Armenian Legends and Poems 8

Armenian Legends and Poems 8

And if I had a thousand woes no murmur from my lips would rise:

Thou art my Ruler, none beside; no sovereign own I otherwise.

Sayat Nova says, “Heartless one, death is not death for him who dies

So thou but mourn him with thy locks spread over him, Light of my Eyes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SONG OF THE PARTRIDGE

 

FOLK SONG

 

 

The sun has touched the mountain’s crest,

The partridge rises from her nest;

And down the hillside tripping fast,

Greets all the flowers as she goes past.

 

I breakfast on my roof at morn

When to my ear her voice is borne—

When swinging from the mountain side,

She chirps her song in all her pride.

 

Thy nest is dewed with summer showers;

Basil, narcissus, lotus flowers,

Enamel it, and breathe to thee

Perfumes of immortality.

 

Soft feathers all thy body deck,

Small is thy beak, and long thy neck.

Thy wings are worked with colours rare,

The dove is not so sweet and fair.

 

The little partridge flies aloft

Upon the branch, and warbles soft;

He cheers the world, and heals the smart

When seas of blood well in the heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LILY OF SHAVARSHAN

 

By LEO ALISHAN

 

(1820–1901)

 

 

Armenian maidens, come and view

In Shavarshan a lily new!

 

The radiant type of maidenhood,

Crown of Armenia’s pride!

From the fair brow beneath her veil

The wind-stirred curls float wide

With little steps, like turtle dove,

She walks the dew-bright plain;

Her lips drop honey, and her eyes

Effulgent glances rain.

 

The beauty of Armenia,

A sun-like mirror clear,

Our Northern star is bright Santoukhd,

The king’s fair daughter dear.

She has come forth, the graceful bride

On whom the East and West

Desire to look, while fires of love

Consume the gazer’s breast.

 

Less fair the bright and morning star,

’Mid cloudlets small and fine;

Less fair the fruit whose rosy tints

’Mid apple leaves outshine;

Araxes’ hyacinthine flower

That chains of dew doth wear,

All are less beautiful than she,

With gracious mien and air.

 

At sight of her, the snowy peaks

Melt and are flushed with rose;

Trees, flowers bud forth; the nightingales

All sing where’er she goes.

The bell-flowers open myriad eyes

When she comes through the bowers;

Beneath her breath, the vales and hills

Alike are clad in flowers.

 

Before her have been bent to earth

Foreheads with diadems;

The valley has become a hill

Of scattered gold and gems.

Where passes by with humble grace

Armenia’s virgin sweet,

Fine sands of pearls come longingly

To spread beneath her feet.

 

Full many a monarch’s valiant son

Has left his palace home

In Persia or Albania,

In India or in Rome.

Admiringly they gaze on her,

Exclaiming, “Happy he

Who wins the fair Armenian maid

His bride beloved to be!”

 

But palace worthy of Santoukhd

The earth can nowhere show,

And for the arches of her brows

This world is all too low.

 

The Sky says, “Let her on my throne

Reign queen o’er every land.”

The Ocean says, “My purple waves

Shall bow to her command.”

 

There is One greater than the earth,

More wide than sea-waves run,

Higher and vaster than the heavens,

And brighter than the sun.

There is a formidable King

Whose power no bound has known;

The royal maid Santoukhd shall be

For Him, and Him alone.

Her halls of light are all prepared,

And for a footstool meet

The azure sky adorned with stars

Awaits her dove-like feet.

 

The sharp sword glitters in the air,

And swift the red blood flows;

Santoukhd, who was a lily fair,

Falls to the earth, a rose.

The sword flashed once, and aspects three

Were in Santoukhd descried;

Her heart dropped blood, and roses red

Sprang up on every side;

Her eyes were violet chalices,

Sweet e’en while they expire;

Her face, like lilies half unclosed,

But on her lips what fire!

 

The heaven and earth shine white and red;

Come forth and gather, maids,

 

The rose and lily joined in one,

This peerless flower that fades!

Lay in the tomb that youthful corpse,

With Thaddeus, good and brave.

Sweet maiden of Armenia,

Her sweet soil be thy grave!

Armenian maids, a lily new

Is brought to Shavarshan for you! [7]

 

 

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CRADLE SONG

 

By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

 

 

Nightingale, oh, leave our garden,

Where soft dews the blossoms steep;

With thy litanies melodious

Come and sing my son to sleep!

Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting,

And his weeping hath not ceased.

Come not, nightingale! My darling

Does not wish to be a priest.

 

O thou thievish, clever jackdaw,