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.”