Soft and low a voice breathed o’er me, Near me did my mother seem; Flashed a ray of joy before me, But, alas, it was a dream! There the murmuring streamlet flowing Scattered radiant pearls around, Pure and clear, like crystal glowing— But it was a dream, unsound. And my mother’s mournful singing Took me back to childhood’s day, To my mind her kisses bringing— ’Twas a dream and passed away! To her heart she pressed me yearning, Wiped her eyes which wet did seem; And her tears fell on me burning— Why should it have been a dream? THE SORROWS OF ARMENIA In many a distant, unknown land, My sons belovèd exiled roam, Servile they kiss the stranger’s hand; How shall I find and bring them home? The ages pass, no tidings come; My brave ones fall, are lost and gone. My blood is chilled, my voice is dumb, And friend or comfort I have none. With endless griefs my heart is worn, Eternal sorrow is my doom; Far from my sons, despis’d, forlorn, I must descend the darksome tomb. Thou shepherd wandering o’er the hill, Come weep with me my children lost; Let mournful strains the valleys fill For those we loved and valued most. Fly, crane, Armenia’s bird, depart; Tell them I die of grief; and tell How hope is dead within my heart— Bear to my sons my last farewell! ARTASHES AND SATENIK From the History of Armenia, by MOSES OF KHORENE