There is One greater than the earth, More wide than sea-waves run, Higher and vaster than the heavens, And brighter than the sun. There is a formidable King Whose power no bound has known; The royal maid Santoukhd shall be For Him, and Him alone. Her halls of light are all prepared, And for a footstool meet The azure sky adorned with stars Awaits her dove-like feet. The sharp sword glitters in the air, And swift the red blood flows; Santoukhd, who was a lily fair, Falls to the earth, a rose. The sword flashed once, and aspects three Were in Santoukhd descried; Her heart dropped blood, and roses red Sprang up on every side; Her eyes were violet chalices, Sweet e’en while they expire; Her face, like lilies half unclosed, But on her lips what fire! The heaven and earth shine white and red; Come forth and gather, maids, The rose and lily joined in one, This peerless flower that fades! Lay in the tomb that youthful corpse, With Thaddeus, good and brave. Sweet maiden of Armenia, Her sweet soil be thy grave! Armenian maids, a lily new Is brought to Shavarshan for you! [7] Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell. CRADLE SONG By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN Nightingale, oh, leave our garden, Where soft dews the blossoms steep; With thy litanies melodious Come and sing my son to sleep! Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting, And his weeping hath not ceased. Come not, nightingale! My darling Does not wish to be a priest. O thou thievish, clever jackdaw, That in coin findest thy joy, With thy tales of gold and profit Come and soothe my wailing boy! Nay, thy chatter does not lull him, And his crying is not stayed. Come not, jackdaw! for my darling Will not choose the merchant’s trade. Wild dove, leave the fields and pastures Where thou grievest all day long; Come and bring my boy sweet slumber With thy melancholy song! Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither, Plaintive songster, for I see That he loves not lamentations, And no mourner will he be. Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon! Haply he thy song would hear. And the boy lay hushed, and slumbered, With the war-notes in his ear. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell. THE WIND IS HOWLING THROUGH THE WINTER NIGHT By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN The wind is howling through the winter night, Like to a pack of angry wolves that cry. My hapless willows bend before its might; Their broken branches in the garden lie. Alas, my heart, thy love since childhood’s days Hath wept; thy dream was understood by none. Seek not in vain a friend to know thy ways— The soul is born eternally alone.