Fly, lays of mine, but not to any clime Where happiness and light and love prevail, But seek the spots where woe and ill and crime Leave as they pass a noisome serpent-trail Fly, lays of mine, but not to the ether blue, Where golden sparks illume the heavenly sphere, But seek the depths where nothing that is true Relieves the eye or glads a listening ear. Fly, lays of mine, but not to fruitful plains Where spring the harvests by God's benison, But seek the deserts where for needed rains Both prayers and curses rise in unison. Fly, lays of mine, but not to riotous halls, Where dancing sylphs supply voluptuous songs, But seek the huts where pestilence appals, And death completes the round of human wrongs. Fly, lays of mine, but not to happy wives, Whose days are one unending flow of bliss, But seek the maidens whose unfruitful lives Have known as yet no lover's passionate kiss. Fly, lays of mine, and like the nightingales, Whose liquid liltings charm away the night, Reveal in song the sweets of summer's gales, Of lover's pleadings and of love's delight. And tell my lady, when your quests are o'er, That I, away from her, my heart's desire, Yearn for the blissful hour when I shall pour Down at her feet a love surcharged with fire. MUGURDITCH BESHETTASHLAIN. * * * * * THE WOE OF ARAXES Meditating by Araxes, Pacing slowly to and fro, Sought I traces of the grandeur Hidden by her turgid flow. "Turgid are thy waters, Mother, As they beat upon the shore. Do they offer lamentations For Armenia evermore? "Gay should be thy mood, O Mother, As the sturgeons leap in glee: Ocean's merging still is distant, Shouldest thou be sad, like me? "Are thy spume-drifts tears, O Mother, Tears for those that are no more? Dost thou haste to pass by, weeping, This thine own beloved shore?" Then uprose on high Araxes, Flung in air her spumy wave, And from out her depths maternal Sonorous her answer gave: "Why disturb me now, presumptuous, All my slumbering woe to wake? Why invade the eternal silence For a foolish question's sake? "Know'st thou not that I am widowed; Sons and daughters, consort, dead? Wouldst thou have me go rejoicing, As a bride to nuptial bed? "Wouldst thou have me decked in splendor, To rejoice a stranger's sight, While the aliens that haunt me Bring me loathing, not delight? "Traitress never I; Armenia Claims me ever as her own; Since her mighty doom hath fallen Never stranger have I known. "Yet the glories of my nuptials Heavy lie upon my soul; Once again I see the splendor And I hear the music roll. "Hear again the cries of children Ringing joyfully on my banks, And the noise of marts and toilers, And the tread of serried ranks.