was a time when she, a happy girl, Had home and parents and a numerous kin; But on an Eastertide, amid a whirl Of pillage, murder, and the savage din Of plundering Kava.s.ses, the Pacha saw Her budding beauty, and his will was law.

Her vengeful sire fell 'neath a sabre's stroke; Her mother, broken-hearted, gave to G.o.d The life in which no joys could now evoke The wonted happiness. The harem of the Turk Enfolds Haripsime's fresh maidenhood, And there where danger and corruption lurk, Where s.h.i.tan's nameless and befouling brood Surround each Georgian and Armenian pearl, She weeps and weeps, shunning the shallow joys Of trinkets, robes, of music, or the whirl Of joyous dance, of singing girls and boys, And murmurs always in a sobbing prayer, "Shall never help be sent? Is this despair?"

RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.