Once more God hither moves their course; With countless infantry and horse, As swell the waves towards the strand, Fierce and tempestuous, they land. Like sands that by the ocean lie, Or like the stars that strew the sky, They fill the earth where’er they go And whiten it as wool or snow. Their voice is like the northern wind, Driving the storm-cloud from behind. They clear the land from end to end, The unbelievers forth they send, Redeeming from such hopeless plight All Christians held within their might. Now in the churches cold and dark, Once more shall burn the taper’s spark; And you, my sons, late forced to flee To distant lands, afar from me, Shall now return in chariots fair Drawn by brave steeds with trappings rare. And I shall lift mine eyes above Beholding near me those I love. My arms about you I shall fold, Rejoicing with a joy untold; And my black robes aside will lay To dress in greens and crimsons gay. LIKE AN OCEAN IS THIS WORLD By HOVHANNES ERZINGATZI (Born 1260) Like an ocean is this world; None undrenched may cross that ocean. My ship too its sails unfurled, Ere I knew it was in motion. Now we draw towards the land, And I fear the sea-board yonder:— Lest the rocks upon the strand Break and tear our planks asunder. I will pray God that He raise From the shore a breeze to meet us,— To disperse this gloomy haze, That a happy land may greet us. THE ROCK By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN Above the waters, like a hoary giant, The rock stands up, majestic and defiant. The little waves, as to and fro they move, Greet him with kisses and with looks of love. The wavelets of the river laugh and dance, As in their arms the mirrored sunbeams glance; And with their smiles of winning, child-like grace, They woo the rock, and murmur in his face: “O Aged-One, why art thou never glad? The lines that seam thy countenance are sad. The world is ever changing; thou alone Art still the same with thy dark face of stone. “Free children of the mountains ever free, We bring rich gifts of jewels unto thee; Scent thee with perfumes of the mountain rose— Heaven’s daughter fair, that on our margin grows. “Sweet strains of gentle melody we breathe, And call the fishes from our depths beneath; And gilded with the spring-tide’s golden rays, We make thee on our merry revels gaze. “And songs of love we warble in thine ear, From morning dawn until the stars appear:— We fondle thee, and on thine aged breast Our passions lull, and bid them sink to rest.” The wavelets hasten, moving to and fro, The rock still sorrows o’er his ancient woe; The wavelets play, and laughing onward press— The rock remains, gloomy and motionless. THE CRANE By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN (Born 1869)