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.