From Adam’s time until this day, No soul hath had immortal breath; Thou heed’st not what the Scriptures say— The sinner’s punishment is death. He that had palaces of gold, And brilliant cities, fortress-bound, Hath left behind his wealth untold, And lies beneath the sodden ground. Who loved to quaff the spicy wine, And spent his life in ribaldry, I saw him like a swollen swine,— loathsome corpse, unsavoury. The man that rode an arch-necked steed And flashed his sword around to slay, I saw him penitent indeed:— Between two wooden planks he lay. And evil wenches, women fair, Who dress in robes of gaudy dye, Who love to curl and braid their hair— Their brightness with the sun might vie: They swing about, and turn, and sway, And are beloved of every man; But hateful when Death comes are they, To all who would their features scan. Christ sits upon the throne of Light, Rewarding those who loved His Word, Crowning the just with glory bright And penitents His voice that heard. Ah, Hovhannes Tulkourantzi, Listen with open heart and ear; Seek out some way diligently To win the crown of glory there. LOVE ONE ANOTHER By BEDROS TOURIAN Undying Love, Whose beams forever glow On rose-red Golgotha’s stupendous brow; Wilt Thou those shafts still in Thy bosom keep? What guardest Thou?—bones, spectres, chasms deep,— That in the echoes of the mountain-side Thy noble words, “Love one another,” died? Effaced and trampled is the poor man’s tomb; The poor man’s candle flickers out in gloom; And in that darkness starving children weep, While in the palace revels high they keep. The rich man’s carriage dashes gaily past, The beggar’s lonely corpse to earth is cast. The pallid angel of Gethsemane Tears doth not heed nor flowers, nor glory’s plea. The poor find rest in his cold arms alone, For in Death’s shroud the high and low are one. Though lightning-winged the winds cry o’er the moor, “Love one another,” here none love the poor. PASQUA ARMENA [18] By VITTORIA AGANOOR POMPILJ Non fu di fiele abbeverato? Il petto non gli squarciò l’ignobile scherano? Non fu percosso, irriso, e un’empia mano non lo inchiodò sul legno maledetto? Pur, quale mai più glorïoso e forte risorgere, se ancor tuona la voce dell’Osanna, e dovunque apre una croce le braccia, dall’idea vinta è la morte? Armenia, ed anche a te squarciato il seno vedo dai nuovi farisei. Raccolto hanno il fango a scagliartelo sul volto; per dissetarti apprestano il veleno. Ma se l’insazïata orda ferina sulle tue membra flagellate e grame oggi rinnova la tortura infame del Golgota, la tua Pasqua è vicina. “IO VIDI” By VITTORIA AGANOOR POMPILJ