The following is a folksong of death, being the lament of a mother over her dead son:— “As to-night I walked alone To the earth my ear inclining, From the ground I heard a moan,— My son’s voice I heard repining. ‘Do not leave me in the ground, With the serpents round me crawling. “Food in plenty we have found,” To their young ones they are calling, “From his ribs we’ll gnaw the flesh, From his eyes drink water fresh.”’ All the night I found no rest, I cried out, ‘Give me a knife, I will plunge it in my breast, I will have no more of life!’” Yet another feature of the literature of this period is the contemporary history in verse. We come across metrical narratives of great events written by those who experienced them. There is a long and vivid description in verse, by an eye-witness, of the siege of Constantinople. The poet is Abraham Vardapet. There are also agricultural and craft songs, which are sung by workmen over their labour. These songs are adapted to the movements necessitated by each occupation. Another marked difference between Armenian and Mohammedan literature is that Armenians are entirely free from the fatalism which is a distinctive feature of the Mohammedan view of life. Sadi relates, in his Gulistan, the story of a fisherman that gives the Mohammedan conception of Fate. This fisherman had caught a fish which his strength did not allow him to drag to shore. Fearing to be drawn into the river himself, he abandoned his line, and the fish swam away with the bait in his mouth. His companions mocked him, and he replied: “What could I do? This animal escaped because his last hour, fixed by fate, was not yet come. Fate governs all, and the fisherman cannot overcome it more than another, nor can he catch fish, if fate is against him, even in the Tigris. The fish itself, even though dry, would not die, if it were the will of fate to preserve its life.” The poet adds: “O man! why shouldst thou fear? If thy hour is not come, in vain would thy enemy rush against thee with his lance in rest: his arms and his feet would be tied by fate, and the arrow would be turned away, though in the hands of the most expert archer.” The spirit of Armenian poetry is neither despondent nor fatalistic. Its songs are of dawn, of spring, of sunrise, of struggle; not of sunset. And perhaps this clinging to hope and this desire to live is the only secret of the survival of the Armenian nation. Armenian poetry is the product of dwellers in a hill country. To them mountains, deep valleys, clear skies, running brooks are familiar every-day companions.