There comes no news from far away, Our brave ones rest not from the fray. ’Tis long that sleep my eyes doth flee— Our foemen press unceasingly. ’Tis long for sleep I vainly pray: There comes no news from far away. THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR By LEO ALISHAN Whence comest thou, my moon, gentle and still, Spreading thy light o’er meadow, vale, and hill, And o’er this patriarch, that lost in thought The midnight plains of Avaraïr has sought? Whereon our fathers, martyred for the right, As giants fell, to rise as angels bright! Com’st thou to spread upon their ashes cold From yonder snowy cloud a pall of gold? Or would’st thou bind around thy brow of light A token of Armenia’s life-blood bright?— Or art thou still in awestruck wonder lost To think how Vartan fell, with all his host;— Leaving death’s shadow in his foeman’s breast, Trusting his soul to God, he sank to rest! And thou, Dughmood, that stained with blood I see Winding amongst thy rushes sobbingly; Thou breeze that from Magou’s steep rock dost waft, Or from great Ararat descendest soft;— Thou too like me dost tremble, and thy wings Listlessly bear thee on thy wanderings: O’er hill and dale thou fliest, from wood to wood, Till on this plain thou stay’st thy wings to brood; Then bearest on this careworn heart’s last sigh To echo in Armenia ere it die! O friend of aching hearts, soul of the rose, That breakest with thy voice the night’s repose; Sing, little Nightingale, from yonder tree— Armenia’s deathless heroes sing with me! From Thaddeus’ convent as thy voice I heard, Praying before the cross, my heart was stirred. I hastened forth beneath thy magic spell And found thee on the plain where Vartan fell. Ah, Nightingale of Avaraïr, they say No bird art thou that nightly sing’st thy lay, But Eghishé, the singer wondrous sweet, That in the rose’s heart Vartan dost greet. The winter drives thee far away to mourn; Spring’s roses bid thee to Ardaz return, In Eghishé’s sad notes to sob and cry, To call Vartan, and list for a reply. If ever like the fainting Nightingale’s My voice with you, Togarmah’s sons, prevails,— Sons of those fathers virtuous and wise, Who with their glories filled books, plains, and skies;— If of Armenian blood one drop should flow Within your veins, or make your hearts to glow; Or if their glories past you too would share, To Ardaz with the patriarch repair! THOU ART SO SWEET By SAYAT NOVA Thou art so sweet thou wilt not pain the minstrel singing songs to thee, But when he loves thee thou dost frown—in vain he tells his wrongs to thee. Love’s fire is such, ‘twill not consume—‘twill burn, and burn, and ever burn: If in that sea of flame I fall to cool me thou wilt never turn.