ARMENIAN LEGENDS AND POEMS
ILLUSTRATED & COMPILED
by
ZABELLE C. BOYAJIAN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE RIGHT HON. VISCOUNT BRYCE, O.M.
AND
A CONTRIBUTION ON “ARMENIA: ITS EPICS, FOLK-SONGS, AND MEDIAEVAL
POETRY,”
By ARAM RAFFI
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
Miss Boyajian is giving all the profits of this edition to the Lord
Mayor’s Armenian Fund
Dedicated
TO
THE UNDYING SPIRIT OF ARMENIA
PREFACE
In preparing this book of Armenian Legends and Poems my principal
object was to publish it as a Memorial to an unhappy nation.
The book does not claim to represent Armenian poetry adequately. Many
gifted and well-known authors have been omitted, partly from
considerations of space, and partly because of the scope of the work.
For instance, I should have liked to include some of the Sharakans
(rows of gems) of Nerses Shnorhali; but the impossibility of
reproducing their characteristic forms in another language, and doing
them any justice, made me decide not to translate any of them. I have
only given a few typical legends and poems, endeavouring, as far as
possible, to convey the local colouring by adhering closely to the
form, rhythm, and imagery of the originals in my translations. I have
also largely based the decorative scheme of the illustrations upon
Ancient Armenian Art as we see it in mediæval missals and
illuminations.
Should this anthology create an interest in Armenian literature the
Armenian Muses have still many treasures in their keeping which cannot
be destroyed; and another volume could be compiled.
In conclusion, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to Miss Alice
Stone Blackwell, of Boston, U.S.A.—one of Armenia’s truest
friends—for allowing me to reprint several of her renderings of
Armenian poems; to G. C. Macaulay, M.A., and the Delegates of the
Oxford University Press, for permission to reprint the “Tale of
Rosiphelee” from their edition of Gower’s Confessio Amantis; to Mr.
William Watson and Mr. John Lane for permission to reprint the sonnet
on Armenia, “A Trial of Orthodoxy,” from The Purple East; and to
the heirs of Vittoria Aganoor Pompilj for permitting me to reprint two
of her poems, “Pasqua Armena” and “Io Vidi,” from the Nuova
Antologia. I wish also to thank Mr. M. E. Galoustiantz for designing
the cover of this book.
The proceeds of the present edition will be handed over to the Armenian
Fund.
ZABELLE C. BOYAJIAN.
INTRODUCTION
Severed for many centuries from Western Europe by the flood of Turkish
barbarism which descended upon their country in the Middle Ages, and
subjected for the last two generations to oppressions and cruelties
such as few civilised people have ever had to undergo, the Armenians
have been less known to Englishmen and Frenchmen than their remarkable
qualities and their romantic history deserve. Few among us have
acquired their language, one of the most ancient forms of human speech
that possess a literature. Still fewer have studied their art or read
their poetry even in translations. There is, therefore, an ample field
for a book which shall present to those Englishmen and Frenchmen, whose
interest in Armenia has been awakened by the sufferings to which its
love of freedom and its loyalty to its Christian faith have exposed it,
some account of Armenian art and Armenian poetical literature. Miss
Boyajian, the authoress of this book, is the daughter of an Armenian
clergyman, whom I knew and respected during the many years when he was
British Vice-Consul at Diarbekir on the Tigris. She is herself a
painter, a member of that group of Armenian artists some of whom have,
like Aïvazovsky and Edgar Chahine, won fame in the world at large, and
she is well qualified to describe with knowledge as well as with
sympathy the art of her own people.
That art has been, since the nation embraced Christianity in the fourth
century of our era, chiefly ecclesiastical. The finest examples of
ancient Armenian architecture are to be seen in the ruins of Ani, on
the border where Russian and Turkish territory meet, a city which was
once the seat of one of the native dynasties, while the famous church
of the monastery of Etchmiadzin, at Vagarshabad, near Erivan, is,
though more modern, a perfect and beautiful existing representative of
the old type. Etchmiadzin, standing at the north foot of Mount Ararat,
is the seat of the Katholikos, or ecclesiastical head of the whole
Armenian church. There was little or no ecclesiastical sculpture, for
the Armenian church discouraged the use of images, and fresco painting
was not much used for the decoration of churches; missals, however, and
other books of devotion and manuscripts of the Bible were illuminated
with hand paintings, and adorned with miniatures; and much skill and
taste were shown in embroideries. Metal work, especially in silver and
in copper, has always been a favourite vehicle for artistic design in
the Near East and is so still, though like everything else it has
suffered from the destruction, in repeated massacres, of many of the
most highly skilled artificers.
One of the most interesting features in the history of Armenian art is
that it displays in its successive stages the various influences to
which the country has been subject. Ever since it became Christian it
was a territory fought for by diverse empires of diverse creeds. As in
primitive times it lay between Assyria on the one side and the Hittite
power on the other, so after the appearance of Islam it became the
frontier on which the East Roman Christian Empire contended with the
Muslim Arab and Turkish monarchies. Persian influences on the East,
both before and after Persia had become Mohammedan, here met with the
Roman influences spreading out from Constantinople. The latter gave the
architectural style, as we see it in those ecclesiastical buildings to
which I have referred, a style developed here with admirable features
of its own and one which has held its ground to the present day. The
influence of Persia on the other hand was seen in the designs used in
embroidery, in carpets, and in metal work. The new school of painters
has struck out new lines for itself, but while profiting by whatever it
has learnt from Europe, it retains a measure of distinctive national
quality.
That quality is also visible in Armenian poetry of which this volume
gives some interesting specimens. The poetry of a people which has
struggled against so many terrible misfortunes has naturally a
melancholy strain. But it is also full of an unextinguishable
patriotism.
Those who have learnt from this book what the Armenian race has shown
itself capable of doing in the fields of art and literature, and who
have learnt from history how true it has been to its Christian faith,
and how tenacious of its national life, will hope that the time has now
at last come when it will be delivered from the load of brutal tyranny
that has so long cramped its energies, and allowed to take its place
among the free and progressive peoples of the world. It is the only one
of the native races of Western Asia that is capable of restoring
productive industry and assured prosperity to these now desolated
regions that were the earliest homes of civilisation.
BRYCE.
3, Buckingham Gate,
July 1916.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Preface vii
Introduction ix
Reproaches xv
A Trial of Orthodoxy xvi
The Exile’s Song 1
The Apple Tree 3
My Heart is turned into a Wailing Child 4
O Night, be long 5
Black Eyes 6
Yesternight I walked Abroad 7
Vahagn, King of Armenia 10
Huntsman, that on the Hills above 11
Liberty 12
I beheld my Love this Morning 14
The Fox, the Wolf, and the Bear 15
Incense 17
The Little Lake 18
Spring 20
Cradle Song 21
Ara and Semiramis 23
Lament over the Heroes fallen in the
Battle of Avarair 25
The Song of the Stork 27
Ye Mountain Bluebells 29
The Sun went down 30
Birthday Song 31
Morning 32
The Founding of Van 33
I have a Word I fain would say 35
The Song of the Partridge 36
The Lily of Shavarshan 37
Cradle Song 41
The Wind is howling through the Winter Night 42
The Armenian Poet’s Prayer 43
The Chragan Palace 44
The Dream 46
The Sorrows of Armenia 47
Artashes and Satenik 48
My Death 50
The Eagle’s Love 51
Concerning the Rose and the Nightingale 52
The Arrival of the Crusaders 58
Like an Ocean is this World 59
The Rock 60
The Crane 62
The Hawk and the Dove 63
Artavasd 65
Charm Verses 67
The Tears of Araxes 69
The Eve of Ascension Day 73
“Thy Voice is Sweet” 74
Christ and Abgarus 75
Araxes came devouringly 77
The Parrot’s Song 78
Earth and Sky 79
O’er the Mountains High he went 81
Complaints 82
A Day After 84
Without Thee what are Song and Dance to Me? 85
The Lake of Van 86
Spring 89
The Fox 90
The Tale of Rosiphelee 91
The Song of the Vulture 98
Dance Song 101
Ballad 103
No Bird can reach the Mountain’s Crest 106
The Nightingale of Avarair 108
Thou art so Sweet 110
The Wandering Armenian to the Swallow 111
The Christ-Child 113
The Castle of Anoush 114
Happiness 118
Concerning Death 119
Love One Another 121
Pasqua Armena 122
“Io Vidi” 123
Armenia: its Epics, Folk-Songs, and Mediaeval Poetry 125
Chronological Index to Authors 193
Index to First Lines 195
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Armenia Frontispiece
The Birth of Vahagn, King of Armenia facing page 10
Ara and Semiramis 23
The Founding of Van 33
Artashes and Satenik 48
The Wedding 49
Artavasd 65
Christ’s Letter to Abgarus 75
The Lake of Van 86
The Vision of Rosiphelee, Princess of Armenia 91
The Lady and the Minstrel 102
The Castle of Anoush 114
REPROACHES
By “FRIK”
(Died 1330)
O God of righteousness and truth,
Loving to all, and full of ruth;
I have some matter for Thine ear
If Thou wilt but Thy servant hear.
Lo, how the world afflicteth us
With wrongs and torments rancorous;
And Thou dost pardon every one,
But turnest from our woes alone.
Lord, Thou wilt not avenge our wrong
Nor chase the ills that round us throng;
Thou knowest, we are flesh and bone,
We are not statues made from stone!
We are not made of grass or reeds,
That Thou consumest us like weeds;—
As though we were some thorny field
Or brushwood, that the forests yield.
If that ourselves are nothing worth—
If we have wrought no good on earth,
If we are hateful in Thy sight
That Thou shouldst leave us in this plight—
Then blot us out;—be swift and brief,
That Thy pure heart may find relief;
This well may be, by Thy intent,
Great Lord and good, omnipotent.
How long must we in patience wait
And bear unmurmuringly our fate?
Let evil ones be swept away
And those whom Thou dost favour, stay!
A TRIAL OF ORTHODOXY
(Sonnet on Armenia)
By WILLIAM WATSON
The clinging children at their mother’s knee
Slain; and the sire and kindred one by one
Flayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless done,
Not to be told: while imperturbably
The nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,
Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,
And where great armies glitter in the sun,
And great Kings rule, and man is boasted free!
What wonder if yon torn and naked throng
Should doubt a Heaven that seems to wink and nod,
And having mourned at noontide, “Lord, how long?”
Should cry, “Where hidest Thou?” at evenfall,
At midnight, “Is He deaf and blind, our God?”
And ere day dawn, “Is He indeed at all?”
THE EXILE’S SONG
FOLK SONG
Belovèd one, for thy sweet sake,
By whirlwinds tossed and swayed I roam;
The stranger’s accents round me wake
These burning thoughts that wander home.
No man such longings wild can bear
As in my heart forever rise.
Oh that the wind might waft me there
Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet,
That bends her vines and roses sweet.
For I am piteous and forlorn,
As is the bird that haunts the night;
Who inconsolably doth mourn
Whene’er his rose is from his sight.
O’er earth and ocean, everywhere
I gaze in vain, with weary eyes.
Oh that the wind might waft me there
Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.
I would I were yon cloud so light,—
Yon cloudlet driven before the wind.
Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight:
My heart’s true way I soon would find!
Oh, I would be the wind so fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.
THE APPLE TREE
FOLK SONG
The door of Heaven open seemed
And in thy house the sunlight gleamed.
As through the garden’s willow’d walks I hied
Full many a tree and blossom I espied.
But of all trees, the Apple Tree most fair
And beautiful did unto me appear.
It sobbed and wept. Its leaves said murmuringly:
“I would that God had ne’er created me!
The badge of sin and wickedness I am
E’en at thy feast, O Father Abraham. [1]
The apple growing on me first
From Eden came ere it was cursed,
Alas, alas, I am undone!
Why fell I to that evil one?”
MY HEART IS TURNED INTO A WAILING CHILD
By N. KOUCHAK
(Fifteenth Century)
My heart is turned into a wailing child,
In vain with sweets I seek to still its cries;
Sweet love, it calls for thee in sobbings wild
All day and night, with longing and with sighs.
What solace can I give it?
I showed my eyes the fair ones of this earth
And tried to please them—but I tried in vain.
Sweet love, for them all those were nothing worth—
Thee—only thee my heart would have again.
What solace can I give it?
O NIGHT, BE LONG
By N. KOUCHAK
O Night, be long—long as an endless year!
Descend, thick darkness, black and full of fear!
To-night my heart’s desire has been fulfilled—
My love is here at last—a guest concealed!
Dawn, stand behind seven mountains—out of sight,
Lest thou my loved one banish with thy light;
I would for ever thus in darkness rest
So I might ever clasp him to my breast.
BLACK EYES
By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN
(Born 1875)
Do not trust black eyes, but fear them:—
Gloom they are, and endless night;
Woes and perils lurking near them—
Love not thou their gleaming bright!
In my heart a sea of blood wells,
Called up by their cruel might,
No calm ever in that flood dwells—
Love not thou their gleaming bright!
YESTERNIGHT I WALKED ABROAD
ANONYMOUS
Yesternight I walked abroad.
From the clouds sweet dews were falling,
And my love stood in the road,
All in green, and to me calling.
To her home she led me straight,
Shut and barred the gate securely;
Whoso tries to force that gate
Brave I’ll reckon him most surely!
In the garden she did go,
Gathered roses dewed with showers;
Some she gave her lover, so
He might lay his face in flowers.
Garments loose and snowy breast,
I slipped in her bosom tender
And I found a moment’s rest,
Clasped within those arms so slender.
Then I raised my hands above—
Grant, O Lord, that I wake never;
On the bosom of my love
May I live and die forever!
What have I from this world gained?
What advantage gathered ever?
For the hunt my falcon trained
I let fly—it went forever!
Ah, my falcon, woe the day!
Tell me, whither art thou flying?
I will follow all the way—
Since thou wentest I am dying.
I am ill, and near my end—
With an apple [2] hasten to me.
I shall curse thee if thou send
Strange physicians to undo me.
No physicians strange for me—
All my griefs in thee I centre.
Come and take my bosom’s key,
Open wide the door and enter.
Once again I say, ’twas not
I that came—’twas thy love brought me.
In my heart thy love hath got
And its dwelling-place hath wrought me.
When the falcon hunger feels
Then he finds the game and takes it;
When love thirsts, the lover steals
Kisses from his love and slakes it.
But thou hold’st me with thy charms;
When I kiss thee thou dost bind me:
’Twas but now I left thine arms,
And my looks are turned behind me.
I am ever, for thy love,
Like the sands in summer, burning:
Looking up to heaven above,
For one little raindrop yearning.
I would kiss thy forehead chaste,
And thine eyes so brightly gleaming;
Fold mine arms about thy waist—
Thick with all thy garments seeming.
Oft and often have I said
For my love make garments shining:
Of the sun the facing red,—
Of the moon cut out the lining;
Pad it with yon storm-cloud dark,
Sewn with sea weed from the islets:
Stars for clasps must bring their spark—
Stitch me inside for the eyelets!
VAHAGN, KING OF ARMENIA
From the History of Armenia, by
MOSES OF KHORENE
(Fifth Century)
Concerning the birth of this king the legends say—
“Heaven and earth were in travail,
And the crimson waters were in travail.
And in the water, the crimson reed
Was also in travail.
From the mouth of the reed issued smoke,
From the mouth of the reed issued flame.
And out of the flame sprang the young child.
His hair was of fire, a beard had he of flame,
And his eyes were suns.”
With our own ears did we hear these words sung to the accompaniment of
the harp. They sing, moreover, that he did fight with the dragons, and
overcame them; and some say that his valiant deeds were like unto those
of Hercules. Others declare that he was a god, and that a great image
of him stood in the land of Georgia, where it was worshipped with
sacrifices.
HUNTSMAN, THAT ON THE HILLS ABOVE
By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN
“Huntsman, that on the hills above
To hunt the deer hast been,
Tell me, I pray thee, if my love—
My wild deer thou hast seen?
“He sought the hills his grief to quell—
My darling love, my sun.
He wandered out upon the fell,
My flower, my only one.”
“Maiden, I saw your lover true,
All girt with red and green.
Upon his breast a rose tree grew
Where once your kiss had been.”
“Huntsman, I pray, who is the bride
Of my beloved, my sun?
Who tends him, watching by his side,
My flower, my only one?”
“Maiden, I saw him with his head
Upon a stone at rest.
And for his love, a bullet red
Into his heart was pressed.
“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!
The little fox a sack found in the street
Through which he thrust his head; then shod his feet
With iron shoes, and got a staff, I trow—
False monk, false hermit, false recluse’s vow!
The fox has sent the wolf to fetch the bear.
“For him,” he said, “I live this life of care;
Yet never hath he sent me aught to eat:—
Sore are my knees with walking, sore my feet!”
At morning dawn forth to the hunt they creep;
A ram they catch, a lambkin and a sheep.
Holy dispenser is the wolf proclaimed—
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!
He gives the sheep as portion to the bear;
The lambkin falls to the poor hermit’s share.
“The ram for me,” he said, “I’m tired and lamed”—
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!
The bear was wroth, and turned him round about,
And with one blow the wolf’s two eyes put out.
“That sheep for me, a bear so great and famed?
Unjust dispenser, judge unwisely named!”
The little fox is sore afraid, and sees
A trap laid ready with a piece of cheese.
“O uncle, see, I’ve built a convent here,”
He said, “a place of rest, a place of prayer!”
The bear stretched out his paw for the repast,
The trap upon his neck closed hard and fast.
“Help me, my little nephew, for I fear
This is no convent, ’tis no house of prayer!”
The little fox with joy beheld the whole
And sang a mass for his great uncle’s soul.
“The wrong thou didst the wolf has brought thee there;
It is a house of rest, a house of prayer!”
O sovereign Justice, much thou pleasest me—
Who wrongs another soon shall cease to be.
And fasting in the trap must lie the bear,—
For ’tis a house of rest, a house of prayer!
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.
Thy sweet voice seems to charm thine ear—
I weep, thou singest still oror.
Mother
Hush, hush, and sleep, my baby dear.
My love shall guard thee, year by year,
Until my rose-tree blossoms fair,
Then ‘neath his shade I’ll sing oror.
Baby
Thy heart is made of stone, I see.
I wept and wept, all uselessly.
Now I shall sleep, I can’t be free,
All night, all night sing me oror!
ARA AND SEMIRAMIS
From the History of Armenia, by
MOSES OF KHORENE
For a few years before the death of Ninus, Ara reigned over Armenia
under his Protectorate, and found the same favour in his eyes as his
father Aram had done. But that wanton and lustful woman Semiramis,
having heard speak for many years of the beauty of Ara, wished to
possess him; only she ventured not to do anything openly. But after the
death or the escape to Crete of Ninus, as it hath been affirmed unto
me, she discovered her passion freely, and sent messengers to Ara the
Beautiful with gifts and offerings, with many prayers and promises of
riches; begging him to come to her to Nineveh and either wed her and
reign over all that Ninus had possessed, or fulfil her desires and
return in peace to Armenia, with many gifts.
And when the messengers had been and returned many times and Ara had
not consented, Semiramis became very wroth; and she arose and took all
the multitude of her hosts and hastened to the land of Armenia, against
Ara. But, as she had beforehand declared, it was not so much to kill
him and persecute him that she went, as to subdue him and bring him by
force to fulfil the desires of her passion. For having been consumed
with desire by what she had heard of him, on seeing him she became as
one beside herself. She arrived in this turmoil at the plains of Ara,
called after him Aïrarat. And when the battle was about to take place
she commanded her generals to devise some means of saving the life of
Ara. But in the fighting the army of Ara was beaten, and Ara died,
being slain by the warriors of Semiramis. And after the battle the
Queen sent out to the battlefield to search for the body of her beloved
amongst those who had died. And they found the body of Ara amongst the
brave ones that had fallen, and she commanded them to place it in an
upper chamber in her castle.
But when the hosts of Armenia arose once more against Queen Semiramis
to avenge the death of Ara, she said: “I have commanded the gods to
lick his wounds, and he shall live again.” At the same time she
thought to bring Ara back to life by witchcraft and charms, for she was
maddened by the intensity of her desires. But when the body began to
decay, she commanded them to cast it into a deep pit, and to cover it.
And having dressed up one of her men in secret, she sent forth the fame
of him thus: “The gods have licked Ara and have brought him back to
life again, thus fulfilling our prayers and our pleasure. Therefore
from this time forth shall they be the more glorified and worshipped by
us, for that they are the givers of joy and the fulfillers of
desire.” She also erected a new statue in honour of the gods and
worshipped it with many sacrifices, showing unto all as if the gods had
brought Ara back to life again. And having caused this report to be
spread over all the land of Armenia and satisfied the people she put an
end to the fighting. And she took the son of Ara whom his beloved wife
Nouvart had borne unto him and who was but twelve years old at the time
of his father’s death. And she called his name Ara in memory of her
love for Ara the Beautiful, and appointed him ruler over the land of
Armenia, trusting him in all things.
LAMENT OVER THE HEROES FALLEN IN THE BATTLE OF AVARAIR
By KAREKIN SRVANSTIAN
(1840–1892)
If Goghtan’s bards no longer crown
Armenia’s heroes with their lays,
Let deathless souls from Heaven come down,
Our valiant ones to praise!
Ye shining angel hosts, descend:
On Ararat’s white summit pause;
Let God Himself the heavens rend,
To come and judge our cause.
Fly, clouds, from Shavarshan away,
Pour not on it your gentle rain:—
’Tis drenched with streams of blood to-day
Shed by our brave ones slain.
Henceforth the rose and asphodel
No more shall on our plains appear;
But in the land where Vartan fell
Shall Faith her blossoms rear.
Fit monument to Vartan’s name,
Mount Ararat soars to the sky.
And Cross-crowned convents tell his fame,
And churches vast and high.
Thy record too shall ever stand,
O Eghishé, for where they fell,
Thou forthwith camest, pen in hand,
Their faith and death to tell.
Bright sun, pierce with thy rays the gloom,
Where Khaghdik’s crags thy light repel,
There lies our brave Hmayag’s tomb,—
There, where he martyred fell.
And, moon, thy sleepless vigil keep
O’er our Armenian martyrs’ bones;
With the soft dews of Maytime steep
Their nameless funeral stones.
Armenia’s Stork, our summer guest,
And all ye hawks and eagles, come,
Watch o’er this land—’tis our bequest—
We leave to you our home.
About the ashes hover still,
Your nests among the ruins make;
And, swallows, come and go until
Spring for Armenia break!
THE SONG OF THE STORK
FOLK SONG
Stork, I welcome thy return.
Thou stork, I welcome thy return.
Thy coming is the sign of spring,
And thou dost joy and gladness bring.
Stork, upon our roof descend.
Thou stork, upon our roof descend.
Upon our ash-tree build thy nest,
Our dear one, and our honoured guest.
Stork, I would complain to thee:—
Yes, stork, I would complain to thee.
A thousand sorrows I would tell,
The griefs that in my bosom dwell.
Stork, when thou our house didst leave,—
When last our ash-tree thou didst leave,
Cold, blasting winds the heavens filled,
And all our smiling flowers were killed.
Clouds obscured the brilliant sky;
Dark clouds obscured the brilliant sky.
Up there in flakes they broke the snow,
And Winter killed the flowers below.
From the mountain of Varag,
From that great hill they call Varag,
The snow did all the earth enfold:—
In our green meadow it was cold.
In our garden all was white.
Our little garden all was white.
Our tender rose-trees, fresh and green,
All died of Winter’s frost-bite keen.
YE MOUNTAIN BLUEBELLS
By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN
Ye mountain bluebells, weep with me,
And flowers in coloured crowds;
Weep, nightingale, on yonder tree,—
Cool winds dropped from the clouds.
All dark around the earth and sky,
All lonely here I mourn.
My love is gone,—light of my eye;
I sob and weep forlorn.
Alas, no more he cares for me—
He left me unconsoled;
He pierced my heart, then cruelly
Left me in pain untold.
Ye mountain bluebells, weep with me,
And flowers in coloured crowds;
Weep, nightingale, on yonder tree,—
Cool winds dropped from the clouds.
THE SUN WENT DOWN
By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN
The sun went down behind the hill,
No light was on the lea,
The fowls and birds slept calm and still,
But sleep came not to me.
The moon peeped in beneath the eaves,
The Balance rose on high,
The fresh night-wind that stirred the leaves
Spoke to the starry sky.
Ah, gentle winds and stars of light,
Where is my love to-night?
Ye painted eyes of heaven so bright,—
Saw you my love to-night?
Day dawned,—unbolted was our door:—
The snowflakes whirled like foam,
’Tis cloud and storm, the wild winds roar—
Why comes my love not home?
BIRTHDAY SONG
By NAHABED KOUCHAK
On the morning of thy birth
We were glad but thou wert wailing,
See that when thou leav’st the earth
Thou art glad and we bewailing.
Let me speak unto thy heart,—
List if thou hast understanding;
Keep thyself from fools apart,
All their flatteries withstanding.
For the fool, like fire and heat,
Scorcheth everything, and burneth;
But the wise, like water sweet,
Deserts into gardens turneth.
MORNING
By HAROUTUNE TOUMANIAN
Day dawned. Bright tongues of scarlet flame
Shot up into the sky,
The livid heav’ns blushed, and became
A sea of crimson dye.
The sun his fiery beams unrolled
Like strands of coloured thread;
Embroidered all the clouds with gold,
And blue, and green, and red.
Then o’er the mountain, full in view,
Nature’s great Monarch rose:
And from his tent of Royal blue
Hurled darts upon his foes.
Eternal foe of Gloom and Night,
On high he raised his arm;
His shield of gold, all shining bright,
Sheltered the world from harm.
THE FOUNDING OF VAN
From the History of Armenia, by
MOSES OF KHORENE
And after these things Semiramis, having remained in the plain called
Aïrarat after Ara, went into the hill country towards the south. For
it was summer time and she wished to disport herself in the valleys and
the flowery plains. And seeing the beauty of the land and the purity of
the air, the clearness of the fountains and the murmuring of the
gliding rivers, she said, “It is needful that we build for ourselves
a city and palaces in this balmy clime and beautiful country, by the
side of these pure waters; so that we may spend the fourth part of the
year, which is the summer season, with enjoyment in the land of
Armenia; and the three cool seasons of the year we will spend in
Nineveh.”
And passing over many places she came to the eastern shore of the salt
lake. And on the shore of the lake she saw a long hill lying towards
the setting sun. And south of the hill was a wide valley like unto a
plain, which came down from the eastern flank of the hill unto the
shore of the lake, spacious and of goodly shape. And the rills of sweet
water descending from the mountains ran down the ravines, and meeting
around the spurs of the hills they hastened to join the river. And
there were not a few buildings erected in the valley on the right and
left banks of the waters. And she selected a small hill on the eastern
side.
After gazing thence for a while that evil and hard-hearted woman
Semiramis commanded that twelve thousand unskilled workmen and six
thousand of her chosen men skilled in all manner of wood, stone,
copper, and iron work should be brought from Assyria and all other
lands to the desired place. And it was done according to her command.
And immediately a great multitude of diverse workmen were brought, and
of wise and gifted workers in all the arts. And she commanded first to
make the dyke of the river, of boulders and great rocks cemented
together with clay, of great width and height; the which it is said
remains firm until this day, so that in the clefts of these dykes
pirates and exiles do fortify themselves as in the caves of the
mountains, none being able to wrench even one stone from the dyke. And
when one looked upon the cement it appeared like a torrent of fat. Thus
having taken the dyke round over much ground she brought it unto the
intended site of the city. There she commanded the multitude of the
workers to be divided into diverse sections, placing over each section
a chosen master of the arts. And under such oppression did she keep
them that after a few years the wondrous rampart with its gates of
wrought copper was completed. And she made beautiful buildings in the
city, and palaces of different stones decorated with colours, two
stories and three stories high. For each one she did build
summer-houses, separating the various quarters of the town from each
other by beautiful streets. She built also wondrous baths in the midst
of the city for the use of the people, and divided the water passing
through the town into two parts, one for watering the fragrant orchards
and flower-gardens, and the other for the drinking water of the city
and its surroundings. On the east, north, and south of the city she
built pleasure houses, and planted orchards with leafy trees that bore
diverse kinds of fruit and foliage; she also planted many vines. The
whole city she surrounded with stately ramparts, and caused great
multitudes to dwell therein.
But concerning the far end of the city, and the miraculous works that
were done there, it surpasseth the power of a man to tell, neither can
they be understood by man. For there, surrounded by fortifications, she
did construct the Royal Palace, in great mystery. For the entrances
were hard, and the passages leading out of it like those of hell.
Concerning the manner of its making we have never read a true
description, neither do we propose to weave it into our history; but we
only say that of all royal works it is, as we have heard, esteemed the
first and greatest. And on the west side of the rock—whereon no man
can now make any impression, even with iron—in this adamantine
substance she constructed many temples, bed-chambers, and
treasure-houses; and great trenches, so that none knoweth for what
manner of things she made these marvellous preparations. And smoothing
the face of the rock as one would smooth wax with a pen, she wrote many
inscriptions thereon; so that even to look at it causeth a man to be
amazed.
I HAVE A WORD I FAIN WOULD SAY
By SAYAT NOVA
I have a word I fain would say—list patiently, Light of my Eyes;
A ceaseless longing fills my heart thy face to see, Light of my Eyes.
How have I sinned that thou shouldst thus offended be, Light of my Eyes?
The world is sated with the world,—I starve for thee, Light of my Eyes.
A sea of blood is in my heart, and tears forever fill my eyes;
No salve can heal my wound, the cure in my beloved’s presence lies.
All sick of love I lay, and watched her pathway with my longing eyes;
When I was dead she came; ’twas but the layer-out who heard her sighs.
Fair springtime now is fully here, the meadows gay with leaf and flower;
The hill-sides strewn with violets, the nightingale sent to the bower.
But why cannot his voice be heard? O thorn-tree, whence thy cruel power?
Thy branches pierced his heart; the rose was mourning left within her tower.
The scarlet poppy thought to tempt and lure the wandering nightingale,
When he was dreaming of the rose tied round with wisps of basil pale.
None pitied him—the rose was plucked by those who first came to the vale.
Alas, poor nightingale, the hedge has caught and pierced thy body frail!
God knows my life I count but nought; for thee I’d give it joyfully.
Come, let us taste of love’s delights, let him that listeth envious be.
No wish of thine shall be refused, so but thy face I radiant see.
If immortality thou’dst have, my love shall e’en bring that to thee.
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,
That in coin findest thy joy,
With thy tales of gold and profit
Come and soothe my wailing boy!
Nay, thy chatter does not lull him,
And his crying is not stayed.
Come not, jackdaw! for my darling
Will not choose the merchant’s trade.
Wild dove, leave the fields and pastures
Where thou grievest all day long;
Come and bring my boy sweet slumber
With thy melancholy song!
Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither,
Plaintive songster, for I see
That he loves not lamentations,
And no mourner will he be.
Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon!
Haply he thy song would hear.
And the boy lay hushed, and slumbered,
With the war-notes in his ear.
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE WIND IS HOWLING THROUGH THE WINTER NIGHT
By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN
The wind is howling through the winter night,
Like to a pack of angry wolves that cry.
My hapless willows bend before its might;
Their broken branches in the garden lie.
Alas, my heart, thy love since childhood’s days
Hath wept; thy dream was understood by none.
Seek not in vain a friend to know thy ways—
The soul is born eternally alone.
Thou from thy hopeless heart that love shalt cast—
That child of earth, false, illegitimate:
Shalt fling it to the night and wintry blast—
Out in the storm—there let it find its fate.
There motherless and orphaned let it weep,
And let the wind its sobbings onward bear
Unto some desert place, or stormy deep—
But not where human soul its voice may hear.
The wind is howling in its agony
All through this snow-bound night, with piercing cry;
Alas, beneath the broken willow tree
My shattered love lies dying—let it die.
THE ARMENIAN POET’S PRAYER
By ALEXANDER DZADOURIAN
(Born 1870)
O God, ’tis not for laurel wreaths I pray,
For pompous funeral or jubilee;
Nor yet for fame beyond my life’s decay—
All these my country will accord to me.
One favour, Lord of Heaven, I implore—
One that my land to me will never give:
Grant me a crust of bread, or else such store
Of grace that I on air may learn to live!
THE CHRAGAN PALACE
By THOMAS TERZYAN
(1842–1909)
Have you ever seen that wondrous building,
Whose white shadows in the blue wave sleep?
There Carrara sent vast mounds of marble,
And Propontis, beauty of the deep.
From the tombs of centuries awaking,
Souls of every clime and every land
Have poured forth their rarest gifts and treasures
Where those shining halls in glory stand.
Ships that pass before that stately palace,
Gliding by with open sails agleam,
In its shadow pause and gaze, astonished,
Thinking it some Oriental dream.
New its form, more wondrous than the Gothic,
Than the Doric or Ionic fair;
At command of an Armenian genius [8]
Did the master builder rear it there.
By the windows, rich with twisted scroll-work,
Rising upward, marble columns shine,
And the sunbeams lose their way there, wandering
Where a myriad ornaments entwine.
An immortal smile, its bright reflection
In the water of the blue sea lies,
And it shames Granada’s famed Alhambra,
O’er whose beauty wondering bend the skies.
Oft at midnight, in the pale, faint starlight,
When its airy outline, clear and fair,
On the far horizon is depicted,
With its trees and groves around it there,
You can fancy that those stones grow living,
And, amid the darkness of the night,
Change to lovely songs, to which the spirit,
Dreaming, listens with a vague delight.
Have you ever seen that wondrous building
Whose white shadows in the blue wave sleep?
There Carrara sent vast mounds of marble,
And Propontis, beauty of the deep.
It is not a mass of earthly matter,
Not a work from clay or marble wrought;
From the mind of an Armenian genius
Stands embodied there a noble thought.
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE DREAM
By SMPAD SHAHAZIZ
(1840–1897)
Soft and low a voice breathed o’er me,
Near me did my mother seem;
Flashed a ray of joy before me,
But, alas, it was a dream!
There the murmuring streamlet flowing
Scattered radiant pearls around,
Pure and clear, like crystal glowing—
But it was a dream, unsound.
And my mother’s mournful singing
Took me back to childhood’s day,
To my mind her kisses bringing—
’Twas a dream and passed away!
To her heart she pressed me yearning,
Wiped her eyes which wet did seem;
And her tears fell on me burning—
Why should it have been a dream?
THE SORROWS OF ARMENIA
In many a distant, unknown land,
My sons belovèd exiled roam,
Servile they kiss the stranger’s hand;
How shall I find and bring them home?
The ages pass, no tidings come;
My brave ones fall, are lost and gone.
My blood is chilled, my voice is dumb,
And friend or comfort I have none.
With endless griefs my heart is worn,
Eternal sorrow is my doom;
Far from my sons, despis’d, forlorn,
I must descend the darksome tomb.
Thou shepherd wandering o’er the hill,
Come weep with me my children lost;
Let mournful strains the valleys fill
For those we loved and valued most.
Fly, crane, Armenia’s bird, depart;
Tell them I die of grief; and tell
How hope is dead within my heart—
Bear to my sons my last farewell!
ARTASHES AND SATENIK
From the History of Armenia,
by
MOSES OF KHORENE
At this time the Alans united with all the people of the mountain
country, and having taken possession of the half of Georgia, spread
themselves in great multitudes over our land. And Artashes collected a
mighty host together, and there was war between the two great nations.
The Alans retreated somewhat, and crossing over the river Kur they
encamped on its northern bank. And when Artashes arrived, he encamped
on the southern bank, so that the river was between them. But because
the son of the King of the Alans was taken captive by the Armenian
hosts and brought to Artashes, the King of the Alans sought peace,
promising to give to Artashes whatsoever he should ask. And he swore an
eternal peace unto him, so that the sons of the Alans might not be
carried away captive into the land of the Armenians. And when Artashes
would not consent to give back the youth, his sister came to the
river’s bank and stood upon a great rock. And by means of the
interpreters she spoke to the camp of Artashes, saying:—“O brave
Artashes, who hast vanquished the great nation of the Alans, unto thee
I speak. Come, hearken unto the bright-eyed daughter of the Alan King,
and give back the youth. For it is not the way of heroes to destroy
life at the root, nor for the sake of humbling and enslaving a hostage
to establish everlasting enmity between two great nations.” And on
hearing such wise sayings, Artashes went to the bank of the river. And
seeing that the maiden was beautiful, and having heard these words of
wisdom from her, he desired her. And calling Smpad his chamberlain he
told him the wishes of his heart, and commanded that he should obtain
the maiden for him, swearing unto the great Alan nation oaths of peace,
and promising to send the youth back in safety. And this appeared wise
in the eyes of Smpad, and he sent messengers unto the King of the Alans
asking him to give the lady Satenik his daughter as wife unto Artashes.
And the King of the Alans answered, “From whence shall brave Artashes
give thousands upon thousands and tens of thousands upon tens of
thousands unto the Alans in return for the maiden?”
Concerning this the poets of that land sing in their songs:—
“Brave King Artashes
Mounted his fine black charger,
And took the red leathern cord
With the golden ring.
Like a swift-winged eagle
He passed over the river,
And cast the golden ring
Round the waist of the Alan Princess;
Causing much pain
To the tender maiden
As he bore her swiftly
Back to his camp.”
Which being interpreted meaneth that he was commanded to give much
gold, leather, and crimson dye in exchange for the maiden. So also they
sing of the wedding:—
“It rained showers of gold when Artashes became a bridegroom.
It rained pearls when Satenik became a bride.”
For it was the custom of our kings to scatter coins amongst the people
when they arrived at the doors of the temple for their wedding, as also
for the queens to scatter pearls in their bridechamber.
MY DEATH
By BEDROS TOURIAN
When Death’s pale angel comes to me,
And smiling sweetly on my head,
Bids all my pains and sorrows flee,—
Believe not then that I am dead.
When my cold limbs they shroud with care,
And on my brow love’s tear-drops shed,
And lay me on my ebon bier,—
Believe not then that I am dead.
And when the tolling bell shall ring
To my black coffin’s muted tread
—Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,—
Believe not then that I am dead.
And when the black-robed priests shall sing,
And prayers and incense round me spread,
With faces dark and sorrowing—
Believe not still that I am dead.
When on my tomb they heap the clay,
And leave me in my lonely bed,
And loved ones turn with sobs away—
Then never think that I am dead.
But if my grave neglected lie,
My memory too be gone and fled,
And dear ones pass unheeding by,
Ah, then believe that I am dead!
THE EAGLE’S LOVE
By SHUSHANIK GOURGHINIAN
(Born 1876)
An eagle sat upon the fell,—
He sat and sang alone.
A pretty maid passed in the dell,
He saw—his heart was won.
“Ah, lovely maid, enchanting maid,
Alas, thou canst not fly!
Down in the vale thou soon shalt fade,
And like a floweret die.
“I’d make thee queen, if thou could’st fly,
Of all my mountains steep;
At night I’d sing thy lullaby,
And in my wings thou’dst sleep.
“Those eyes are like black night to me,
That smile like sunshine bright;
And heaven itself would quickly be
Subdued before thy might.
“Good Lord, canst thou not fly at all?
Who made thee without wings?
Art thou content down there to crawl
With loathsome creeping things?”
Thus on his rock the eagle proud
Sat singing, then he sailed
O’er hill and valley, and aloud
The maiden’s fate bewailed.
CONCERNING THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE
By GRIGORIS OF AGHTAMAR
(Fifteenth Century)
The Rose was gone. When to the empty tent
The Nightingale returned, his heart was torn.
He filled the night with mourning and lament,
And wandered through the darkness lone and lorn.
“To thee I speak, O Garden, answer me,
Why did’st thou not preserve my precious Rose,
Whose perfume breathed of immortality,
Whose colour made her queen of all that grows?
“May’st thou become a desert parched and dry,
And may the flowers that grow within thee fade;
May thy protecting walls in ruin lie—
By ruthless feet thy soil in waste be laid.
“Ye trees, now cast away your verdant leaves,
And rushing torrents, your swift courses stay.
Reckless I speak, as one who sorely grieves,
For they have taken my sweet love away.
“My Rose is gone and I am desolate.
Light of my eyes was she, now darkness reigns.
Both day and night I weep disconsolate.
My reason leaves me, and my spirit wanes.
“Was it the gardener took her away
And grieved my soul? If never more again
I should behold her face, what shall I say?
Instead of joy, I’ll sing of grief and pain.
“Or else I fear the mighty wind arose,
And blasted with its strength her petals frail;
Or did the scorching sunbeams burn my Rose
Within her leaves, and turn her beauty pale?...
“I think perhaps the flowers were wroth with me
And hid her from my sight; I’ll go to them.
Or else the clouds in cruel enmity
Sent hailstones down that broke her from the stem!”
Then all the flowers together made reply,
“We have no tidings of the Rose at all,
She left us suddenly, we know not why.
We have no tidings of the Rose at all.”
The Nightingale then rose into the air,
“I’ll ask the birds in friendly wise,” he said,
“If they can tell me why she went, and where;
If not, a sea of tears my eyes shall shed.
“Birds, do you know what came to pass to-day?
The lovely Rose was stolen from her home.
Know you perchance who carried her away?
Have you seen aught, or heard where she doth roam?”
They said, “The Lord Creator knoweth all;
No secrets of the heart from Him are hid.
On Him as witness reverently we call—
We have not seen or touched her—God forbid!”
The Nightingale then sadly made reply,
“What will become of me? From night to morn
I have no rest, and I shall surely die,
Parted from her, with ceaseless longings worn.
“If in her stead the world to me were given
I would esteem it but a paltry thing;
If choirs of minstrels sang the songs of heaven,
To me their songs as discords harsh would ring.
“Oh, in what corner have they buried thee?
How shall I e’er forget thy tenderness?
My heart and soul are wounded grievously,
All flowers are dead—this place a wilderness.
“The Psalmist’s words are now fulfilled in me;
Mournful I go, and like a pelican
About the wilderness roam hopelessly,
Or like an owl the sandy desert scan.”
The gardener then with soothing words drew near,
“Weep not, she will return, O Nightingale.
The Violet, her forerunner, is here,
And brings thee messages and words of hail.”
Then he rejoiced and blessed the gardener,
“May’st thou in peace upon this earth abide,
Thy garden flourish with its bright allure,
Its circling walls renew their former pride.
“May all thy plants grow verdant once again,
And gently sway about upon the breeze,
May they receive fresh brightness from the rain,
And waft sweet perfume human hearts to please!”
Then did the Nightingale write a letter unto the Rose who collected all
the Flowers and caused it to be read in their presence.
They took the letter to the Rose’s Court,
Where Hazrevart, her minister austere,
Stood on his feet with stately mien and port
And read it out for all the flowers to hear:—
“I greet thee, O beloved of my heart,
And fain would hear concerning this thy rape.
I trust through God’s protecting care thou art
Perfect in health, as faultless in thy shape.
“For which with outstretched hands I ever pray,
And beg that length of days be granted thee;
All flowers bend to thee and homage pay,
Thou rulest them in all thy majesty.
“Thy hue is beautiful, thy perfume sweet,
Each morn thou shinest brighter than the sun.
Happy the day when thee once more I meet,—
For thou art full of grace, my spotless one.
“Apart from thee, in humble reverence,
I worship thee, and pray for thy return.
I have no sleep at night for this suspense,
Now Spring is here I ever weep and mourn.
“The icy winter passed—I lived it through,
Still suffering many things because of thee;
They mocked at me, and said thou wast not true—
My Rose had no more love or care for me.”
Then sent the Rose unto the Nightingale,
And said: “Behold, I send him many flowers.
And they shall cover mountain, hill, and dale,
My Nightingale shall dwell within those bowers.
“I cannot there return immediately;
A little he must wait, in patient wise:
But if his love is perfectly with me,
Tell him to look for it in Paradise.”
The Nightingale rejoiced on hearing this
And said: “The beauteous Rose shall then return!
What tidings wonderful of untold bliss!
For all the world her ransom could not earn.”
And when the sun into the Ram had passed,
The thunder rolled, the storm-clouds broke in showers;
Myriads of blossoms o’er the earth were cast:—
He sought the Rose—she was not of those flowers.
Until one morn he saw her foliage green,
Lovely and fresh as it had been before:
The Rose was hidden in a silken screen
And every flower worshipped her once more.
The Nightingale beheld and said: “Thank Heaven!
Blessing and praise from every mouth be breathed;
To Heaven’s King be endless glory given—
For in her bud I saw the Rose ensheathed!”
Foolish Aghtamartzi, beware this bane,
For this world’s love is ever linked with thorn;
A little while ’tis gladness, then ’tis pain—
What boots the joy which needs must make us mourn?
THE ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS
By SAINT NERSES SHNORHALI
(1102–1173)
Once more God hither moves their course;
With countless infantry and horse,
As swell the waves towards the strand,
Fierce and tempestuous, they land.
Like sands that by the ocean lie,
Or like the stars that strew the sky,
They fill the earth where’er they go
And whiten it as wool or snow.
Their voice is like the northern wind,
Driving the storm-cloud from behind.
They clear the land from end to end,
The unbelievers forth they send,
Redeeming from such hopeless plight
All Christians held within their might.
Now in the churches cold and dark,
Once more shall burn the taper’s spark;
And you, my sons, late forced to flee
To distant lands, afar from me,
Shall now return in chariots fair
Drawn by brave steeds with trappings rare.
And I shall lift mine eyes above
Beholding near me those I love.
My arms about you I shall fold,
Rejoicing with a joy untold;
And my black robes aside will lay
To dress in greens and crimsons gay.
LIKE AN OCEAN IS THIS WORLD
By HOVHANNES ERZINGATZI
(Born 1260)
Like an ocean is this world;
None undrenched may cross that ocean.
My ship too its sails unfurled,
Ere I knew it was in motion.
Now we draw towards the land,
And I fear the sea-board yonder:—
Lest the rocks upon the strand
Break and tear our planks asunder.
I will pray God that He raise
From the shore a breeze to meet us,—
To disperse this gloomy haze,
That a happy land may greet us.
THE ROCK
By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN
Above the waters, like a hoary giant,
The rock stands up, majestic and defiant.
The little waves, as to and fro they move,
Greet him with kisses and with looks of love.
The wavelets of the river laugh and dance,
As in their arms the mirrored sunbeams glance;
And with their smiles of winning, child-like grace,
They woo the rock, and murmur in his face:
“O Aged-One, why art thou never glad?
The lines that seam thy countenance are sad.
The world is ever changing; thou alone
Art still the same with thy dark face of stone.
“Free children of the mountains ever free,
We bring rich gifts of jewels unto thee;
Scent thee with perfumes of the mountain rose—
Heaven’s daughter fair, that on our margin grows.
“Sweet strains of gentle melody we breathe,
And call the fishes from our depths beneath;
And gilded with the spring-tide’s golden rays,
We make thee on our merry revels gaze.
“And songs of love we warble in thine ear,
From morning dawn until the stars appear:—
We fondle thee, and on thine aged breast
Our passions lull, and bid them sink to rest.”
The wavelets hasten, moving to and fro,
The rock still sorrows o’er his ancient woe;
The wavelets play, and laughing onward press—
The rock remains, gloomy and motionless.
THE CRANE
By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN
(Born 1869)
The Crane has lost his way across the heaven,
From yonder stormy cloud I hear him cry,
A traveller o’er an unknown pathway driven,
In a cold world unheeded he doth fly.
Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?
Farewell, belovèd bird, where’er thou roam
Spring shall return and bring thee back once more,
With thy sweet mate and young ones, to thy home—
Thy last year’s nest upon the sycamore.
But I am exiled from my ruined nest,
And roam with faltering steps from hill to hill,
Like to the fowls of heaven in my unrest
Envying the boulders motionless and still.
Each boulder unassailed stands in its place,
But I from mine must wander tempest tossed—
And every bird its homeward way can trace,
But I must roam in darkness, lone and lost.
Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?
THE HAWK AND THE DOVE
FOLK SONG
The Hawk said to the Dove, “My dear,
Why dost thou shed tear after tear,
That go to swell the streamlet clear?”
The Dove said to the Hawk, “I fear
That spring is gone and autumn’s here;
The rills have ceased their glad career,
The leaves and flowers are dead and sere,
The partridges no more we hear;
So I shall weep in my despair,
And from my eyes shed many a tear:—
How shall I find my babies’ fare?”
He said, “Weep not this autumn drear,
For spring will come another year,
And sunshine bring the world its cheer,
And Hope shall for the poor appear.
Upon my pinions thee I’ll bear
Where those tall trees their summit rear,
And high upon those mountains bare
I’ll build a nest with tender care,
I’ll make for thee a dwelling there,—
A hearth laid in that rocky lair,
With chimney open to the air;
The smoke shall to the clouds repair—
And to the South Wind fly our care!”
Autumn gave place to springtime fair,
The rills were loosed on their career
And went to swell the streamlet clear,
Like blood-drops from the boulders bare.
Bright yellow flowers the hills did wear,
And violets, with perfume rare,
And flowers of countless colours fair;
And birds with music filled the air,
And bleating lambs called everywhere
To God for all His love and care.
ARTAVASD
From the History of Armenia, by
MOSES OF KHORENE
After the death of Artashes his son Artavasd reigned, and he drove all
his brothers and sisters to the lands of Aghyovd and Arberan, that they
might not live in Aïrarat, on the territory of the King. And when he
had reigned but a little while, as he was riding over the bridge of
Artashat to hunt deer and wild asses on the banks of the Ghin, he was
seized by some visionary terror and lost his reason. And urging his
horse down a steep bank he fell into a chasm, wherein he sank and
disappeared.
The singers of Ghogtan tell concerning him, that when his father was
dying many people killed themselves according to the customs of the
heathen; and they say that Artavasd was wroth, and said unto his
father:
“Now that thou art gone
And hast taken with thee the whole land,
How shall I reign over the ruins?”
Therefore Artashes cursed him, and said:
“When thou ridest forth to hunt
Over the free heights of Ararat,
The Strong Ones shall have thee,
And shall take thee up
On to the free heights of Ararat.
There shalt thou abide,
And never more see the light.”
Old women also tell of him how that he is confined in a cavern and
bound with iron chains. And his two dogs do daily try to gnaw through
the chains to set him free, that he may come and put an end to the
world; but at the sound of the hammers striking on the anvil, the
chains are strengthened. So also even in our own times many blacksmiths
do keep up the tradition and strike the anvil three or four times on a
Monday, to strengthen, as they say, the chains of Artavasd. But the
truth concerning him is as we have declared above.
Others say that at his birth the women of the house of Ahasuerus did
try to bewitch him, and therefore Artashes tormented them much; and
these same singers say also that the Children of the Dragons stole the
infant Artavasd and put a devil in his place. But unto us it seemeth
that being full of wickedness from his very birth, so also did he end.
CHARM VERSES [9]
FOLK SONGS
Snowless hang the clouds to-night,
Through the darkness comes no light;
While my lover, far away,
Line or letter will not write.
* * * * *
Snowless hang the clouds to-night,
Through the darkness comes no light;
On this lonely pillow now,
Never more shall sleep alight.
* * * * *
Like a star whose brightness grows
On the earth my beauty shows;
Thou shalt long for yet, and seek
My dark eyes and arching brows.
* * * * *
I beheld a dream last night,
Saw these haystacks all alight;—
They have borne thy love away,—
Wilt not come and for her fight?
* * * * *
Soft winds move beneath the trees
And thy locks wave in the breeze.
Whilst thou roamest hill and field
Sleep my eyelids ever flees.
* * * * *
Eden’s smile my vineyard wore,
Flowers bloomed, a goodly store;
Handsome youth and ugly maid—
This was never seen before!
* * * * *
For the mountain air I’d die,
For his form so fair I’d die,
Now he’s far off, for the eyes
That have seen him there I’d die.
* * * * *
’Tis a moonlight night to-night,
Eyes so black and cheeks so bright.
Give me but the one I love—
Peace to you then, and good-night!
* * * * *
On my finger is a ring,
Crimson rubies, glistening.
He that parts me from my love,—
Satan to his soul shall cling.
* * * * *
Long and lone this night to me
Passing slow and wearily;
Passing full of sighs and tears—
Love, what doth it bring to thee?
* * * * *
Round the moon a halo grew,
In its depths the storm-cloud drew;
Go and ask them who it was
Turned from me my lover true.
* * * * *
Dainty is the frock I wear,
Bright the gauze upon my hair:
Since my love is coy with me,
I’ll be coy, and will not care!
THE TEARS OF ARAXES
By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN
I walk by Mother Arax
With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
Seek in the waters’ flow.
But they run dark and turbid,
And beat upon the shore
In grief and bitter sorrow,
Lamenting evermore.
“Araxes! with the fishes
Why dost not dance in glee?
The sea is still far distant,
Yet thou art sad, like me.
“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,
Why do the tears downpour?
Why dost thou haste so swiftly
Past thy familiar shore?
“Make not thy current turbid;
Flow calm and joyously.
Thy youth is short, fair river;
Thou soon wilt reach the sea.
“Let sweet rose-hedges brighten
Thy hospitable shore,
And nightingales among them
Till morn their music pour.
“Let ever-verdant willows
Lave in thy waves their feet,
And with their bending branches
Refresh the noonday heat.
“Let shepherds on thy margin
Walk singing, without fear;
Let lambs and kids seek freely
Thy waters cool and clear.”
Araxes swelled her current,
Tossed high her foaming tide,
And in a voice of thunder
Thus from her depths replied:—
“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thou
My age-long sleep to break,
And memories of my myriad griefs
Within my breast to wake?
“When hast thou seen a widow,
After her true-love died,
From head to foot resplendent
With ornaments of pride?
“For whom should I adorn me?
Whose eyes shall I delight?
The stranger hordes that tread my banks
Are hateful in my sight.
“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,
Is widowed, like to me,
But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,
And wears it slavishly.
“But I, who am Armenian,
My own Armenians know;
I want no stranger bridegroom;
A widowed stream I flow.
“Once I, too, moved in splendour,
Adorned as is a bride
With myriad precious jewels,
My smiling banks beside.
“My waves were pure and limpid,
And curled in rippling play;
The morning star within them
Was mirrored till the day.
“What from that time remaineth?
All, all has passed away.
Which of my prosperous cities
Stands near my waves to-day?
“Mount Ararat doth pour me,
As with a mother’s care,
From out her sacred bosom
Pure water, cool and fair.
“Shall I her holy bounty
To hated aliens fling?
Shall strangers’ fields be watered
From good Saint Jacob’s spring?
“For filthy Turk or Persian
Shall I my waters pour,
That they may heathen rites perform
Upon my very shore.
“While my own sons, defenceless,
Are exiled from their home,
And, faint with thirst and hunger,
In distant countries roam?
“My own Armenian nation
Is banished far away;
A godless, barbarous people
Dwells on my banks to-day.
“Shall I my hospitable shores
Adorn in festive guise
For them, or gladden with fair looks
Their wild and evil eyes?
“Still, while my sons are exiled,
Shall I be sad, as now.
This is my heart’s deep utterance,
My true and holy vow.”
No more spake Mother Arax;
She foamed up mightily,
And, coiling like a serpent,
Wound sorrowing toward the sea.
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE EVE OF ASCENSION DAY [10]
By DERENIK DEMIRJIAN
Night with her ebon hair and starry crown
Upon the hills came down.
Her loosened tresses floated all unbound
And veiled her form around.
The fountain murmured like an endless tale
On her entrancing lips; and it would seem
As if God spake within the silent vale,
And sleeping Earth were listening, in a dream.
Like blackened clouds, in Jorokh’s stream arise
Those rocks that through her savage waters pierce;
Like dragons twain, they glare with threatening eyes,
Facing each other, arrogant and fierce.
Wild Jorokh through that fearsome valley flows—
Flows like a caravan that onward sweeps;
First roaring loud, then hushed into repose,
Groping its way through darkness, on it creeps.
The sounds of Earth are melted into rest,
While strikes the hour of expectation deep;
Earth’s waters heave, against each other pressed,
And breathless listening, all their vigils keep.
Decked out like lovely brides stand all the flowers;
With nuptial joy the forests trembling wait:
Until Heaven’s blessing fall in sacred showers,
And whispering softly, each may clasp its mate.
“THY VOICE IS SWEET”
By SAYAT NOVA
Thy voice is soft, thy speech all sweetness flows;
May he protect who hath thy heart, my love!
Thy waist is the gazelle’s, thy hue the rose,
Brocade from Franguistan thou art, my love!
If I compare thee to brocade, ‘twill fray;
If to a plane-tree, ‘twill be felled one day;
All girls are likened to gazelles thou’lt say—
How then shall I describe thee truly, love?
The violet is wild, and low of birth;
Rubies are stones, for all their priceless worth:
The moon itself is made of rocks and earth—
All flame, thou shinest like the sun, my love.
Thy door I seek as pilgrims seek a shrine:
Thine eyes are roses, new-blown eglantine;
Thy tongue a pen, thy hands like paper fine,
A flower fresh from the sea thou art, my love!
Within my soul thy hand has placed love’s seed;
Thy wiles and coyness make my heart to bleed:
Thy Sayat Nova thou hast slain indeed,
Thine evil fate he bears for thee, my love.
CHRIST AND ABGARUS
From the History of Armenia, by
MOSES OF KHORENE
Abgar the son of Arsham began to reign in the twentieth year of the
reign of Arshavr King of Persia. This Abgar was called the Great Man
because of his exceeding meekness and wisdom. In the third year of his
reign the whole of Armenia fell under the jurisdiction of Rome....
Therefore the Romans sent commissioners unto the land of Armenia who
brought the image of Cæsar and placed it in all the temples.
At this time was born our Saviour Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
And there was a dispute between Abgar and Herod. For Herod commanded
that his image also should be placed in the temples of Armenia, with
that of Cæsar; to which Abgar not acceding, the anger of Herod was
kindled against him. And he sent his brother’s son with a great army
against him. And Abgar met and fought him; and he was slain in the
battle and his army fled.
Soon after these things Augustus died, and Tiberius reigned over the
Roman Empire; and Germanicus sent messengers from Rome unto Arshavr and
Abgar concerning the battle in which Herod’s brother’s son was
slain. Whereupon Abgar was displeased, and thought to prepare for
revolt and war. Then did he build the city of Edessa wherein to keep
the hosts of Armenia, and removed thither his court from Mdzpin, with
all his idols: Nebog, Bel, Batnikol, and Tarata; also with the Royal
Palace he removed the books of the schools belonging to the temples.
But strife had arisen between his kinsmen of the reigning house of
Persia, and Abgar collected his armies and went to reconcile and pacify
them. And having settled their disputes he returned home; not sound in
his body, but tormented with a painful disease.
At that time Marinus was governor over Phœnicia, Palestine, Assyria,
and Mesopotamia. And Abgarus sent two of his notables unto him to show
him the treaty of peace between Arshavr and his brother (for the Romans
suspected that he had been to Persia to collect armies against them).
And Marinus received them with peace and great honour, sending word
unto Abgarus, “Fear nothing, only hasten to raise all the taxes.”
And on their return the messengers went up to Jerusalem to see our
Saviour Christ, having heard of His wonderful deeds.
And when they had seen Him with their own eyes they returned and told
Abgar; at which the king marvelled, and believed Him to be the very Son
of God. And because His body was tormented with a painful disease
contracted in the land of Persia seven years before, and he was not
able to find any cure by men, he sent unto Him a letter asking Him to
come and heal him of his disease.
The Letter of Abgarus to our Saviour Jesus Christ.
“Abgarus, a prince of the world, unto Jesus, the Saviour and
Benefactor, Who hast appeared in the City of Jerusalem, greetings.
“I have heard of Thee and of the healings wrought by Thy hands,
without drugs and without roots; for it is said that Thou givest sight
to the blind, Thou makest the lame to walk, and Thou cleansest the
lepers; Thou curest those who have been long tormented by diseases, and
raisest even the dead. And when I heard all this concerning Thee I
thought that either Thou art God come down from Heaven that workest
these things, or the Son of God. I have written unto Thee that Thou
shouldest trouble Thyself to come unto me, and heal me of my disease. I
have heard also that the Jews murmur against Thee, and think to torture
Thee. My city is a small one, but it is beautiful, and it is sufficient
for us twain.”
And taking the letter they found Him in Jerusalem. And unto this the
gospel beareth witness, saying: “There were some amongst the heathen
that came up to Him.” But our Saviour did not undertake to come at
the time when they called Him, but made Abgarus worthy of a letter
thus.
The Answer to the Letter of Abgarus, written at the command of our
Saviour by the Apostle Thomas.
“Blessed is he who believeth on Me though he hath not seen Me. For it
is written concerning Me thus: ‘They that have seen Me believed not
on Me, but they that have not seen Me shall believe and live.’ And
concerning that which thou hast written unto Me to come down unto thee,
it is needful that I fulfil all that for which I was sent; and when I
have fulfilled it I will ascend unto Him that sent Me. And after My
ascension I will send one of My disciples, who shall heal thee of thy
disease, and give Life unto thee and unto all them that are with
thee.”
This letter did Anan the messenger bring unto Abgarus, with the Image
of the Saviour, which remaineth in the city of Edessa until this day.
ARAXES CAME DEVOURINGLY
By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN
Araxes came devouringly,
Swept o’er her boulders scouringly—
Where shall I lay my aching head
Bowed down with grief o’erpoweringly?
Oh my Araxes, flow serene;—
Tell me, hast thou my sweet love seen?
My heart’s desire is unfulfilled;—
Arax, hast thou more happy been?
Mount Ararat with clouds is veiled,
My love is lost, my hope has failed.
For pity’s sake an answer give
To my sad heart with grief assailed.
I sob and weep the livelong night;
Till dawn I watch—I watch and write;
Arax, ere sunrise gild thy waves
To thee I bring my spirit’s blight.
Upon the rocks the sunbeams dart,
Red flames devour my mourning heart;
Those eyes and brows have left with me
A sorrow which shall ne’er depart.
THE PARROT’S SONG
By RAFFI
(1837–1888)
With nuts and sweets and dainty fare,
My lady feeds me oft.
She decks my cage with tender care,
And hands so white and soft.
But not a moment’s joy can give
This pampering care to me,
Since as a prisoner here I live,
In gilded misery.
EARTH AND SKY
By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN
The Sky bent down his piercing gaze one day
On Mother Earth, that far beneath him lay.
And as he looked on mountain, sea, and grove,
On hill and dale, he burnt with thoughts of love.
Earth lying numbed and frozen ‘neath the snow,
Sudden awoke to springtime’s ardent glow,
And flames of fire her beating heart consumed,
While myriad flowers the air around perfumed.
And thus they loved, though never side by side,
Though Nature willed they should be parted wide—
The Earth and Sky.
But when has love accepted with content
An obstacle? When o’er the earth steals night,
The starry Sky, his vision downward bent,
Opens his thousand eyes of shining light,
And gazes on his love in worship still,
Gazes till dawn, and cannot take his fill.
And as he gazes, all his starry eyes
Are strewn into Earth’s breast of waters blue,
Which foam, and heave, and swell, and strive to rise,
Longing to reach and join her lover true.
He, more and more inflamed by passion’s fire,
In all the splendours of the night arrayed,
Pours in her ear his longing and desire,
And shows her all his pomp and pride displayed;
Towards her turning
And ever yearning.
But when he finds his love is out of reach
He turns away, nor utters sound nor speech;
And in the dark the tears that dim his sight
Fall on earth’s cheeks in showers of dewdrops bright,—
Dewdrops of pearl—the tears that heaven weeps,
And then Earth’s bosom swells. Her thousand deeps,
Her boundless oceans, rise once more to meet
The far-off loved one; and her mountain peaks
Like myriad lips rise up the clouds to greet,—
To kiss their gloomy forms, and sullen cheeks.
And love torments her with its ceaseless fire.
Her waters foam, and writhe, and are convulsed,
Yet never may they reach their heart’s desire,—
Restlessly sobbing, ever more repulsed.
And from her gloomy throne,
Behind the clouds, alone,
The moon beheld it with her sleepless eye.
And told the Poet how she did espy
That in the darkness of the silent night
Earth heaved her bosom up to Heaven above;
And that the sky smiled on her with delight,
As they exchanged the secret kiss of love;
And for each other sweetest songs they sing
And they embrace each other and caress,
Like living souls, each other gladdening.
Then on the Poet fell a deep distress,
A jealous sorrow—for he fain would, too,
Possess a love as noble and as true.
O’ER THE MOUNTAINS HIGH HE WENT
FOLK SONG
O’er the mountains high he went,
Love, love!
In the meadows above
I seek for my love.
With a weary sigh he went.
Love, love!
To fight thou art gone
While I stay here alone.
Neither quail nor partridge stirred.
Love, love!
In the meadows above
I look for my love
And he left without a word.
Love, love!
To fight thou art gone
While I stay here alone.
Like a flower’s fragrance sweet
He came past, and vanished fleet.
I beheld him and I loved—
But we never more shall meet.
When my lover rode away
Not a farewell did I say;
None there is to help him now—
Sourb Carapet, [11] bless his way!
COMPLAINTS
By BEDROS TOURIAN
Farewell, thou Sun, and Thou, O Power Divine,
That far above my spirit dimly shine.
I go to add another star to heaven:—
For what are stars, but anguished curses, riven
From innocent and hapless souls, that fly
To burn the brow of Heaven? and they supply
Fresh armaments, and jewels fiery red,
To God, the source of lightning flashes dread!
Alas, what do I say? Send forth thy fires,
O God! Consume this brain that thus aspires
To soar, and dares to pierce the depths of heaven;
And e’en to climb unto the stars has striven!
Creator of our trembling beings, hail!
Of light and youth, of age when forces fail;
Thou that the roses from my brow hast wrenched,
Hast stilled my trembling lips, my longings quenched;
Mist to mine eyes hast given, sobs to my breath:—
Yet thou hast sworn to smile on me in death!
Ah, surely thou hast kept for me a life
Of fragrance, light, and prayer beyond this strife!
But if my latest breath must perish here
All silently, in this dark atmosphere—
From now a flash of lightning I would be,
Coiled round thy name, and, murmuring ceaselessly,
A curse I would become to pierce Thy side—
God, the Arch Enemy, I would deride!
Ah me, I tremble, and am pale as death.
My brain seethes like a hell; a sobbing breath
I am amongst the mournful cypress trees,
An autumn leaf soon wafted by the breeze!
Oh, I would live!—give me of life one spark!
To dream—and then embrace the grave so dark?
My God, how black is this decree of doom
Writ in the lees of dread sepulchral gloom!
Oh, give my soul one drop of living fire—
To love—and live for ever I desire!
Ye stars of heaven, into my spirit fall,
There live, and hear your hapless lover call!
To my pale brow the springtime brings no rose.
No smile for me in this world’s sunbeams glows.
Night is my coffin, stars for lights flame round.
The moon all weeping seeks my funeral mound.
There are some men for whom no mourners sigh—
It was for them He placed that moon on high;
And he that to death’s portals draweth near
First life would have—and then a mourner’s tear.
In vain the stars of heaven spelt “Love” for me
And nightingales explained its mystery.
In vain of Love I learnt to know the truth,
And crystal waves reflected back my youth.
In vain the forest silent lay around—
The secret leaves gave forth no breath or sound;
They would not break upon my reverie—
They let me dream of Love eternally.
All, all in vain I saw the flowers of spring
Their incense to my dreams’ fair altar bring;
With their delights they all have mocked at me—
And all the world is but God’s mockery!
A DAY AFTER
By BEDROS TOURIAN
Slumbering darkly yesterday,
As in deathly sweats I lay,
And two roses fiery red
On my faded cheeks were spread—
On my brow perchance a ray
Of Death’s pallor trembling lay.
And I prayed and longed for death.
Then I heard a sobbing breath....
I unclosed my weary eyes
And beheld my mother’s tears—
Saw those priceless pearls arise,
Tokens of her love, her fears.
In her heart what grief she bore!
And I was that anguish sore.
Ah, I raged tempestuously,
That black torrent outward leapt [12]:—
God of mercy, pardon me,
For the tears my mother wept!
WITHOUT THEE WHAT ARE SONG AND DANCE TO ME?
By SAYAT NOVA
Without thee what are song and dance to me?
The castagnettes I throw down wearily.
My heart and thoughts are ever filled with thee,
So rhymes and verses leave me, one by one.
How can one bandage serve for gashes twain?
How on two masters wait a single swain?
Would not one gardener tend two groves in vain?
For he must graft the saplings one by one.
Well said our fathers, speaking of such woes,
“I made a garden, others plucked the rose.
Theirs was the sweetness, mine the thorny close.”
In sooth these things befell me one by one!
Without thee what are riches unto me?
What worth could I in silks or cashmeres see?
Arrayed in rags and sackcloth I would be,
Wandering around the convents, one by one,
To meet perchance with some one, who might tell,
My fair one, how to free me from thy spell;
For Sayat Nova’s torments far excel
The Seven Wise Men’s complaints told one by one!
THE LAKE OF VAN
By RAFFI
Unutterable silence here is spread
On every hand, and Nature might be dead.
A lonely exile, here I sit and weep,
And far above, bright Moon, I see thee sweep.
From Earth’s creation till the skies shall parch
And she dissolve, thou circlest Heaven’s high arch:
Saw’st thou the laurels on Armenia’s brow?
And dost behold her hopeless sorrows now?
Mournful as I! I wonder dost thou see
How she is ground by heels of tyranny!
And do thine eyes with bitter tear-drops smart
When barbèd arrows pierce her through the heart
Thy heart is stone, thy pity stark and cold,
For fields of innocent blood thou dost behold
Without a word, and o’er Armenia’s land
Thy nightly compass of the dome hast spanned
With all the brightness that was thine of old.
O Lake, make answer! Why be silent more?
Wilt not lament with one whose heart is sore?
And you, ye Zephyrs, hurl the waters high
That I may feed them from a mourner’s eye!
A garden once, luxuriantly fair,
Now is Armenia choked with thorn and tare:
Thou who hast seen her fortunes wax and wane,
Tell me, I pray thee! Must she thus remain?
Must this unhappy nation ever be
By foreign princes held in slavery?
Is the Armenian and his stricken race
Counted unworthy in God’s judgment-place?
Comes there a day, comes there a season that
Shall hail a flag on topmost Ararat,
Calling Armenians, wheresoe’er they roam,
To seek once more their loved and beauteous home?
Hard tho’ it be, O heavenly Ruler, raise
Armenia’s spirit, and her heart’s dark ways
Light with Thy knowledge: understanding so
The mystery of life, her works shall show
That all she does is ordered to Thy praise.
Then suddenly the surface of the lake
Grew luminous, and from its depths did break
A lovely maid that bore a lantern and
A lyre of shining ivory in her hand.
Was she an Angel in a strange disguise?
Was she a Houri fled from Paradise?
Nay, rather was she of the form and hue
Of the Armenian Muses!
“Tell me true,
O Muse,” I cried, “our people’s destiny!
Speak of the Now and of the Yet-to-be!”
Then the sweet heavenly Spirit made reply,
“Wipe, O sad youth, the salt tears from thine eye!
I bring glad tidings: better days shall break,
New days of joy, that carry in their wake
The reign of God, Whose will is free and just:
A Golden Age again shall gild the dust!
“Armenia’s Muses shall awake anew,
And her Parnassus bloom with vernal hue,
And the bright car Apollo whirls on high
Shall sweep the shadows from her clouded sky.
“For many a day, like thee, we mourned aloud
While the thick darkness wrapped her in its shroud:
Now, O belovèd, may the weeping cease,—
To us has come the olive branch of peace!
“Cleanse from thy lute the rust that soils its string;
Hasten thee back, and, as thou goest, sing
Such joyful lays as yet may re-inspire
Hearts that are dead with new and tameless fire.
His Will is done; the Time is here; the Day
Dawns; and the Morning Star, so God doth say,
Shall be thy sign.”
Then darkness fell again;
The vision fled; but long there did remain
An echo of the thrilling voice, that blended
With the wild waves whose depths she had descended;
And flowery perfumes filled the air like rain.
O message dear, and sweet prophetic strain!
What happiness is come to us,—but Oh!
Beautiful Muse, yet one thing would we know—
Can a dead corpse rise up and live again?
Translated by G. M. Green.
SPRING
By MUGGURDICH BESHIGTASHLIAN
(1829–1868)
O little breeze, how fresh and sweet
Thou blowest in the morning air!
Upon the flowers caressingly,
And on the gentle maiden’s hair.
But not my country’s breath thou art:
Blow elsewhere, come not near my heart!
O little bird among the trees,
The sweetness of thy joyful voice
Entrances all the Hours of Love,
And makes the listening woods rejoice.
But not my country’s bird thou art:
Sing elsewhere, come not near my heart!
How peacefully thou murmurest,
O gentle, limpid little brook;
Within thy mirror crystal-bright
The rose and maiden bend to look.
But not my country’s brook thou art:
Flow elsewhere—come not near my heart!
Although Armenia’s breeze and bird
Above a land of ruins fly;
Although through mourning cypress groves
Armenia’s turbid stream flows by,—
They are the sighing of her heart,
And never shall from mine depart!
THE FOX
FOLK SONG
The fox ran up into the mill,
He raised his paws, and danced his fill.
Brave Master Fox, ’tis but your due,
In all the world there’s none like you!
A peck of corn he ground that day,
Which on his back he bore away.
He ate the village chickens brown,
And trod the upland cornfields down.
The fox lies on his shaggy side,
His paws stretched out before him wide.
Sable and fox this fall we’ll catch,
And for my son I’ll make a match.
Alas, this year no price they made:—
My Hovhannes unmarried stayed!
THE TALE OF ROSIPHELEE
From the “Confessio Amantis” by
JOHN GOWER
(Died 1408)
Of Armenye, I rede þus,
Ther was a king, which Herupus
Was hote, and he a lusti Maide
To dowhter hadde, and as men saide
Hire name was Rosiphelee;
Which þo was of gret renomee,
ffor sche was boþe wys and fair,
And scholde ben hire fader hair.
Bot sche hadde o defalte of Slowþe
Towardes loue, and þat was rowþe;
ffor so wel cowde noman seie,
Which mihte sette hire in þe weie
Of loues occupacion
Thurgh non ymaginacion;
That scole wolde sche noght knowe.
And þus sche was on of þe slowe
As of such hertes besinesse,
Til whanne Venus þe goddesse,
Which loues court haþ forto reule,
Haþ broght hire into betre reule,
fforþ wiþ Cupide and wiþ his miht:
ffor þei merueille how such a wiht,
Which þo was in hir lusti age,
Desireþ nother Mariage
Ne ȝit þe loue of paramours,
Which euere haþ be þe comvn cours
Amonges hem þat lusti were.
So was it schewed after þere:
ffor he þat hihe hertes loweþ
Wiþ fyri Dartes whiche he þrovreþ,
Cupide, which of loue is godd,
In chastisinge haþ mad a rodd
To dryue awei hir wantounesse;
So þat wiþinne a while, I gesse,
Sche hadde on such a chance sporned,
That al hire mod was ouertorned,
Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere:
ffor þus it fell, as þou schalt hiere.
Whan come was þe Monþe of Maii,
Sche wolde walke vpon a dai,
And þat was er þe Sonne Ariste;
Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste,
And forþ sche wente priuely
Vnto þe Park was faste by,
Al softe walkende on þe gras,
Til sche cam þer þe Launde was,
Thurgh which þer ran a gret riuere.
It þoghte hir fair, and seide, Here
I wole abide vnder þe schawe:
And bad hire wommen to wiþdrawe,
And þer sche stod al one stille,
To þenke what was in hir wille.
Sche sih þe swote floures springe,
Sche herde glade foules singe,
Sche sih þe bestes in her kinde,
The buck, þe do, þe hert, þe hinde,
The madle go wiþ þe femele;
And so began þer a querele
Betwen loue and hir oghne herte,
ffro which sche couþe noght asterte.
And as sche caste hire yhe aboute,
Sche syh clad in o suite a route
Of ladis, wher þei comen ryde
Along vnder þe wodes syde.
On faire amblende hors þei sete,
That were al whyte, fatte and grete,
And euerichon þei ride on side:
The Sadles were of such a Pride,
Wiþ Perle and gold so wel begon,
So riche syh sche neuere non:
In kertles and in Copes riche
Thei weren cloþed, alle liche,
Departed euene of whyt and blew;
Wiþ alle lustes þat sche knew
Thei were enbrouded oueral.
Here bodies weren long and smal,
The beaute faye vpon her face
Non erþly þing it may desface;
Corones on here hed þei beere,
As ech of hem a qweene weere,
That al þe gold of Cresus halle
The leste coronal of alle
Ne mihte haue boght after þe worþ:
Thus come þei ridende forþ.
The kinges dowhter, which þis syh,
ffor pure abaissht drowh hire adryh
And hield hire clos vnder þe bowh,
And let hem passen stille ynowh;
ffor as hire þoghte in hire avis,
To hem þat were of such a pris
Sche was noght worþi axen þere,
ffro when þei come or what þei were.
Bot leuere þan þis worldes good
Sche wolde haue wist hou þat it stod,
And putte hire hed alitel oute;
And as sche lokede hire aboute,
Sche syh comende vnder þe linde
A womman vp an hors behinde.
The hors on which sche rod was blak,
Al lene and galled on þe back,
And haltede, as he were encluyed,
Wherof þe womman was annvied;
Thus was þe hors in sori plit,
Bot for al þat a sterre whit
Amiddes in þe front he hadde.
Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde,
In which þe wofull womman sat,
And natheles þer was wiþ þat
A riche bridel for þe nones
Of gold and preciouse Stones.
Hire cote was somdiel totore;
Aboute hir middel twenty score
Of horse haltres and wel mo
Ther hyngen ate þo.
Thus whan sche cam þe ladi nyh,
Than tok sche betre hiede and syh
This womman fair was of visage,
ffreyssh, lusti, ȝong and of tendre age;
And so þis ladi, þer sche stod,
Beþoghte hire wel and vnderstod
That þis, which com ridende þo,
Tidinges couþe telle of þo,
Which as sche sih tofore ryde,
And putte hir forþ and preide abide,
And seide, Ha, Suster, let me hiere,
What ben þei, þat now riden hiere,
And ben so richeliche arraied?
This womman, which com so esmaied,
Ansuerde wiþ ful softe speche,
And seiþ, Ma Dame, I schal ȝou teche.
These ar of þo þat whilom were
Seruantz to loue, and trowþe beere,
Ther as þei hadde here herte set.
ffare wel, for I mai noght be let:
Ma Dame, I go to mi seruise,
So moste I haste in alle wise;
fforþi, ma Dame, ȝif me leue,
I mai noght longe wiþ ȝou leue.
Ha, goode Soster, ȝit I preie,
Tell me whi ȝe ben so beseie,
And wiþ þese haltres þus begon.
Ma Dame, whilom I was on
That to mi fader hadde a king;
Bot I was slow, and for no þing
Me liste noght to loue obeie,
And þat I now ful sore abeie.
ffor I whilom no loue hadde,
Min hors is now so fieble and badde,
And al totore is myn arai;
And euery ȝeer þis freisshe Maii
These lusti ladis ryde aboute,
And I mot nedes suie here route
In þis manere as ȝe now se,
And trusse here haltres forþ wiþ me,
And am bot as here horse knaue.
Non oþer office I ne haue,
Hem þenkþ I am worþi nomore,
ffor I was slow in loues lore,
Whan I was able forto lere,
And wolde noght þe tales hiere
Of hem þat covþen loue teche.
Now tell me þanne, I ȝov beseche,
Wherof þat riche bridel serueþ.
Wiþ þat hire chere awei sche swerueþ,
And gan to wepe, and þus sche tolde:
This bridel, which ȝe nov beholde
So riche vpon myn horse hed,—
Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded,
Whan I was in mi lusti lif,
Ther fel into myn herte a strif
Of loue, which me overcom,
So þat þerafter hiede I nom,
And þoghte I wolde loue a kniht:
That laste wel a fourtenyht,
ffor it no lengere mihte laste,
So nyh my lif was ate laste.
Bot now, allas, to late war
That I ne hadde him loued ar:
ffor deþ cam so in haste bime,
Er I þerto hadde eny time,
That it ne mihte ben achieued.
Bot for al þat I am relieued,
Of þat mi will was good þerto,
That loue soffreþ it be so
That I schal swiche a bridel were.
Now haue ȝe herd al myn ansuere:
To godd, ma Dame, I ȝou betake,
And warneþ alle for mi sake,
Of loue þat þei ben noght ydel,
And bidd hem þenke vpon mi brydel.
And wiþ þat word al sodeinly
Sche passeþ, as it were a Sky,
Al clene out of þis ladi sihte.
And þo for fere hire herte afflihte,
And seide to hirself, Helas!
I am riht in þe same cas:
Bot if I liue after þis day,
I schal amende it, if I may.
And þus homward þis lady wente,
And changede al hire ferste entente,
Wiþinnne hire herte and gan to swere
That sche none haltres wolde bere.
THE SONG OF THE VULTURE
By ELIA DEMIRJIBASHIAN
(1851–1908)
A great black bird like to a great black cloud
Hovers forever o’er my spirit bowed.
He is my guardian angel, but alack!
Darker than night he is—than hell more black.
A fearful-looking bird, with wings wide spread,
Ill-omened as the Devil, and as dread;
He hovers round my wasted body, till
I wonder if I yet have life or will.
Upon his wings no spot of white appears,
His plumage black sheds horror down, and fears.
Black are his talons—sharp, like daggers fell;
And like a hound I hear him howl and yell.
His wide-spread pinions hide the light from me;
Heaven dark, and earth a dungeon black I see.
All is in shadow—air and earth and skies—
He even hides the lightning from my eyes.
I cannot see the paleness of my face,
I cannot see the maiden’s smiling grace;
Black is the lake, the stars and lilies dark;
What was that cry? The bird’s dread calling!—Hark!
I seem to totter on the brink of hell
And think the evil fowl my corpse can smell.
I seem to hear the goblins fight with him—
Away with thee!—ours is this booty grim!”
But he is cruel, strong, and merciless—
This great black bird;—he heeds not my distress.
Ten years I’ve lived beneath his deadly wings—
Ten years unceasingly my death-bell rings.
Ten years ago one night it came to pass
On Moda’s rock I sat and dreamed; alas,
My foe came to me—Carnal was his name:
He shouted, “Vain are Life and Love and Fame!”
Youthful I was, and armed with Love and Hope
I struggled. “Oh, my soul, arise and cope
With this thy foe, and vanquish him,” I cried.
But ’twas in vain, as I full soon espied.
My sun and joy since then are on the wane.
My foe cries out, “I, only I, shall reign!
O’er all the universe none rules but me!”—
Then rose a Siren’s voice alluringly....
Nirvana and the flesh held me that hour:
God was asleep—my soul was in their power.
Then on the moon I saw a spot appear;—
It grew, and grew ... my heart turned sick with fear.
I was as dead. The carrion-eating bird
Had left that heavenly corpse—the moon—allured
To earth by me. It sought my bosom where
The image of Christ crucified lay bare.
Beneath those evil wings I hopelessly
Roam over the earth;—my guardian angel he;
No more the cross I wear, nor in my breast
Dwells holy faith; ’tis death: death without rest.
Like to the moon, whether I wax or wane
Still am I lifeless, cursed with this bane.
I give the vulture of my flesh to tear,
And shiver when the name of “love” I hear.
While yet I live he is devouring me:
I cannot bear this pain—Oh, set me free!
I am not dead—Love still dwells with me here.
I am alive—and some call me the “Ner.” [13]
Ah, gruesome bird, art thou not yet content
These ten long years my body to have rent?
Ah, vulture black—black earth and ebon sky,
’Tis time that I should lay me down and die.
DANCE SONG [14]
FOLK SONG
“I have loved your winsome face,
And your never-fading grace.
If they give you not to me
May God send them black disgrace!”
“Mountain sorrel, fresh with dew,
Sweets I send and honey new;
Is a dainty maid like me
Fit to wed a youth like you?”
“You are arch, my little maid,
In four plaits your hair you braid,
Make no more pretence to me—
For you love me, I’m afraid!”
“Drive your plough ahead, and go;
Underneath it thistles grow.
You are reckless, young, and wild—
She is mad would wed you so!”
“Near your house a field I’ll sow
And I’ll stone the ill-starred crow.
When I have the girl I love
I’ll let all my folly go.”
“On its way the water flows,
Washing with its waves the rose.
My beloved amidst the youths,
Like a mighty fortress shows.”
“In the vineyard you have grown,
Where the melon plants are sown,
Day and night upon my lute,
You I sing, and you alone.”
“Sing a minstrel’s song to me,
Or the blackbird’s rhapsody;
All your praises I deserve,
And my bridegroom you shall be!”
BALLAD
By RAFFI
Dark forests clothe the mountain-side,
And o’er that mountain’s lofty head
The heavens bend their arches wide,
And, dome-like, round its summit spread.
A castle stood upon the steep,
Enchanted by a witch’s spell;
A maiden wept within the keep,
Bound by the chains of slav’ry fell.
Alone and sad, the maiden fair
Sat in her dark and narrow room.
No hope had she, but dire despair
Had worn her heart with thoughts of gloom.
A minstrel passed—as it befell—
A singer, singing sweetest strains;
He broke the witch’s evil spell,
And loosed the gentle maiden’s chains.
She ran to him and kissed his face,
And said, “How I have longed for thee!
God, in His mercy and His grace,
Hath sent thee here to set me free!”
And when, above the mountain steep,
The moon shone out her silver light,
And when the stars began to peep,
Twinkling and scatt’ring jewels bright,
The minstrel’s love stole out unseen,
With burning thoughts of her belov’d;
All through the woods so dark and green,
Seeking, and seeking him, she roved.
A hut there was within that wood,
Meet dwelling for some dervish old;
All lined with moss and leaves, it stood
Protected from the rain and cold.
The minstrel lived within this nook,
And sang alone beneath the trees.
His friend—Firdausi’s wondrous book,
His comrades—Sadi and Hafiz.
The Houri of the castle there
Spent many happy days and nights—
Immortal souls in Jennet [15] fair
Have never tasted such delights.
He wiped the tears by sorrow shed,
And healed the wounds by sorrow wrought;
Like captive from a prison fled,
Her cares and woes she soon forgot.
Broken and aged was her sire;
A mighty Prince, the castle’s lord,
To satisfy his heart’s desire,
Had reft her from him with his sword.
The Prince held office high at court,
And countless women, bright as day,
Lived in his harem’s vile resort,
And slaves, more than my tongue can say.
His women, guarded day and night,
Caged in with iron bars he keeps;
But LOVE, more strong than despot’s might,
Breaks through that cage, those bars o’erleaps.
NO BIRD CAN REACH THE MOUNTAIN’S CREST
By HOVHANNES COSTANIANTZ
No bird can reach the mountain’s crest.
There blow the winds that never rest;
And ‘midst the stars that crown the height,
Saint Gregory’s fair lamp shines bright. [16]
Ah, gentle brother, sweet and brave,
That Light thy sword and spirit save!
How many rills the mountain yields!
Those rills are streams, that dew the fields.
My brother sweet, those rushing streams
Are like my longings and my dreams.
Happy the maid that loveth thee!
When shall thy heart’s desire be?
See, in the South a tempest breaks—
tempest howls, the leaflet quakes;
The bluebell hangs its petals bright,
The cock cries out with all his might.
Like showers of gold comes down the rain:—
Why comes my love not home again?
The Star of Light begins his course,
The brave one mounts upon his horse.
He drives his spurs into its flanks,
And rides away to join the ranks.
Happy the maid that loveth thee,
When shall thy heart’s desire be?
There comes no news from far away,
Our brave ones rest not from the fray.
’Tis long that sleep my eyes doth flee—
Our foemen press unceasingly.
’Tis long for sleep I vainly pray:
There comes no news from far away.
THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR
By LEO ALISHAN
Whence comest thou, my moon, gentle and still,
Spreading thy light o’er meadow, vale, and hill,
And o’er this patriarch, that lost in thought
The midnight plains of Avaraïr has sought?
Whereon our fathers, martyred for the right,
As giants fell, to rise as angels bright!
Com’st thou to spread upon their ashes cold
From yonder snowy cloud a pall of gold?
Or would’st thou bind around thy brow of light
A token of Armenia’s life-blood bright?—
Or art thou still in awestruck wonder lost
To think how Vartan fell, with all his host;—
Leaving death’s shadow in his foeman’s breast,
Trusting his soul to God, he sank to rest!
And thou, Dughmood, that stained with blood I see
Winding amongst thy rushes sobbingly;
Thou breeze that from Magou’s steep rock dost waft,
Or from great Ararat descendest soft;—
Thou too like me dost tremble, and thy wings
Listlessly bear thee on thy wanderings:
O’er hill and dale thou fliest, from wood to wood,
Till on this plain thou stay’st thy wings to brood;
Then bearest on this careworn heart’s last sigh
To echo in Armenia ere it die!
O friend of aching hearts, soul of the rose,
That breakest with thy voice the night’s repose;
Sing, little Nightingale, from yonder tree—
Armenia’s deathless heroes sing with me!
From Thaddeus’ convent as thy voice I heard,
Praying before the cross, my heart was stirred.
I hastened forth beneath thy magic spell
And found thee on the plain where Vartan fell.
Ah, Nightingale of Avaraïr, they say
No bird art thou that nightly sing’st thy lay,
But Eghishé, the singer wondrous sweet,
That in the rose’s heart Vartan dost greet.
The winter drives thee far away to mourn;
Spring’s roses bid thee to Ardaz return,
In Eghishé’s sad notes to sob and cry,
To call Vartan, and list for a reply.
If ever like the fainting Nightingale’s
My voice with you, Togarmah’s sons, prevails,—
Sons of those fathers virtuous and wise,
Who with their glories filled books, plains, and skies;—
If of Armenian blood one drop should flow
Within your veins, or make your hearts to glow;
Or if their glories past you too would share,
To Ardaz with the patriarch repair!
THOU ART SO SWEET
By SAYAT NOVA
Thou art so sweet thou wilt not pain the minstrel singing songs to thee,
But when he loves thee thou dost frown—in vain he tells his wrongs to thee.
Love’s fire is such, ‘twill not consume—‘twill burn, and burn, and ever burn:
If in that sea of flame I fall to cool me thou wilt never turn.
Alas, how shall the minstrel bear thy lightning gleams that pierce his heart?
No pact or treaty wilt thou make—a monarch absolute thou art.
If thou dost meet with mountains high like wax thou meltest them away;
If cities fair lie on thy path, their pride in ruins thou dost lay.
In sooth, no compact wilt thou make with him who sings these strains to thee:
Sayat Nova no credit hath when he would tell his pains to thee.
THE WANDERING ARMENIAN TO THE SWALLOW
By C. A. DODOCHIAN
O swallow, gentle swallow,
Thou lovely bird of spring!
Say, whither art thou flying
So swift on gleaming wing?
Fly to my birthplace, Ashdarag,
The spot I love the best;
Beneath my father’s roof-tree,
O swallow, build thy nest.
There dwells afar my father,
A mournful man and grey,
Who for his only son’s return
Waits vainly, day by day.
If thou shouldst chance to see him,
Greet him with love from me;
Bid him sit down and mourn with tears
His son’s sad destiny.
In poverty and loneliness,
Tell him, my days are passed:
My life is only half a life,
My tears are falling fast.
To me, amid bright daylight,
The sun is dark at noon;
To my wet eyes at midnight
Sleep comes not, late or soon.
Tell him that, like a beauteous flower
Smit by a cruel doom,
Uprooted from my native soil,
I wither ere my bloom.
Fly on swift wing, dear swallow,
Across the quickening earth,
And seek in fair Armenia
The village of my birth!
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE CHRIST-CHILD
By SAINT GREGORY OF NAREK
(951–1009)
The lips of the Christ-child are like to twin leaves;
They let roses fall when he smiles tenderly.
The tears of the Christ-child are pearls when he grieves;
The eyes of the Christ-child are deep as the sea.
Like pomegranate grains are the dimples he hath,
And clustering lilies spring up in his path.
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE CASTLE OF ANOUSH [17]
By RAFFI
“Anoush” in name, but full of bitterness in reality.
On one side of the road that leads from Tisbon to Ecbatana stands a
steep, pointed crag. Its massive base rises from an extensive bed of
rock, on which Nature has placed it as on a firm pedestal.
Not a handful of earth is to be found upon its denuded surface. Not a
single plant grows on its hard, stony sides.
The burning rays of the southern sun have dried and baked it like an
earthen vessel in the potter’s ever-burning fire. From time
immemorial that rock has ever been so.
It happened one day that Farhat, the great Persian sculptor, passed at
the foot of the rock with his pickaxe on his shoulder. He was aroused
suddenly from the deep meditation in which he had been lost by the
sound of horns and trumpets. He stopped. Greyhounds and hawk-bearers
appeared, gay and thoughtless riders burst into sight like a storm,
then passed away from sight like a storm.
The dim, shadowy outline of a face remained in his heart; that vision
stole away his peace of mind. Every day at the same hour he was to be
seen on the road waiting,—waiting with the tenderest feelings of his
heart aroused. The beloved vision would appear, and after throwing a
careless glance at him would pass by like a flash of lightning.
He lost his peace of mind, abandoned his Art, and wandered like one
beside himself in the solitudes of the mountains.
Days passed, weeks passed, and months passed. One day he was sitting
there waiting. She appeared. But this time there were neither
greyhounds nor hawk-bearers with her. She was alone, with a number of
her maidens. She urged her horse on and came up to Farhat.
“Hail, great Master,” she said. “What has chained thee to these
mountains—to the solitudes of these desert places? I ever see thee
here.”
“The joy of sometimes seeing a transcendently beautiful vision light
up the solitudes of these desert places,” answered Farhat.
“Is thy love so great, then?” she asked, smiling.
“Who can help loving her that has not a peer amongst the immortals?
Who can help loving her whose breath gives life, whose one glance
confers eternal happiness? Do you think that the heart of him that is
ever occupied with the stone and the chisel becomes so hardened that
there is no room left in it for beauty?”
“I think not so. He that can give form and life to a shapeless stone,
he that creates beautiful beings out of cold marble, cannot but love
what is beautiful himself. But listen, Artist—to win the heart of the
daughter of the Arian King requires great sacrifices.”
“I know that great goddesses require great sacrifices.”
“I do not demand what is impossible—I only wish to try thy love.
Look, Farhat, dost thou see yonder rock?” and she pointed to the
sharp crag. “Thou must create palaces for me out of that rock, so
that I may look down from the summit with delight, and watch how the
Tigris threads the beautiful plains of Assyria with its silvery curves,
or how the tall palm-trees of Baghistan wave at the breathing of the
gentle zephyrs. And in the heart of the rock thou must make storehouses
for my treasures, and underneath there must be dwelling-places for my
horses. When all this is ready I shall be thine.”
She spoke, and rode away.
Years passed away. The pickaxe and hammer of the Master worked
untiringly at the unyielding rock. The ceaseless sounds of the heavy
blows were to be heard day and night. The work was carried on
successfully. Love strengthened the genius of the great Master, and the
beauty of the Arian King’s daughter fired him with enthusiasm. He
made chambers, he made state-rooms, he made halls decorated with
pictures, and out of the solid rock he created a palace of marvellous
beauty. He made the walls of the apartments live with pictures carved
in relief. In one place he sculptured the battles that the old heroes
and giants of Iran had fought with devils and evil spirits; in another
the glory and greatness of the ancient kings of Iran, and festivals
celebrating their victories and deeds of prowess. He drew on the stone
the valiant acts of ancestral kings, their virtues, and the benefits
that they scattered over the land of the Arians. He worked all these
wonders for the one being to whom he had devoted all the passion of his
love. He worked them all so that she might be continually reminded of
the glorious past of Iran, that her heart might continually be rejoiced
with the noble pride that she was the descendant of a great dynasty
born of the gods, which had always done god-like deeds.
She came and saw it all.
“It is very beautiful,” she said, “but there is no water
here—there are no trees. Make fountains for me that shall throw the
water up higher than the clouds. Plant trees for me under whose shadow
I may rest;—rest in thine arms!”
She spoke, and rode away.
He turned the courses of far distant streams and brought the water by
underground channels to the very summit of the rock. He shaped the
stone, dug out basins, and created silvery fountains. Day and night the
never-ending supply of water rose out of the fountains, and dewed the
surrounding plants with pearl-like drops. He levelled the surface of
the rock, and covered it with earth brought from distant places. He
planted trees and made lofty hanging gardens that looked as if they
were growing in the air. Years passed. The trees grew and gave fruit,
the flowers blossomed and filled the scented gardens with their
gladdening perfumes. The birds came and filled the place with their
happy songs. But she who was to have been the queen and pride of that
beautiful paradise did not appear.
One day the Master sat at the foot of the palace he had made, leaning
his chin on his hand and looking sorrowfully down the road. A peasant
came up singing, and sat down beside him to rest a little.
“Whence comest thou?” asked the Master. “Thou art fortunate in
being so happy.”
“From Tisbon,” said the peasant. “And why should I not be happy
when all the world is rejoicing?”
“What has happened?”
“Dost thou not know that in town the wedding has already been going
on for seven days and seven nights? The wine is flowing in rivers, and
there is no limit to the dainty fare. They are eating, drinking, and
making merry. The whole town resounds with the strains of music, and
the feet of the dancers are never weary. I also came in for my share of
good things—I ate and drank as much as I could, and now I am taking
home what will be enough for my wife and children for many weeks.”
“Whose wedding is it?”
“The King’s.”
“To whom is he married?”
“To Anoush.”
The Master spoke no more. He only started as one struck by lightning,
then remained motionless. Then he rose and walked with weak, trembling
steps towards the palace he had created. He looked around, and for the
last time raised his sorrowful eyes to all the work that was the result
of passionate love and beautiful Art. Then he entered into his
work-room. His tools were lying about. He took up a heavy hammer and
came out on to the narrow ledge. “She deceived me!” he said, and
threw the hammer up into the air. It turned over and over, then fell on
to his head. His warm blood sprinkled the wonders that were the work of
his hands.
Farhat did not obtain the desire of his heart, but the name of his
beloved Anoush remained with that stone fortress, and it was called the
Castle of Anoush.
That rock-hewn palace which was prepared to be the temple of love and
everlasting happiness became a hell full of tears and unending
suffering. It was there that the Kings of Persia imprisoned the
Armenian Kings who fell captive into their hands.
HAPPINESS
By ARSCHAG TCHOBANIAN
(Born 1872)
Weary of vainly seeking Happiness
In city alleys full of sound and strife,
I hastened from the noisy human press,—
The labyrinth of this dark, grovelling life.
I said, “The mountain knows its place of rest,”
And clambered up above the level plain;
But the bald Titan answered me distressed:—
“Dullness alone doth Time for me ordain.”
I left the mountain and approached the winds—
Those infinite, proud spirits, ever free;
“We are the sighs of griefs that to your minds
Must still remain unknown,” they answered me.
And then above the winds and clouds I rose,
Soared to the skies, and asked the stars of Heaven.
“We are the tears that flow from countless woes,”
The answer by those eyes of darkness given.
Above the stars, in the lone fields of space,
I saw God musing, sorrowful and mild.
“Father,” I cried, “where is Joy’s dwelling-place?”
He said, “I also do not know, my child.”
CONCERNING DEATH
By HOVHANNES TULKOURANTZI
(1450–1525)
O evil man, with passions fraught,
How long wilt thou strive after sin?
Enough the ill that thou hast wrought:
Repent,—a holier life begin.
From Adam’s time until this day,
No soul hath had immortal breath;
Thou heed’st not what the Scriptures say—
The sinner’s punishment is death.
He that had palaces of gold,
And brilliant cities, fortress-bound,
Hath left behind his wealth untold,
And lies beneath the sodden ground.
Who loved to quaff the spicy wine,
And spent his life in ribaldry,
I saw him like a swollen swine,—
loathsome corpse, unsavoury.
The man that rode an arch-necked steed
And flashed his sword around to slay,
I saw him penitent indeed:—
Between two wooden planks he lay.
And evil wenches, women fair,
Who dress in robes of gaudy dye,
Who love to curl and braid their hair—
Their brightness with the sun might vie:
They swing about, and turn, and sway,
And are beloved of every man;
But hateful when Death comes are they,
To all who would their features scan.
Christ sits upon the throne of Light,
Rewarding those who loved His Word,
Crowning the just with glory bright
And penitents His voice that heard.
Ah, Hovhannes Tulkourantzi,
Listen with open heart and ear;
Seek out some way diligently
To win the crown of glory there.
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
By BEDROS TOURIAN
Undying Love, Whose beams forever glow
On rose-red Golgotha’s stupendous brow;
Wilt Thou those shafts still in Thy bosom keep?
What guardest Thou?—bones, spectres, chasms deep,—
That in the echoes of the mountain-side
Thy noble words, “Love one another,” died?
Effaced and trampled is the poor man’s tomb;
The poor man’s candle flickers out in gloom;
And in that darkness starving children weep,
While in the palace revels high they keep.
The rich man’s carriage dashes gaily past,
The beggar’s lonely corpse to earth is cast.
The pallid angel of Gethsemane
Tears doth not heed nor flowers, nor glory’s plea.
The poor find rest in his cold arms alone,
For in Death’s shroud the high and low are one.
Though lightning-winged the winds cry o’er the moor,
“Love one another,” here none love the poor.
PASQUA ARMENA [18]
By VITTORIA AGANOOR POMPILJ
Non fu di fiele abbeverato? Il petto
non gli squarciò l’ignobile scherano?
Non fu percosso, irriso, e un’empia mano
non lo inchiodò sul legno maledetto?
Pur, quale mai più glorïoso e forte
risorgere, se ancor tuona la voce
dell’Osanna, e dovunque apre una croce
le braccia, dall’idea vinta è la morte?
Armenia, ed anche a te squarciato il seno
vedo dai nuovi farisei. Raccolto
hanno il fango a scagliartelo sul volto;
per dissetarti apprestano il veleno.
Ma se l’insazïata orda ferina
sulle tue membra flagellate e grame
oggi rinnova la tortura infame
del Golgota, la tua Pasqua è vicina.
“IO VIDI”
By VITTORIA AGANOOR POMPILJ
Accostarsi all’oscuro
mio letto, dalle porte
raggianti, io vidi il puro
angiolo della morte.
Una dorata ciocca
velava gli occhi suoi:
diceva la sua bocca
sorridendo:—Mi vuoi?—
Rapita io nella bianca
sua desiata faccia,
io, di vane opre stanca,
a lui tendo le braccia;
e, mentre l’affannoso
mio cor s’apre alla fede
del perfetto riposo
che solo egli concede;
mi sibila vicina
una maligna voce:
“Destati; orsù, cammina,
ripiglia la tua croce!”
ARMENIA:
ITS EPICS, FOLK-SONGS, AND MEDIAEVAL POETRY
By ARAM RAFFI
The country that is called Armenia consists of a large plateau, covered
with numerous mountain ranges, which are intersected by many valleys
and passes, as well as by rivers and lesser streams of considerable
depth. The climate differs in various parts of the country, the
meteorological conditions ranging from frost and snow to extreme heat.
Over the plains towers Mount Ararat, on which, as we read in the Bible,
the Ark rested after the Flood. Here also is the traditional site of
the Garden of Eden, and the four rivers mentioned in Genesis as rising
in the Garden still flow through the Armenian land.
The origin of the Armenian people is enveloped in mystery, but it is an
established fact that Armenia has had a civilisation of its own from a
very early date, and that the Armenians are one of the most ancient
races in the world. They have had their periods of independence, but,
on account of its geographical position, Armenia has seldom figured as
one of the great ruling states of the world, although it has repelled
by arms invasions of such nations as Assyria. Assyrian records are
filled with descriptions of conflicts with Armenian kings; King Assur
Nazir Haban (1882–1857 B.C.) gives this account of one of his
“victories”:—“They (the people of Ararat, or Urardu) fled to
the impregnable mountains so that I might not be able to get at them,
for the mighty summits were like drawn swords pointing to the skies.
Only the birds of heaven soaring on their wings could reach them. In
three days I was there, spreading terror in places where they had taken
refuge. Their corpses, like autumn leaves, filled the clefts. The rest
escaped to distant inaccessible heights.”
Notwithstanding the boasts of the Assyrian kings, they did not succeed
in permanently crushing the independence of Armenia.
Tigranes the Great brought Armenia more in contact with distant foreign
lands. In his time his country began to be considered of importance by
Greek and Roman historians. The Romans sent Lucullus to engage in war
with Tigranes in order to crush his growing power. This is
what—according to Plutarch—Lucullus said of Tigranes:—
“In Armenia Tigranes, King of Kings, is seated, surrounded with that
power which has wrested Asia from the Parthians, which carries Grecian
colonies into Media, subdues Syria and Palestine, cuts off the
Seleucidae and carries their wives and daughters into captivity.”
Cicero says of Tigranes the Great:—“He made the Republic of Rome
tremble before the prowess of his arms.”
To give even a short outline of Armenian folklore and poetry it is
essential to point out those agencies and influences which have served
to originate that literature. Hence its literature and history, like
those of all countries, are interwoven. Notwithstanding its periods of
greatness, Armenia was unable, as we said above, to continue to be a
powerful and independent state. Thus we see Armenia serving as a bridge
between armies engaged in war, and such has been its fate in all
periods, even up to the present time.
It fell successively under the dominion of Assyria, Babylonia, and,
finally, of Persia when, after the time of Cyrus, the kingdom of Persia
was extended by Darius over nearly the whole of Asia. Although Armenia
became a tributary of Persia, it still had its own independent king.
The Median Empire had been founded probably in 677–672 B.C. From that
time Iranian influence was strongly felt in the politics, language, and
social organisation of Armenia, and the Iranian religion, with its
terminology, names of divinities, and many folk-beliefs, permeated
Armenian paganism.
Moreover, the Armenians, being the near neighbours of the Persians,
closely resembled them in their manner of life and their religion.
After the conquest of Alexander the Great, Armenia, like all other
Asiatic nations, fell under Greek dominion. Then the Macedonian rule
gave way to the Parthian, and the dynasty of the Arsacidae held sway, a
king of that race being set over Armenia and founding an independent
Armenian dynasty. The Arsacidae introduced Greek civilisation and
culture into Armenia. During this period the character of the Armenians
changed. Not only their religion but their manners and customs became
different from those of the Persians. The rule of Macedonia over
Armenia lasted 180 years (330–150 B.C.). The Graecophile Arsacid
dynasty lasted 376 years (150 B.C.-226 A.D.). These long periods
brought the Armenians into close contact with the Greeks and separated
them from the Persians.
To the periods which we have outlined belongs the literature of Armenia
preceding the introduction of Christianity. Of this literature the
remains that have come down to us consist of legends, songs, and
fragments of epics. Of the epics we have some records and summaries,
chiefly found in the History of Moses of Khorene (5th century A.D.),
who has also preserved some of the heroic songs in their original form.
These epics relate the history of Armenian ancestral and mythical
heroes, to whom are ascribed the foundation and development of the
Armenian nation. In them we see Armenian ideals of the earliest times.
As these ideals are closely interwoven with the religious beliefs of
the pre-Christian period, let us now cast a glance at Armenian
Paganism.
It is said by ancient Armenian historians that the Armenians were
originally worshippers of the One True God, but they, like all other
nations, deserted Him and took up with various religions. Sun-worship
was one of these; Zoroastrianism also had its turn; in due course, the
Greeks introduced their own deities; even India succeeded in making its
influence felt. Strabo has it that the Armenians, during the period of
the Arsacid dynasty, were of the same religion as the Parthians. It
appears that the Armenians fused together Zoroastrianism and the
polytheism of Greece and other nations, thus combining eastern and
western religion. One result of this fusion was that though the
Zoroastrians made no visible representation of their God, the temples
of Armenia were full of images, brought from Mesopotamia, Asia Minor,
and Greece.
The principal god of Armenia was Aramazd, whom the Armenians called
“the Architect of the Universe, Creator of Heaven and Earth.” He
was also the father of the other gods. The Armenians annually
celebrated the festival of this god on the 1st day of Navasard, [19]
when they sacrificed white animals of various kinds—goats, horses,
mules, with whose blood they filled goblets of gold and silver. The
most prominent sanctuaries of Aramazd were in the ancient city of Ani
in Daranali, the burial-place of the Armenian kings, as well as in the
village of Bagavan in Bagravand. [20]
Aramazd had an attendant incorporeal spirit, named Tir or Grogh
(“writer”), whom he sent to earth to watch men and record in a book
their good and evil deeds. After death, human souls were conducted by
Tir to Aramazd, who opened the book at each soul’s record, in
accordance with which he assigned a reward or punishment. In a village
near Vargharshapat there was a temple of this god, where the priests
interpreted dreams after consulting his oracle. The influence of Tir
was great in Armenia, for he was a personification of hope and fear.
There are traces of the cult of this god in the Armenian language. It
is still usual to hear, used as a curse, the expression, “May Grogh
take you!” The son of Aramazd was Mihr, Fire. He guided the heroes in
battle and conferred wreaths on the victors. The word mehian
(“temple”) is derived from Mihr; also some Christian names. One of
the months in the ancient Armenian calendar (Mehekan) was named after
him. His commemoration-day was celebrated with great splendour at the
beginning of spring. Fires were kindled in the open market-place in his
honour, and a lantern lighted from one of these fires was kept burning
in his temple throughout the year. This custom of kindling fires in the
spring is still observed in some parts of Armenia. [21]
Although the Persians and the Armenians were both worshippers of Mihr,
the conceptions and observances of the two nations differed. The
Armenian sacred fire was invisible, but the Persian was material and
was kept up in all the temples. For this reason the Armenians called
the Persians fire-worshippers. But the Armenians had also a visible
fire-god, who, although material, was intangible—the sun—to which
many temples were dedicated and after which one of the months (Areg)
was named.
Long after the introduction of Christianity, there was a sect of
sun-worshippers existent in Armenia, who were called “Children of the
Sun.” A small remnant of them is still supposed to be found, dwelling
between the Tigris and the Euphrates. Traces of sun-worship are also
evident in the Armenian language and in the Armenian literature of
Christian times. Some sayings and phrases are still in use which
contain references to sun-worship, such as the expression of
endearment, “Let me die for your sun!” and the oath, “Let the sun
of my son be witness.”
One of the most famous Armenian goddesses was Anahit, who answered to
the Greek Artemis and the Roman Diana. She was a “pure and spotless
goddess,” and, as a daughter of Aramazd, was “mother of
chastity,” as well as the benefactress of the whole human race;
“through her the Armenian land exists, from her it draws its life;
she is the glory of our nation and its protectress” [22]; and for her
the ancient Armenians felt intense love and adoration.
Many images and shrines were dedicated to her under the names of “the
Golden Mother,” [23] “the Being of Golden Birth,” etc. Every
summer there was a festival in her honour. On that day, a dove and a
rose were offered to her golden image, whence the day was called
Vardavar, which means “the flaming of the Rose.” On the
introduction of Christianity, the temple of Anahit was destroyed and
her festival became the Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ; it
falls in the last days of the year according to the ancient Armenian
calendar; but the name “Vardavar” still remains and doves are still
set flying on that day. This is also the Armenian “water-day,”
during which the people amuse themselves throwing water at each other.
[24]
Anahit was sought also in cases of great sickness.
The sister of Anahit was Astghik, [25] the goddess of beauty, a
personification of the moon, corresponding to the Phoenician and
Sidonian Astarte. Strange to say, the Persians had no goddess of
beauty, but the bright sky of Armenia, its numerous valleys, the
torrents running down from snow-capped mountains, the lakes, the
cultivated fields and meadows tended to strengthen the sense of beauty,
and, therefore, Armenia had a goddess of beauty, who was not to be
found in the pantheon of the neighbouring country.
The Armenians assigned Astghik a husband worthy of her. He was Vahagn,
deified on account of his valour. In ancient songs, he is credited with
a miraculous birth. The fires of heaven and earth, and the sea crimson
in the light of dawn, travailed to bring him into being. [26] As we
shall see later, Moses of Khorene has preserved portions of these
songs. Vahagn was called Vishapakagh (Uprooter of dragons), as he
cleared the Armenian land of monsters and saved it from evil
influences. His exploits were known not only in Armenia, but in the
abode of the gods. Having stolen corn from the barns of King Barsham of
Assyria, he ran away and tried to hide himself in heaven. From the ears
he dropped arose the Milky Way, which is called in Armenia the Track of
the Corn-stealer.
The third daughter of Aramazd was Nané or Nooné. She was the goddess
of contrivance. It was believed by the Armenians that contrivance was a
necessary power for a woman, because, in the management of the
household, she had to make big things out of small ones, and
circumstances were already against her on account of the vicissitudes
which Armenia was constantly undergoing.
Sandaramet, the wife of Aramazd, was an invisible goddess and a
personification of the earth. Aramazd sent rain upon her, which brought
forth the vegetation on the earth. She came to be a synonym of Hades
and was very frequently referred to as such in theological books and in
the hymnary of the Christian Church.
Besides these gods of their own, the Armenians also adopted alien
divinities. When Tigranes brought a number of Phoenicians to Armenia as
prisoners, they brought with them their god Ammon, from whose name
comes the word Ammonor, [27] “the day of Ammon”—the New Year.
Assyrian, Arab, and other emigrations also led to the introduction of
foreign deities. An Armenian king, when he brought home captives, also
introduced the gods of those captives, whose images were placed in the
temples beside those of the native gods that they most closely
resembled. Even Indian fugitives brought the brother-gods, Demetr and
Gisanes, whose images were not like those of the other gods of Armenia,
for the images of the gods of Armenia are, as a rule, small, whereas
these were very tall, with long black hair and black faces. There was
also a great immigration of Jews into Armenia, and this influenced the
Armenians in the direction of monotheism. Besides the principal gods,
there were also secondary ones. These were spirits, corresponding to
angels, who acted as guardians to different classes of natural
objects:—Kadjk, [28] who occupied the mountains; Parik, who presided
over flocks; and many others.
Water was honoured in Armenia as a masculine principle. According to
Tacitus (Annals, vi. 37) the Armenians offered horses as sacrifices to
the Euphrates, and divined by its waves and foam. Sacred cities were
built around the river Araxes and its tributaries. Even now there are
many sacred springs with healing powers, and the people always feel a
certain veneration towards waters in motion.
There were gods who lived in the waters and destroyed harmful monsters
of the deep. There was also a god who breathed out a mysterious
atmosphere which destroyed malignant creatures. One wonders whether
this is a foreshadowing of the fear of microbes. All the gods of this
class were friendly to agriculturists.
There were also “Haurot-Maurot,” the name of a flower (hyacinthus
racemosus Dodonei) first mentioned by Agathangelos. The Arabs
incorporated them in the Quran (ii. 96) as two angels sent down to live
in Babel in human circumstances.
Alk, who dwelt in the waters, was a very harmful devil. He used to live
in the corners of houses and stables, and in damp places. He had eyes
of fire, nails of copper, teeth of iron, and the jaws of a wild boar.
He carried a sword of iron in his hand and was a bitter enemy to
pregnant women, near whom he sat at the time their child was born.
There were nymphs, who were guardians of women. They wandered through
gardens and amid streams, but were invisible. They attended weddings
and frequented bathrooms and the women’s quarters in general. These
nymphs and spirits were innumerable. Every woman was supposed to have a
guardian nymph. The nymphs were supposed by some to be immortal and
endowed with perpetual youth; others described them as mortal though
they never grew old. There was also a group of male spirits who were
regarded by some as mortal, by others as immortal. They wandered with
the nymphs through forests, gardens, and other open places. They were
imagined as very tall, with features like those of men; some were
half-man and half-animal. Some were called Parik, “dancers”; others
Hushka parik, “dancers to a melody in a minor key.”
In some places, even now, a belief in these nymphs (or fairies)
survives. Many stories are told of their beauty, their marvellous
dancing, and their wondrous music. They are never called by the name of
“nymphs,” but are spoken of by the people of the country as “our
betters.” Still in some parts of Armenia, in May and October, a
festival is held annually in honour of them, generally by the women in
the Public Baths. They assemble early in the morning and remain till
late at night, dancing, eating, and bathing.
Before the people thought of building temples, they worshipped their
gods in forests and on mountains. One of these forests was the Forest
of Sos. According to tradition the son of Ara the Beautiful, Anushavan,
who devoted himself to the worship of this sacred place, was called,
after the forest, Sos. The priests derived oracles from the rustling of
the leaves in this holy wood.
Besides temples, which were numerous in Armenia, there were, all over
the country, altars and shrines, as well as images and pictures.
To sum up, the pre-Christian religion of Armenia was at first a kind of
nature-worship, which developed into polytheism. There were two
elements in Armenian religion, the native and the foreign.
Besides nature-worship, there was a recognition, among the Armenians,
of the Good and Evil Spirit, but predominance was given to the former.
It is curious that, in the Armenian pantheon, there is no god of evil,
and Armenian epic heroes are always described as fighting against evil
spirits.
In Armenian epics, the immortals stand in the background, the most
prominent place being assigned to legendary heroes, to whom poets
attribute divine descent, thus tracing the origin of the Armenian race
to the gods. Unfortunately, the greater part of these epics is lost,
though a few fragments are preserved, in their original shape, by Moses
of Khorene.
The following is one of these fragments, which gives the general
conception of the gods and the heroes descended from them:—
“Glorious and awful were the former gods. They were the cause of the
greatest blessings of the earth; also of the beginning of the world and
the generations of men. From them arose a race of giants, with great
limbs, fantastical, of stupendous stature, who, in their arrogance,
conceived the impious idea of tower-building. But by the wrath of the
gods, a mighty wind arose, overthrowing and shattering the structure.
The speech of men was confused; there was general bewilderment.”
Among the giants mentioned in this passage was Haik, the brave and
illustrious chief—a famous archer, who is the patronymic hero of
Armenia, and is described by Moses of Khorene as having curly hair and
being beautiful to look upon, with brawny arms, well-set shoulders, and
fiery eyes. Recoiling from submission to Belus, he, with his followers,
went northwards to the foot of a mountain, where they took up their
abode. Belus sent emissaries to him, bearing the following message:—
“Thou hast departed and hast settled in a chill and frosty region.
Soften thy hard pride, change thy coldness to geniality; be my subject,
and come and live a life of ease in my domain. Thus shalt thou find
pleasure.”
Haik’s answer was to prepare for combat. The fights between Haik and
Belus are minutely recounted. The dress of the two champions, their
looks, their weapons, are all described in detail. At last Belus was
vanquished and slain by his adversary.
Before the time of Moses of Khorene, Haik was known as a great hunter
like the Greek Orion. In the passages in Job and Isaiah where
“Orion” appears in the English Bible as the name of a
constellation, “Haik” appears in the Armenian version.
The country that Haik conquered was named Hayastan, after him.
He was succeeded by Armenak, who extended the boundaries of his
kingdom. This expansion is thus described by Moses of Khorene:—
“Armenak, taking with him all his host, goes to the north-east. He
descends on a plain surrounded by high mountains, through which, from
the west, murmuring streams flow. The plain extends towards the east.
From the foot of the mountains gush springs no less limpid, mingling
together to form little rivers, which, with gentle flow, run round the
edge of the plain, parallel to the base of the mountains.
“But the southern mountain, with its white peak, at first rises
straight up; afterwards it curves, looking beside the other heights
like a hoary stooping elder amid youths.”
Armenak was succeeded by Aramais. This king took up his abode on a hill
beside a river, where he built a town which he named Aramavir. The
river he called by the name of his grandson, Araxes. He had a son,
named Shara, who was a glutton and had an immense number of children.
He sent him to a very fertile place which was called, after him,
Shirak. Moses of Khorene quotes a proverb relating to Shara:—“If
thou hast the gullet of a Shara, our stores are not the stores of a
Shirak.”
Shara had a son, Amasa. After him Mount Ararat was named “Masis.”
Moses of Khorene mentions another descendant of Haik, whose name was
Tork. He was ugly and of tremendous strength. He was able to break
great stones with his hands. Once, when he was on the shore of the Sea
of Pontus, he hurled huge rocks at the ships of his enemies and sank
them. This incident reminds us of the Cyclops Polyphemus, in the
Odyssey. Tork had also artistic proclivities. After dividing large
stones with his hands, he smoothed them with his nails, and with his
nails covered them with drawings of eagles and other pictures. [29]
Then the historian gives a table of royal names down to Aram, whom he
describes as industrious and patriotic, and who said that he would
rather die for his fatherland than endure the sight of strangers
devastating it. He collected an army of 50,000 and drove the foreign
invaders out of Armenia. Epic poems, according to Moses of Khorene,
praise Aram’s valour in his conflicts with Barsham, King of Assyria,
whom he eventually subdued. He was succeeded by Ara the Beautiful.
The romantic love of Semiramis for this king, which was a favourite
theme of ancient Armenian song and epic, is elaborately recounted by
Moses of Khorene. A translation of his narrative is given on page 23 of
this volume. There are several variants of this story, which is still
related in Armenia, and the names of many places as well as many
superstitions can be traced to it.
Semiramis invited Ara to Nineveh to be her husband, promising him the
half of the kingdom, but Ara refused her offer, having a wife already.
Semiramis thereupon sent an army against Ara, with orders to capture
the king alive and bring him to her; but, instead of the living king,
they brought his corpse. Semiramis, who, as is well known, was wont to
practise magic, laid the body on a certain high place, in order that
the gods might descend and restore it to life by licking the wounds.
This height is still called Lezk, and in former times others used it
for the same purpose as Semiramis. The idea of this mode of cure
probably originated from the fact that wounded men, lying unconscious
on the battlefield, have often been revived by the licking of dogs and
other animals.
In Moses of Khorene we find this story about the childhood of Sanatruk.
One day, he, under the care of his mother and his nurse, was walking
among the mountains of Kordua, when suddenly a high wind arose,
accompanied by a snowstorm, and separated the mother from her son. For
three days and nights the nurse and the child were buried in the snow,
but the gods sent a miraculous white animal which rescued them and
brought them home alive. [30]
But, though such legends as these may have some foundation in fact,
there are others that are entirely fabulous, like the following, which
is related by Moses of Khorene:—
The heir to the principality of Ardzruni, when a boy, fell asleep in
the open air. A storm of rain came on and drenched him; and then the
hot sun shone down and scorched him with its rays; whereupon an eagle
flew up and hovered over his head with outspread wings, sheltering him
from the assaults of nature.
In the fourth century A.D., we find a similar story told of Prince
Mushegh Mamikonian. After his death his relatives put his body on a
high tower, believing that the spirits would descend and restore him to
life. This story is found in Faustus Byzand (A.D. 337–384).
The animals figuring in such stories as these are not represented as
merely adjuncts to man, but as independent individuals who act in
accordance with their own characters and inclinations. Plato, in his
Republic, gives a slightly different version of the legend of Ara. Er
was an Armenian (or, as some commentators say, “The son of
Armenios”), a native of Pamphylia. He was slain in battle, and ten
days afterwards, when the bodies of the dead were taken up, already in
a state of corruption, his body was found unaffected by decay and
carried away home to be buried. And on the twelfth day, as he was lying
on the funeral pile, he returned to life and told them what he had seen
in the other world.
The name “Er” is evidently a variant of Ara. The story, as told by
Plato, has all the features of a transplanted legend.
Moses of Khorene says that, after the death of Ara the Beautiful,
Semiramis passed the rest of her days in Armenia, which place she
greatly loved. Here she established the city of Van. A picturesque
account of its foundation given by the historian is included in this
volume (page 33).
The following account is given of the end of Semiramis:—
Being pursued by her enemies, she ran away on foot, and, becoming
thirsty, she stopped to drink water from the Lake of Van. Here she was
overtaken by the “swordsmen,” whereupon, after taking off her magic
bracelet and throwing it into the lake, she herself was turned into
stone.
With regard to the bracelet of Semiramis, the following story is even
now commonly told in the neighbourhood of Van:—
Once Semiramis saw a bracelet in the hands of some little boys, who had
found it in the river, and were examining it with curiosity. Semiramis,
knowing that the bracelet had magic powers, took it away from the
children. By means of this jewel, she allured youths to their
destruction. This licentiousness brought her into general disfavour. An
old man, at last, snatched the bracelet from her and ran with it
towards the sea. Semiramis rushed after him in a fury, but, not being
able to come up with him, she let down her long hair and used it as a
sling to hurl a great rock at him. The weight of the rock pulled out
her hair. The rock itself fell into a ditch near Artamet. Semiramis,
through fear and amazement, was turned into stone. The old man threw
the bracelet into the Lake of Van. Even now a rock is shown at Artamet
which bears the name of “the Rock of Semiramis.”
Then Moses of Khorene speaks of Tigranes I., who, in conjunction with
Cyrus, put an end to the kingdom of Media. The epics say of Tigranes
that “his face was of lovely hue, his eyes were soft and lustrous,
his shoulders stalwart, the calves of his legs were well-shaped, he was
altogether fair to look upon; in food and drink he was moderate; he was
of lofty mind, eloquent in speech, and masterly in the conduct of
affairs. Just and equitable, he weighed each man’s acts in the scale
of his mind. He was not jealous of the great nor did he despise men of
low estate, but spread the mantle of his care over all men alike. He
increased our treasures of gold, silver, and precious stones. Under
him, men and women wore fine garments, of divers colours, richly
embroidered, which made the ill-favoured to look fair and the beautiful
to look like demi-gods.
“Tigranes, the bringer of peace and prosperity, caused all men to
grow fat with butter and honey. In his day, the infantry became
cavalry, slingers became skilful archers, dagger-bearers were equipped
with swords, and naked soldiers were provided with shields and
armour.”
The historian adds that the splendour of the arms and equipments was
enough of itself to drive back the enemy.
As the head of a band of warriors, he performed many valorous
deeds:—“We were under the yoke of others, but he put other nations
under our yoke and made them our tributaries.”
His rival, Astyages, King of Media, was always suspicious and
distrustful of him.
One night Astyages had a terrible dream. The next morning he summoned
his courtiers. They found him sighing, looking on the ground with
gloomy mien, and heaving groans from the depths of his heart. “When
the courtiers inquired the reason of his behaviour” (continues the
historian) “the king remained silent for hours, then in a sad voice
he related his dream, which was as follows:—
“‘To-day I was in an unknown country, close to a mountain, which
rose very high above the ground; its summit was covered with ice. It
seemed to me to be in Armenia. After I had gazed for a long time, it
appeared to me that there was a woman sitting on the summit. Her
garments were purple. Her face was covered by a blue veil. Her eyes
were beautiful. She was tall, with rosy cheeks. She was in travail, and
for a long time I looked on her with admiration, then I beheld her give
birth to three heroes, all of equal stature: the first, sitting on a
lion, soared towards the west; the second, seated on a leopard, went
towards the north; the third, bridling a huge dragon, defiantly
attacked our kingdom. In these confused dreams, I seemed to be standing
on the roof of my palace, and the covering of my chambers was adorned
with beautiful fountains of variegated colours. The gods that had
crowned me were standing there, with wondrous faces, and I, with you,
was honouring them with incense and sacrifice. Suddenly looking up, I
saw the man who was seated on the dragon wing his course in our
direction, desiring to overthrow our gods. I advanced to the attack and
engaged in fight with that youthful hero. First of all, with lances we
pierced each other’s bodies, calling forth rivers of blood, and past
our sunlit palace flowed a crimson sea. For hours we fought also with
other arms. But, to be brief, the fight ended in my defeat. I was
bathed in sweat, sleep forsook me, and ever since I have felt as if I
had no life in me. For all these visions signify that the Armenian
king, Tigranes, is about to attack us. And whosoever amongst you, by
counsel or deeds, wishes to aid me, and aspires to the honour of being
a king, equal to myself, let him speak.’”
Then the story goes on to tell how Astyages, in order to prevent
Tigranes from making war on him, proposed that his rival’s sister,
Tigranuhi, should be his wife; therefore Astyages sent to Tigranes one
of his councillors with a letter accompanied by many precious gifts.
Moses of Khorene gives the letter, which runs as follows:—
“Thou knowest, beloved brother, that of all the gifts of the gods to
us none is more precious than the multitude of our dear ones,
especially when they are wise and valiant. The reason of this is that,
in such case, quarrels will not arise from outside, and if they arise,
they will be unable to make their way within and will disperse
themselves. Having seen the great advantage of such relationships, it
has entered my mind to confirm and strengthen the love that is between
us, so that, both of us being secured on all sides, we may be able to
carry on the affairs of our kingdom in greater safety. All this will be
ensured, if thou wilt give me to wife thy sister Tigranuhi, the Great
Lady of Armenia. I hope that thou wilt look favourably on this
proposal, that she may be the Queen of Queens. Mayest thou have a long
life, fellow sovereign and dear brother.”
We have presented this letter as a matter of curiosity, because in none
of the early European epics are there texts of letters. This usage is
characteristically oriental. In Isaiah we read of the letter of
Sennacherib to Hezekiah; there is also a letter in the Persian
Firdusi’s Shah-nameh.
After his marriage with Tigranuhi, Astyages tried to set her at enmity
with her brother, and once he contrived cunningly to entice Tigranes to
become his guest in order that he might slay him. But his wife
perceived his treachery and secretly sent a message to her brother.
Tigranes accepted the invitation of Astyages, but came accompanied by a
great army. He postponed his attack till his sister had made her
escape. In the battle which ensued, Astyages was killed.
Of this Tigranes, Xenophon says a great deal in his Cyropaedia, from
which we cite the following incident:—
The Armenian king having revolted against Cyrus, the latter invaded
Armenia and conquered him. Cyrus intended to deal very severely with
the rebel monarch, but Tigranes, the son of the Armenian king,
persuaded him to be more lenient. Xenophon gives a long conversation,
discussing the terms of peace, in the course of which Cyrus asked
Tigranes, who was newly married and greatly loved his wife, what he
would give to regain her freedom, she having fallen into the hands of
the victor, together with the other women of the royal family.
“Cyrus,” was the Prince’s reply, “to save her from servitude, I
would lay down my life.”
On which Cyrus replied: “Take, then, thine own, for I cannot reckon
that she is properly our captive, for thou didst never flee from us.”
Then, turning to the king, he added: “And thou, Armenian, take thy
wife and children, without paying anything for them, that they may know
they come to thee freely.”
On the return of the king and prince, after this interview, there was
much talk at the Armenian court about Cyrus; one spoke of his wisdom,
another of his patience and resolution, another of his mildness; one
also spoke of his beauty, his fine figure and lofty stature, whereupon
Tigranes turned to his wife, saying: “Dost thou think Cyrus
handsome?”
“Indeed,” she answered, “I never looked at him.” “At whom,
then, didst thou look?” asked Tigranes. “At him,” was the reply,
“who said that, to save me from servitude, he would give his own
life.”
Of all the epics from which Moses of Khorene has derived incidents or
of which he gives fragments, the only one that has survived among the
people in complete form, with numerous variants, is Sasmadzrer. There
is a reference in the Bible to the story which is related in this poem.
In 2 Kings xix. 37, and Isaiah xxxvii. 38, we read:—
“And it came to pass, as he (Sennacherib) was worshipping in the
house of Nisroch his god, that Adramelech and Sharezer, his sons, smote
him with the sword; and they escaped into the land of Armenia.”
Moses of Khorene tells the same story, adding that the Armenian king
assigned an abode to Sharezer in the south of Armenia and to Adramelech
in the south-east.
The epic, referred to above, relates the doings of the two brothers and
their descendants in Armenia, among the rest the founding by them of
the city of Sassoon.
The poem is divided into four parts. It is still transmitted orally,
word for word, in Armenia; in many places in poetical form. During the
last forty years, several versions of it have been taken down in
writing and published, and these have received much attention from
scholars. We cannot do more than mention this most interesting
production; the space at our disposal forbids our giving even an
outline of its contents.
So far we have derived our information from the prose versions of
passages in the epics found in Moses of Khorene either as quotations or
as paraphrased in his own words. But that historian has also given a
few extracts from the poems in their original form, being the first
historian to do so. To these extracts we now turn.
Although they are very few, they convey some idea of ancient Armenian
poetry. The historian says he has himself heard these poems sung to the
accompaniment of various musical instruments, of which he gives long
and minute descriptions. According to him, these poems were sung
chiefly in the province of Goghtan (the present Agulis, in Russian
Armenia). This place abounded in gardens and vineyards, and produced a
variety of good wines. The people were gay and fond of merry-making.
Their love of the old pagan religion and manners still continued long
after their conversion to Christianity. In this respect they resembled
the Saxons of Germany, and, even in the early part of the fifth
century, they observed pagan rites, sometimes openly, sometimes
secretly. One of the old Armenian songs, describing the birth of the
Armenian king Vahagn, is given in this volume, page 10. This is
supposed to be a myth describing the rise of the sun over the sea.
At sunrise the sky gradually becomes light; between the light and the
darkness there is a kind of struggle; all nature is waiting in
expectancy of a life-giving power, of the rising of the sun. It seems
to be this expectancy of nature and man that the poet likens to the
travail of heaven, earth, and sea. The “crimson reed” is perhaps
the long red gleam sent forth from the East over the sea at dawn.
We have already referred to Vahagn when dealing with Armenian
mythology. In the Armenian translation of the Bible, in 2 Maccabees iv.
19, the name “Vahagn” is substituted for “Hercules.” This name
is derived from the Sanscrit words vah, “to bring,” and agn,
“fire,” and therefore means “fire-bringer.” In connection with
this, it is interesting to compare the Armenian legend with a similar
legend in the Rig-Veda. The word “Agni” is the same as “Agn.”
The god Agni was born of the rising sun, to the accompaniment of
thunder and lightning; of Vahagn the song says: “Out of the flame
sprang the child.” “His hair was of fire and a beard had he of
flame”; Agni had “flaming hair and a golden beard.” A comparison
of the two poems shows that the similarity between them arises, not
from the imitation of one poet by the other, but from identity of
theme, for the belief in a fire-god or fire-hero is common to all
mythologies. According to Agathangelos, Vahagn was a favourite deity,
and his temple at Taron was famous. King Tiridates, when greeting the
Armenian people in a manifesto, says: “May Vahagn, of all Armenia,
send you courage!” He puts the name of Vahagn after the names of
Aramazd and Anahit. But, in Moses of Khorene, Vahagn is little more
than an ordinary king, the son of Tigranes I., though the historian
gives the story of his birth and his fights with dragons, as related by
the poets. He also calls Vahagn the first of the Vahuni or priestly
caste; but this caste was far more ancient than the historian thinks,
as sun worship is one of the oldest forms of religion. [31]
Moses of Khorene says, moreover, that there was an image of Vahagn in
Georgia, where he was worshipped as a god.
As to the form of this poem—we note the parallelism, similar to that
of the old Hebrew songs: “To Sisera a prey of diverse colours, a prey
of diverse colours of needlework, of diverse colours of needlework, on
both sides” (Judges v. 30). [32]
The Song of Deborah, from which we have just quoted, is supposed to be
the oldest passage in the Bible, and is a good specimen of ancient
oriental poetry.
The songs quoted in Moses of Khorene are also examples of this poetry,
and will therefore be welcome to scholars, as throwing light on this
class of ancient literature.
The ancient Armenian form of verse has, doubtless, its own national
peculiarities. One of its characteristics is that it consists of one
main idea expressed in two or more sentences, regularly connected with
one another. There are no complex sentences, only short simple ones,
and the manner of expression is direct and definite, but, in order that
they may not tire the ear by monotony, they are, by means of
parallelism, systematically interwoven so as to form one consistent
whole. Thus the different sentences become related to one leading
thought. The words are carefully chosen and harmonious to the ear.
Metaphor and allegory abound. In colour and splendour these songs might
vie with any classical poem, and their existence is a proof that long
before the Christian era the Armenians had a perfected poetical
language, which, in its construction, imaginative force, brilliancy,
and grammatical development, bears the impress of literary culture.
Most of the nouns and adjectives in this poem are in the diminutive
form, which expresses endearment:—
karmrik = reddish
achkunk = little eyes
egheknik = little reed
aregakunk = little suns
patanekik = little boy
The adjectives used here do not qualify the nouns, but simply serve as
epithets, or attributes, like the adjectives in the Homeric poems. The
Armenian word dzirani, [33] used in this poem, does not always mean
“red”; applied to a robe it means “red,” applied to a belt it
means “variegated”; it may originally have had the sense of
“pleasing” (cf. Russian krasni, which originally meant
“beautiful,” but now denotes only “red-coloured”).
Another of these extant songs, belonging to the time before the
Christian era, has, as its theme, the love story of King Artashes II.,
one of the greatest kings of the Arsacid dynasty. The former, as well
as all the other stories we have mentioned, belong to the Haikazian
dynasty, but the story of Artashes II. belongs to the Arsacid dynasty
and is contained in the second book of Moses of Khorene, the contents
of which are less legendary than those of the first book. When
narrating the story of Artashes, the historian addresses himself to
Sahak Bagratuni, by whose command his history was written, in these
terms:—
“The doings of Artashes are known to thee, through the epical songs
which are sung in the province of Goghtan; that is to say, his founding
of Artaxata (Artashat), [34] his alliance by marriage with the royal
house of the Alans, his sons and their descendants, the loves of
Satenik with the Vishapazuns (progeny of dragons) who were of the race
of Astyages; his wars with them, the overthrow of their dynasty, their
slaughter, the burning of their palaces, the rivalries of the sons of
Artashes, the intrigues of their wives, which further fomented the
discord amongst them. Although these things are well known to thee
through the epical songs, I will, nevertheless, narrate them again and
will explain their allegorical meaning.”
Then Moses of Khorene gives, in detail, a prose account of the deeds of
Artashes and his son Artavazd, as they are related in the epic of
Artashes, quoting, in the course of his narrative, the songs given in
this volume on pages 48 and 49.
Besides these songs, there are included in the history two or three
metrical lines, which must be extracts from the epic. One of these
lines contains the reply of the Alan king when he is asked to give his
daughter in marriage to Artashes: “From whence shall brave ...”
(see for the rest page 48, the last lines, in this volume). The same
poem contains a description of the wedding (see page 49 of this
volume).
We learn from ancient Armenian historians that weddings were times of
great festivity, especially royal weddings. All the people of the
country, old and young, were astir. In the great square they danced and
sang, hand in hand. There was a special kind of song sung on these
occasions, called “Tzutzk.”
The marriage of Satenik was unhappy, because, besides the Vishapazuns,
she loved Argavan, the chief of the Median prisoners, who was greatly
honoured by Artashes. Another of the verses quoted by Moses of Khorene
refers to this amour of Satenik. These lines throw some light on the
nature of ancient Armenian metre. We quote the text here:—
“Tencha Satenik tenchans
Zartakhoir khavart
Ev ztitz khavardzi
I bardzitzn Argavana.”
The sense of the passage is not very clear, as it contains two words
the signification of which is disputed. M. Emin holds that the meaning
of these two words is the same, both signifying “crown,” and he
interprets the line as saying that Satenik loves Argavan so dearly that
she would gladly exchange her royal crown for his princely diadem.
After much controversy among scholars, Professor Khalatian discovered
that, in one Armenian dialect, these words are the names of certain
plants, about which there was a superstition that, if they were put
under the pillow of the beloved being, and afterwards under the pillow
of the lover, mutual affection would be ensured; therefore, according
to Professor Khalatian, the passage means that Satenik was desirous of
getting these plants from under Argavan’s pillow.
In the time of Artashes science and poetry flourished.
One of the sons of this king, Vroir, was a poet; another was Artavazd,
who was disliked by the people. The poem says that, when the prince was
born, the Vishapazuns stole him, and substituted a devil in his place,
and it was this evil spirit that went by the name of Prince Artavazd.
In this poem, also, there is an account of the obsequies of Artashes,
which were celebrated with great splendour, for he was dearly beloved
by his subjects, many of whom committed suicide at his grave, not
caring to survive him. His son Artavazd, who was present, became very
jealous and uttered a complaint which Moses of Khorene gives in the
words of the epic (see page 65 of this volume).
We have omitted many other incidents of the story of Artashes, as given
by Moses of Khorene, but it may be gathered, from what we have of the
Artashes epic, that the whole poem was very lengthy.
From other sources we know that the poem was sung by minstrels as late
as the eleventh century, for the well-known scholar of that time,
Grigor Magistros, says in one of his writings that he has heard it, and
he quotes some of its lines in their original form.
Artashes died in a foreign country while engaged in a campaign. In his
last moments he is seized with home-sickness, as he remembers his
fatherland. He recalls the spring of life and of the year, when the
light of dewy morn, like a thin mist, is spreading over the towns and
villages. The poem gives his dying words:—
“Who will give me the smoke of the chimneys and the morn of Navasard, [35]
The running of the stag and the coursing of the deer?
We sounded the horn and beat the drum
As is the manner of kings.”
We have already said that Artashes was a popular king, much beloved by
his people, whose death was greatly lamented; this being so, no doubt
the Artashes epic must have contained some striking dirges, composed in
honour of this monarch, but unfortunately neither Moses of Khorene nor
Grigor Magistros records any such songs in connection with him. The
despair and melancholy which cast their shadow over pagans is
conspicuous in ancient Armenian funeral songs. There were companies of
professional mourners, called egheramark (“mothers of
lamentation”), also there were groups of singing maidens. All these
followed the corpse, dressed in black, with dishevelled hair, solemnly
clapping their hands and moving in a slow dance. Moses of Khorene gives
details of such obsequies as we have mentioned. Even now in some parts
of Armenia such companies of mourners exist. Faustus Byzand describes
minutely the funeral of a prince and gives also an account of the
funeral of Queen Tigranuhi, of whom we have already spoken, adding that
the songs sung in her praise, on this occasion, were such that Tigranes
felt that they uttered all that was passing in his own mind.
The subjects of funeral songs were the life of the deceased, his
stature, the manner of his death, and his domestic relations, so that a
collection of these songs would furnish a biography.
We have also details of these dirges from other sources. The song opens
with a prologue, addressing the deceased and calling on him to arise
from his slumbers and carry on his usual occupations. It then goes on
to rebuke him for being deaf to the prayers of the survivors and
vouchsafing neither word nor smile. Next comes a description of the new
dwelling that the departed has chosen for himself; the grave—an abode
without doors or windows. Then comes a repetition of the words spoken
by the dead man during his last illness, followed by a series of
laudatory epithets, and finally there is the recognition that all
prayers for his recovery have been unanswered, followed by an epilogue,
taking farewell of the deceased and sending messages by him to dead
relatives and friends.
We learn from Moses of Khorene that, in his time, besides the epics,
there was other pre-Christian Armenian literature, written and
unwritten, of various kinds. We have had examples of songs and epical
stories in their gradual development from the stage when man was weak
and ignorant, when the people sought after the supernatural and the
marvellous, and the subject of epic songs was the mystic relation
between nature and man, to the stage when the heroes are no longer
gods, but men endowed with valour and every other virtue, without spot
or flaw. The stories we have described are sufficient to prove that
Armenia had a large store of epic and heroic poems, of which unhappily
only fragments have come down to us.
Some specimens of other branches of pre-Christian literature figuring
in the list of Moses of Khorene are Temple Books and Histories of
Temples. Throughout ancient times members of the priestly class were
the chroniclers of the nation’s history and its instructors in
wisdom; and there is no doubt that this was the case in Armenia. We
know that the famous Gnosticos Bardazan, in the second century A.D.,
came to Armenia to collect material for his history, and in the
fortress of Ani he made extracts from the Temple History, which was a
chronicle of the doings of the Armenian kings.
Armenia had its own written histories which were, for the most part,
destroyed on the introduction of Christianity in the fourth century
A.D. Moses of Khorene mentions an Armenian historian named Ughup, who
was a priest presiding over the temple of Ani in 150 B.C.
To continue the list—we find Books of the Kings, containing
chronicles of kings and their works, and Collections of Historical
Songs, which were kept in the temples. These collections were in
existence in the fifth century A.D. Moses of Khorene gives extracts
from them and they were also sung by minstrels.
Tueliatz Songs recounted the doings of kings and princes in
chronological order, hence their name, Tueliatz, or chronicles.
There were also other species of literature, such as Historical
Legends, not included in the list, from which Moses of Khorene makes
quotations elsewhere, such as the History of the Origin of the
Bagratuni Race, the History of Haik, and four other books, without
titles, of which he speaks with great admiration.
There is mention of a poet, by name David, who wrote The Wars between
Armenia and Media, founding his narrative on Armenian minstrel songs.
Unfortunately, none of his works have come down to us.
There is also mention of an Armenian translation, from the Greek, of an
epic called Legends of Aramasdes and Hermia. Some scholars think that
this must be one of the lost books of Homer, as there are still extant
some fragments of an Armenian translation of the Homeric poems.
The Hindoos believed that originally dramas were invented by the gods
and were performed in heaven. They were brought to earth by Brahma and
introduced to men. Whether the ancient Armenians held a similar belief
we cannot tell, but it appears that they had, in early times, a drama
of their own. The themes of their plays were the doings of the gods of
the earth, but there is no record that in Armenia drama ever reached
such a high level as it attained in Greece. It may be noticed that,
though Persia, the neighbour of Armenia, was rich in lyric and epic
poetry, it produced no dramatic literature. It is true that, in
Mohammedan times, the Persians had a religious drama; but this merely
formed part of their worship and has never had an independent
development.
But the Armenians must have done better, as mention is made of Armenian
drama by Greek and Roman writers, from whom we learn that King Artavazd
I. [36] wrote tragedies, some of which were known to Plutarch. We also
learn from Plutarch and others that, in the time of Tigranes II., there
were theatres in Armenia, and Plutarch records that, when Lucullus
entered Tigranocerta, he found a body of actors busily engaged in
preparing to produce a drama in the theatre newly built by Tigranes,
and made use of them in the games and other public diversions in honour
of his victory. Armenian historians also make mention of the theatres
in Armenia. As late as the fifth century A.D., Hovhannes Mandakuni, a
religious author, wrote an essay against theatres and actors, which
shows that, even after the introduction of Christianity, drama survived
in Armenia.
At later periods, in Law Books, restrictions on theatres are mentioned.
In order to determine the date of the Heroic Poems, we must define the
different periods of Armenian history. It is now generally accepted by
scholars that, towards the end of the seventh century B.C., the Vannic
or Chaldean kingdom fell before the invading hordes of Cimmerians or
Scythians, and, during the period of anarchy, Armenians also entered
the country, which was henceforth to bear the name of “Armenia.”
The only uncertainty with regard to this migration is about the date.
It is universally agreed that it cannot have been later than the
seventh century B.C., though it may have been earlier. In the fifth
century B.C. Xenophon found Armenia an established kingdom under
Tigranes I. Vahe was the last of the Haikazian dynasty. He fell in the
war with Alexander the Great in 330 B.C.
The next Armenian dynasty was that of the Arsacidae, of which the first
king was Wagharshag I., whose reign began in 149 B.C.
All the epical songs that we have mentioned belong to the Haikazian
period, except the Artashes Cycle, which belongs to the Arsacid period.
During the 185 years between these two periods, there was no national
independence to supply themes for new epics and therefore there is no
heroic poetry belonging to this interval.
The second period of Armenian literature (before the establishment of
Christianity) extends from the accession of the Arsacid dynasty to the
fourth century A.D.
During this period, learning flourished and the libraries in the
temples and palaces were the centre of culture. The libraries in
palaces were open to any one who wished to consult the archives with a
view to writing histories of the countries, and in the temples the
priests were engaged in compiling records of the past. In these
libraries the histories of the Haikazian dynasty were kept. To this
period belongs the epic of Artashes.
Under the rule of the Arsacidae, the number of the nobles greatly
increased and the chief amusement of the king and the nobility was
sport. Nearly every noble had his own park, which was full of all kinds
of deer and in which special sporting parties were given. One of the
chief attractions of these parties was the minstrels who sang songs
specially composed for the occasion. As upwards of seventy families
were ennobled under the Arsacidae, and entertainments were given both
by them and by those of lower rank, it will be understood that the
number of minstrels must have been large.
As we have mentioned, to this period belongs the Artashes Cycle (A.D.
85–126).
We have also some evidence as to the date of the epics from foreign
sources. Armenian epics must have been known, not only in Armenia
itself, but in other countries. In migration, their form must sometimes
have changed, as, in Plato, we have found the legend of Ara transformed
into the story of Er. As the story of Ara was known to Plato, we may
take for granted that it existed in the fourth century B.C.
Strabo gives an erroneous etymology of the name “Armenia,” which he
derives from “Armenios.” [37] Perhaps he had heard of Aram, whose
story is told in the epics. This story is known to us through Moses of
Khorene, who derives the word “Armenia” from Aram, and says that
the country was called by this name only by foreigners. As to the
etymology of the word “Armenia,” there are many different opinions
which we cannot discuss here; we will only say that the name
“Armenia” is found in an inscription of Darius Hystaspes (510
B.C.).
We confine ourselves to one more foreign reference to Armenian epics,
viz., that of the philosopher Olympiodorus, who, in an assembly of wise
men at Athens, gave an account of an old book which had existed in
former times and which contained the history of Noah and his
descendants. He added that the incidents related in this book were
still sung by Armenian minstrels to the accompaniment of various
musical instruments.
We have frequently quoted Moses of Khorene, whose work contains all the
extant remains of the epics and all the information that has come down
to us with regard to these poems. In fact the first book of his
History, as well as the first nine chapters of Book II., consists of
summaries and quotations from epics, together with other legends. In
taking leave of the pre-Christian period of Armenia let us cast a
glance on this historian and his work.
Moses of Khorene was born some time between A.D. 404 and 408. He was
one of those young Armenians who were sent by the ecclesiastical
authorities to Greece for higher education. After completing his
studies, he worked in the libraries of Alexandria, Palestine, and other
places. On his return from Palestine, he was shipwrecked on the coast
of Italy; thence he went to Rome, Athens, and Byzantium, returning to
Armenia about 440. He found his benefactors dead, the Arsacid dynasty
extinct, and Christianity endangered by the Persians. It is said that
on his return he was so disappointed in both the clergy and the
laity—being especially grieved by the ignorance of the former—that
he retired into solitude and remained concealed for some time. It
happened that the Catholicos Gute, while travelling, alighted at a
certain village where he was entertained by the peasants, each of whom
made a short speech in his honour. An old man who was of the company
was urged also to say something. At first he excused himself on the
plea that he was a stranger, but, on being further pressed, to the
surprise of all present, he recited an impromptu ode greeting the
Catholicos and ended by disclosing his identity, proclaiming himself
Moses of Khorene. At first the Catholicos was incredulous, but, on a
careful examination of the old man’s features, he recognised him as
one of his former fellow-students, whereupon he burst into tears and
held him in a long embrace.
That day was one of great rejoicing in Armenia, and, soon after, Moses
became Bishop of Bagravand.
These Armenian students educated abroad were looked on askance by some
of the ignorant clergy, and, for this reason, some of the former used
to retire and study in seclusion. In his History, Moses of Khorene
inveighs bitterly against these illiterate priests.
Ghazar Pharpe says:—
“Moses, the philosopher of blessed memory, met with much opposition
and annoyance from the unlearned clergy, who called this enlightened
man a heretic, and in their ignorance found fault with his books,
besides performing many unfriendly acts towards him.”
After this passage, several pages of the manuscript are missing. The
next page we have begins:—
“They exhumed his bones from the grave and threw them into the
river.”
It is doubtful whether these words refer to Moses or to some one else.
Moses of Khorene attempted to write the history of two or three
thousand years, beginning with dark and unknown ages, weaving his
materials in such a way as to produce a vivid and life-like picture,
tinged with the colours of all the centuries which he depicts. He
writes in poetic language and his style is simple and picturesque.
Every event recorded by him becomes beautiful, noble, and great. There
is not a paragraph, not a sentence, which falls below the general level
of the work. The History is a marvellous panorama, which, as it
unfolds, fills us with ever fresh wonder and admiration. The story of
Tiridates is narrated in such a way as to draw tears from every reader
and—to use an Armenian expression—to make him feel as if the hairs
of his head had turned into thorns. He speaks with such warm admiration
of Tigranes that it might be thought he was speaking of a contemporary.
In the following passage he displays strong feeling, in reference to
one of his teachers whom he found dead on his return from abroad.
“Where is the calm of those gentle eyes, which to the just gave rest,
and inspired the guilty with awe?
“Where is the smile of his cheerful lips, as he met his pupils?
“Where is the hope that enlivened the tedium of weary journeys? that
gave repose in the midst of labour?
“How shall I write my tragedy? and who is there to weep at it?”
One sees by his writing that Moses was a man of strong character, with
firm principles, neither vacillating nor superficial. The reader is
profoundly impressed by his words; they sink deeply into him, pressing
like lead on a tablet, and casting him under the spell of the author.
This effect is due, in part, to his convincing power; it is impossible
not to realise what he records. His statements are concise; what others
would take pages to express, he conveys in a few words. In descriptive
powers he is unrivalled, not only among Armenians, but even as compared
with Greek and Roman historians. His graphic pictures of people and
places, together with his remarks and reflections and his frequent
quotations from the national epics, prove his historical skill and
literary taste.
In a word, as one reads him, one feels him to be a genius of the first
magnitude.
Moses of Khorene wrote his History at the request of Sahak Bagratuni, a
man of noble or princely birth. The History consists of three books.
Book I., as we have already said, is mainly based on national epics and
legends. Although these relate only to a few heroes, the treatment is
very elaborate.
Then comes the history of 180 years, over which he passes very lightly,
merely giving a list of names, with a few words added to each. This
shows that, for this period, he has not been able to find any material
in the native epics and songs.