“For many a day, like thee, we mourned aloud While the thick darkness wrapped her in its shroud: Now, O belovèd, may the weeping cease,— To us has come the olive branch of peace! “Cleanse from thy lute the rust that soils its string; Hasten thee back, and, as thou goest, sing Such joyful lays as yet may re-inspire Hearts that are dead with new and tameless fire. His Will is done; the Time is here; the Day Dawns; and the Morning Star, so God doth say, Shall be thy sign.” Then darkness fell again; The vision fled; but long there did remain An echo of the thrilling voice, that blended With the wild waves whose depths she had descended; And flowery perfumes filled the air like rain. O message dear, and sweet prophetic strain! What happiness is come to us,—but Oh! Beautiful Muse, yet one thing would we know— Can a dead corpse rise up and live again? Translated by G. M. Green. SPRING By MUGGURDICH BESHIGTASHLIAN (1829–1868) O little breeze, how fresh and sweet Thou blowest in the morning air! Upon the flowers caressingly, And on the gentle maiden’s hair. But not my country’s breath thou art: Blow elsewhere, come not near my heart! O little bird among the trees, The sweetness of thy joyful voice Entrances all the Hours of Love, And makes the listening woods rejoice. But not my country’s bird thou art: Sing elsewhere, come not near my heart! How peacefully thou murmurest, O gentle, limpid little brook; Within thy mirror crystal-bright The rose and maiden bend to look. But not my country’s brook thou art: Flow elsewhere—come not near my heart! Although Armenia’s breeze and bird Above a land of ruins fly; Although through mourning cypress groves Armenia’s turbid stream flows by,— They are the sighing of her heart, And never shall from mine depart! THE FOX FOLK SONG The fox ran up into the mill, He raised his paws, and danced his fill. Brave Master Fox, ’tis but your due, In all the world there’s none like you! A peck of corn he ground that day, Which on his back he bore away. He ate the village chickens brown, And trod the upland cornfields down. The fox lies on his shaggy side, His paws stretched out before him wide. Sable and fox this fall we’ll catch, And for my son I’ll make a match. Alas, this year no price they made:— My Hovhannes unmarried stayed! THE TALE OF ROSIPHELEE From the “Confessio Amantis” by JOHN GOWER (Died 1408)