For it was the custom of our kings to scatter coins amongst the people when they arrived at the doors of the temple for their wedding, as also for the queens to scatter pearls in their bridechamber. MY DEATH By BEDROS TOURIAN When Death’s pale angel comes to me, And smiling sweetly on my head, Bids all my pains and sorrows flee,— Believe not then that I am dead. When my cold limbs they shroud with care, And on my brow love’s tear-drops shed, And lay me on my ebon bier,— Believe not then that I am dead. And when the tolling bell shall ring To my black coffin’s muted tread —Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,— Believe not then that I am dead. And when the black-robed priests shall sing, And prayers and incense round me spread, With faces dark and sorrowing— Believe not still that I am dead. When on my tomb they heap the clay, And leave me in my lonely bed, And loved ones turn with sobs away— Then never think that I am dead. But if my grave neglected lie, My memory too be gone and fled, And dear ones pass unheeding by, Ah, then believe that I am dead! THE EAGLE’S LOVE By SHUSHANIK GOURGHINIAN (Born 1876) An eagle sat upon the fell,— He sat and sang alone. A pretty maid passed in the dell, He saw—his heart was won. “Ah, lovely maid, enchanting maid, Alas, thou canst not fly! Down in the vale thou soon shalt fade, And like a floweret die. “I’d make thee queen, if thou could’st fly, Of all my mountains steep; At night I’d sing thy lullaby, And in my wings thou’dst sleep. “Those eyes are like black night to me, That smile like sunshine bright; And heaven itself would quickly be Subdued before thy might. “Good Lord, canst thou not fly at all? Who made thee without wings? Art thou content down there to crawl With loathsome creeping things?” Thus on his rock the eagle proud Sat singing, then he sailed O’er hill and valley, and aloud The maiden’s fate bewailed. CONCERNING THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE By GRIGORIS OF AGHTAMAR (Fifteenth Century) The Rose was gone. When to the empty tent The Nightingale returned, his heart was torn. He filled the night with mourning and lament, And wandered through the darkness lone and lorn. “To thee I speak, O Garden, answer me, Why did’st thou not preserve my precious Rose, Whose perfume breathed of immortality, Whose colour made her queen of all that grows? “May’st thou become a desert parched and dry, And may the flowers that grow within thee fade; May thy protecting walls in ruin lie— By ruthless feet thy soil in waste be laid. “Ye trees, now cast away your verdant leaves, And rushing torrents, your swift courses stay. Reckless I speak, as one who sorely grieves, For they have taken my sweet love away.