Armenian Legends and Poems 5

Armenian Legends and Poems 5

INCENSE

 

By ZABELLE ESSAYAN

 

(Born 1878)

 

 

The incense at the altar slowly burns

Swayed in the silver censer to and fro;

Around the crucifix it coils and turns,

The brows of saints it wreathes with misty glow.

 

And tremulous petitions, long drawn out,

Beneath the lofty arches faint away;

To weary eyes the candles round about

Heave as they flicker with their pallid ray.

 

The sacred columns, grey and mouldering,

Support a veil that stirs with voiceless sobs.

Beneath it, like the incense smouldering,

A woman’s darkened heart in anguish throbs.

 

Consumed within the censer now, and burned,

The incense through the boundless ether soars.

What Matter was to Fragrance sweet is turned—

The cleansing fire its purity restores.

 

Nor shall that woman’s smouldering heart be freed,—

Saved from its cold and adamantine shell,—

Till it is melted, tried, and cleansed indeed,

Till the pure flames shall all its dross expel!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LITTLE LAKE [4]

 

By BEDROS TOURIAN

 

(1852–1872)

 

 

Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise,

Thou little lonely mere?

Did some fair woman wistfully

Gaze in thy mirror clear?

 

Or are thy waters calm and still

Admiring the blue sky,

Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam,

Are drifting softly by?

 

Sad little lake, let us be friends!

I too am desolate;

I too would fain, beneath the sky,

In silence meditate.

 

As many thoughts are in my mind

As wavelets o’er thee roam;

As many wounds are in my heart

As thou hast flakes of foam.

 

But if heaven’s constellations all

Should drop into thy breast,

Thou still wouldst not be like my soul,—

A flame-sea without rest.

 

There, when the air and thou are calm,

The clouds let fall no showers;

The stars that rise there do not set,

And fadeless are the flowers.

 

Thou art my queen, O little lake!

For e’en when ripples thrill

Thy surface, in thy quivering depths

Thou hold’st me, trembling, still.

 

Full many have rejected me:

“What has he but his lyre?”

“He trembles, and his face is pale;

His life must soon expire!”

 

None said, “Poor child, why pines he thus?

If he beloved should be,

Haply he might not die, but live,—

Live, and grow fair to see.”

 

None sought the boy’s sad heart to read,

Nor in its depths to look.

They would have found it was a fire,

And not a printed book!

 

Nay, ashes now! a memory!

Grow stormy, little mere,

For a despairing man has gazed

Into thy waters clear!

 

 

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SPRING

 

By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN

 

(Born 1869)

 

 

None await thy smiling rays;

Whither comest thou, O Spring?

None are left to sing thy praise—

Vain thy coming now, O Spring!

 

All the world is wrapped in gloom,

Earth in blood is weltering:

This year brought us blackest doom—

Whither comest thou, O Spring?

 

No rose for the nightingale,

No flower within park or dale,

Every face with anguish pale—

Whither comest thou, O Spring?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CRADLE SONG

 

By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

 

(1830–1892)

 

 

Mother

 

Sweet slumber now creeps o’er thee slow,

Sweet breezes rock thee to and fro:

My baby sleeps, so soft and low

With sweetest songs I’ll sing oror. [5]

 

 

Baby

 

O Mother dear, thou art unkind

My sleepless eyes so long to bind. [6]

Anon I’ll rest, and sleep resigned;—

Release me now, sing not oror.

 

 

Mother

 

Why dost thou shed those tears that flow

Down thy sad cheeks with pearly glow?

Thou’lt break thy heart with sobbing so,—

Whom wilt thou have to sing oror?

 

 

Baby

 

At least my hands and feet unbind—

My tender limbs are all confined;

That gentle sleep my eyes may find,

Then tie me in, and sing oror.

 

 

Mother

 

That tongue of thine is passing sweet,

Yet with thy yards I cannot mete.

Thou wilt not sleep, but at thy feet

Wouldst have me sit, and sing oror.

 

 

Baby

 

All piteously I raise my prayer,

I sob and cry, thou dost not hear.