“Once I, too, moved in splendour, Adorned as is a bride With myriad precious jewels, My smiling banks beside. “My waves were pure and limpid, And curled in rippling play; The morning star within them Was mirrored till the day. “What from that time remaineth? All, all has passed away. Which of my prosperous cities Stands near my waves to-day? “Mount Ararat doth pour me, As with a mother’s care, From out her sacred bosom Pure water, cool and fair. “Shall I her holy bounty To hated aliens fling? Shall strangers’ fields be watered From good Saint Jacob’s spring? “For filthy Turk or Persian Shall I my waters pour, That they may heathen rites perform Upon my very shore. “While my own sons, defenceless, Are exiled from their home, And, faint with thirst and hunger, In distant countries roam? “My own Armenian nation Is banished far away; A godless, barbarous people Dwells on my banks to-day. “Shall I my hospitable shores Adorn in festive guise For them, or gladden with fair looks Their wild and evil eyes? “Still, while my sons are exiled, Shall I be sad, as now. This is my heart’s deep utterance, My true and holy vow.” No more spake Mother Arax; She foamed up mightily, And, coiling like a serpent, Wound sorrowing toward the sea. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell. THE EVE OF ASCENSION DAY [10] By DERENIK DEMIRJIAN Night with her ebon hair and starry crown Upon the hills came down. Her loosened tresses floated all unbound And veiled her form around. The fountain murmured like an endless tale On her entrancing lips; and it would seem As if God spake within the silent vale, And sleeping Earth were listening, in a dream. Like blackened clouds, in Jorokh’s stream arise Those rocks that through her savage waters pierce; Like dragons twain, they glare with threatening eyes, Facing each other, arrogant and fierce. Wild Jorokh through that fearsome valley flows— Flows like a caravan that onward sweeps; First roaring loud, then hushed into repose, Groping its way through darkness, on it creeps. The sounds of Earth are melted into rest, While strikes the hour of expectation deep; Earth’s waters heave, against each other pressed, And breathless listening, all their vigils keep. Decked out like lovely brides stand all the flowers; With nuptial joy the forests trembling wait: Until Heaven’s blessing fall in sacred showers, And whispering softly, each may clasp its mate. “THY VOICE IS SWEET” By SAYAT NOVA Thy voice is soft, thy speech all sweetness flows; May he protect who hath thy heart, my love! Thy waist is the gazelle’s, thy hue the rose, Brocade from Franguistan thou art, my love!