"But where, now, are all my people? Far in exile, homeless, lorn. While in widow's weeds and hopeless, Weeping, sit I here and mourn. "Hear now! while my sons are absent Age-long fast I still shall keep; Till my children gain deliverance, Here I watch and pray and weep." Silent, then, the mighty Mother Let her swelling tides go free. And in mournful meditation Slowly wandered to the sea. RAPHAEL PATKANIAN. * * * * * THE ARMENIAN MAIDEN In the hush of the spring night dreaming The crescent moon have you seen, As it shimmers on apricots gleaming, Through velvety masses of green. Have you seen, in a June-tide nooning, A languorous full-blown rose In the arms of the lilies swooning And yielding her sweets to her foes? Yet the moon in its course and the roses By Armenia's maiden pale, When she coyly and slowly discloses The glories beneath her veil. And a lute from her mother receiving, With a blush that a miser would move, She treads a soft measure, believing That music is sister to love. Like a sapling her form in its swaying, Full of slender and lissomy grace As she bends to the time of her playing, Or glides with a fairy-light pace. The lads for her beauty are burning, The elders hold forth on old age, But the maiden flies merrily spurning Youth, lover, and matron and sage. RAPHAEL PATKANIAN. * * * * * ONE OF A THOUSAND Sweet lady, whence the sadness in your face? What heart's desire is still unsatisfied? Your face and form are fair and full of grace, And silk and velvet lend you all their pride. A nod, a glance, and straight your maidens fly To execute your hest with loving zeal. By night and day you have your minstrelsy, Your feet soft carpets kiss and half conceal; While fragrant blooms adorn your scented bower, Fruits fresh and rare lie in abundance near. The costly narghilé exerts its power To soothe vain longing and dispel all fear: Envy not angels; you have paradise. No lowly consort you. A favored wife, Whose mighty husband can her wants suffice; Why mar with grieving such a fortunate life? So to Haripsime, the Armenian maid, On whom the cruel fortune of her lot had laid Rejection of her faith, spake with a sigh The wrinkled, ugly, haggard slave near by. Haripsime replied not to the words, But, silent, turned her face away. With scorn And sorrow mingled were the swelling chords Of passionate lament, and then forlorn, Hopeless, she raised her tearful orbs to heaven. Silent her lips, her grief too deep for sound; Her fixed gaze sought the heavy banks of cloud Surcharged with lightning bolts that played around The gloomy spires and minarets; then bowed Her head upon her hands; the unwilling eyes Shed tears as heavy as the thunder-shower That trails the bolt to where destruction lies.