“The mountain breeze caressingly Played with his jet-black hair, And blossoms wept unceasingly Your flower, your lover there.” LIBERTY By MIKAEL NALBANDIAN (1829–1866) When the God of Liberty Formed of earth this mortal frame, Breathed the breath of life in me, And a spirit I became, Wrapped within my swaddling bands, Bound and fettered helplessly, [3] I stretched forth my infant hands To embrace sweet Liberty. All night long, until the dawn, In my cradle bound I lay; And my sobbing’s ceaseless moan Drove my mother’s sleep away. As I begged her, weeping loud, To unbind and set me free; From that very day I vowed I would love thee, Liberty! When upon my parents’ ear First my lisping accents fell, And their hearts rejoiced to hear Me my childish wishes tell, Then the words that first I spoke Were not “father, mother dear”: “Liberty!” the accents broke In my infant utterance clear. “Liberty!” The voice of Doom Echoed to me from above, “Wilt thou swear until the tomb Liberty to serve and love? “Thorny is the path, and dim; Many trials wait for thee: Far too small this world for him Who doth worship Liberty!” “Liberty!” I made reply, “O’er my head let thunders burst, Lightnings flash, and missiles fly— Foes conspire to do their worst; “Till I die, or meet my doom, On the shameful gallows-tree,— Till the portals of the tomb, I will shout forth Liberty!” I BEHELD MY LOVE THIS MORNING By SAYAT NOVA (1712–1795) I beheld my love this morning, in the garden paths she strayed, All brocaded was the ground with prints her golden pattens made; Like the nightingale, I warbled round my rose with wings displayed, And I wept, my reason faltered, while my heart was sore dismayed. Grant, O Lord, that all my foemen to such grief may be betrayed! Love, with these thy whims and humours thou hast wrecked and ruined me. Thou hast drunk of love’s own nectar, thy lips speak entrancingly. With those honeyed words how many like me thou hast bound to thee! Take the knife and slay me straightway—pass not by me mockingly. Since I die of love, ‘twere better Beauty stabbed and set me free. For I have no love beside thee—I would have thee know it well. Thou for whom e’en death I’d suffer, list to what I have to tell. See thou thwart not thy Creator,—all the past do not dispel: Anger not thy Sayat Nova, for when in thy snare he fell He was all bereft of reason by thy whims’ and humours’ spell. THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE BEAR FOLK SONG The little fox, the wolf and bear made peace; Like kinsfolk all, they bade their warfare cease. The fox they consecrate a hermit now;— False monk, false hermit, false recluse’s vow!