They took the letter to the Rose’s Court, Where Hazrevart, her minister austere, Stood on his feet with stately mien and port And read it out for all the flowers to hear:— “I greet thee, O beloved of my heart, And fain would hear concerning this thy rape. I trust through God’s protecting care thou art Perfect in health, as faultless in thy shape. “For which with outstretched hands I ever pray, And beg that length of days be granted thee; All flowers bend to thee and homage pay, Thou rulest them in all thy majesty. “Thy hue is beautiful, thy perfume sweet, Each morn thou shinest brighter than the sun. Happy the day when thee once more I meet,— For thou art full of grace, my spotless one. “Apart from thee, in humble reverence, I worship thee, and pray for thy return. I have no sleep at night for this suspense, Now Spring is here I ever weep and mourn. “The icy winter passed—I lived it through, Still suffering many things because of thee; They mocked at me, and said thou wast not true— My Rose had no more love or care for me.” Then sent the Rose unto the Nightingale, And said: “Behold, I send him many flowers. And they shall cover mountain, hill, and dale, My Nightingale shall dwell within those bowers. “I cannot there return immediately; A little he must wait, in patient wise: But if his love is perfectly with me, Tell him to look for it in Paradise.” The Nightingale rejoiced on hearing this And said: “The beauteous Rose shall then return! What tidings wonderful of untold bliss! For all the world her ransom could not earn.” And when the sun into the Ram had passed, The thunder rolled, the storm-clouds broke in showers; Myriads of blossoms o’er the earth were cast:— He sought the Rose—she was not of those flowers. Until one morn he saw her foliage green, Lovely and fresh as it had been before: The Rose was hidden in a silken screen And every flower worshipped her once more. The Nightingale beheld and said: “Thank Heaven! Blessing and praise from every mouth be breathed; To Heaven’s King be endless glory given— For in her bud I saw the Rose ensheathed!” Foolish Aghtamartzi, beware this bane, For this world’s love is ever linked with thorn; A little while ’tis gladness, then ’tis pain— What boots the joy which needs must make us mourn? THE ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS By SAINT NERSES SHNORHALI (1102–1173)