To meet perchance with some one, who might tell, My fair one, how to free me from thy spell; For Sayat Nova’s torments far excel The Seven Wise Men’s complaints told one by one! THE LAKE OF VAN By RAFFI Unutterable silence here is spread On every hand, and Nature might be dead. A lonely exile, here I sit and weep, And far above, bright Moon, I see thee sweep. From Earth’s creation till the skies shall parch And she dissolve, thou circlest Heaven’s high arch: Saw’st thou the laurels on Armenia’s brow? And dost behold her hopeless sorrows now? Mournful as I! I wonder dost thou see How she is ground by heels of tyranny! And do thine eyes with bitter tear-drops smart When barbèd arrows pierce her through the heart Thy heart is stone, thy pity stark and cold, For fields of innocent blood thou dost behold Without a word, and o’er Armenia’s land Thy nightly compass of the dome hast spanned With all the brightness that was thine of old. O Lake, make answer! Why be silent more? Wilt not lament with one whose heart is sore? And you, ye Zephyrs, hurl the waters high That I may feed them from a mourner’s eye! A garden once, luxuriantly fair, Now is Armenia choked with thorn and tare: Thou who hast seen her fortunes wax and wane, Tell me, I pray thee! Must she thus remain? Must this unhappy nation ever be By foreign princes held in slavery? Is the Armenian and his stricken race Counted unworthy in God’s judgment-place? Comes there a day, comes there a season that Shall hail a flag on topmost Ararat, Calling Armenians, wheresoe’er they roam, To seek once more their loved and beauteous home? Hard tho’ it be, O heavenly Ruler, raise Armenia’s spirit, and her heart’s dark ways Light with Thy knowledge: understanding so The mystery of life, her works shall show That all she does is ordered to Thy praise. Then suddenly the surface of the lake Grew luminous, and from its depths did break A lovely maid that bore a lantern and A lyre of shining ivory in her hand. Was she an Angel in a strange disguise? Was she a Houri fled from Paradise? Nay, rather was she of the form and hue Of the Armenian Muses! “Tell me true, O Muse,” I cried, “our people’s destiny! Speak of the Now and of the Yet-to-be!” Then the sweet heavenly Spirit made reply, “Wipe, O sad youth, the salt tears from thine eye! I bring glad tidings: better days shall break, New days of joy, that carry in their wake The reign of God, Whose will is free and just: A Golden Age again shall gild the dust! “Armenia’s Muses shall awake anew, And her Parnassus bloom with vernal hue, And the bright car Apollo whirls on high Shall sweep the shadows from her clouded sky.