Читать книгу: «Poems of Bedros Duryan», страница 2

3. TO LOVE

 
A GALAXY of glances bright,
A sweet bouquet of smiles,
A crucible of melting words
Bewitched me with their wiles!
 
 
I wished to live retired, to love
The flowers and bosky glades,
The blue sky’s lights, the dew of morn,
The evening’s mists and shades;
 
 
To scan my destiny’s dark page,
In thought my hours employ,
And dwell in meditation deep
And visionary joy.
 
 
Then near me stirred a breath that seemed
A waft of Eden’s air,
The rustle of a maiden’s robe,
A tress of shining hair.
 
 
I sought to make a comrade dear
Of the transparent brook.
It holds no trace of memory ;
When in its depths I look,
 
 
I find there floating, clear and pale,
My face! Its waters hold
No other secret in their breast
Than wavelets manifold.
 
 
I heard a heart’s ethereal throb;
It whispered tenderly:
“ Dost thou desire a heart? ” it said.
“ Beloved, come to me! ”
 
 
I wished to love the zephyr soft
That breathes o’er fields of bloom;
It woundeth none, – a gentle soul
Whose secret is perfume.
 
 
So sweet it is, it has the power
To nurse a myriad dreams;
To mournful spirits, like the scent
Of paradise it seems.
 
 
Then from a sheaf of glowing flames
To me a whisper stole :
It murmured low, “ Dost thou desire
To worship a pure soul? ”
 
 
I wished to make the lyre alone
My heart’s companion still,
To know it as a loving friend,
And guide its chords at will.
 
 
But she drew near me, and I heard
A whisper soft and low:
“ Thy lyre is a cold heart,” she said,
“ Thy love is only woe.”
 
 
My spirit recognized her then;
She beauty was, and fire,
Pure as the stream, kind as the breeze,
And faithful as the lyre.
 
 
My soul, that from the path had erred,
Spread wide its wings to soar,
And bade the life of solitude
Farewell forevermore.
 
 
A galaxy of glances bright,
A sweet bouquet of smiles,
A crucible of melting words
Bewitched me with their wiles!
 

4. NEW DARK DAYS

 
THE centuries of bloodshed
Are past, those cruel years;
But there is still one country
Whose mountains drip with tears,
Whose river-banks are blood-stained,
Whose mourning loads the breeze, —
A land of dreary ruins,
Ashes, and cypress-trees.
 
 
No more for the Armenian
A twinkling star appears;
His spirit’s flowers have faded
Beneath a rain of tears.
Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth,
The dances hand in hand ;
Only the weapon of the Koord
Shines freely through the land.
 
 
The bride’s soft eyes are tearful,
Behind her tresses’ flow,
Lest the Koord’s shout should interrupt
Love’s whisper, sweet and low.
Red blood succeeds love’s rosy flush;
Slain shall the bridegroom be,
And by the dastard Koords the bride
Be led to slavery.
 
 
The peasant sows, but never reaps;
He hungers evermore;
He eats his bread in bitterness,
And tastes of anguish sore.
Lo! tears and blood together
Drop from his pallid face;
And these are our own brothers,
Of our own blood and race !
 
 
The forehead pure, the sacred veil
Of the Armenian maid,
Shall rude hands touch, and hell’s hot breath
Her innocence invade ?
They do it as men crush a flower,
By no compunction stirred;
They slaughter an Armenian
As they would kill a bird.
 
 
O roots of vengeance, heroes’ bones,
Who fell of old in fight,
Have ye all crumbled into dust,
Nor sent one shoot to light?
Oh, of that eagle nation
Now trampled by the Koord,
Is nothing left but black-hued crows,
And moles with eyes obscured?
 
 
Give back our sisters’ roses,
Our brothers who have died,
The crosses of our churches,
Our nation’s peace and pride !
O Sultan, we demand of thee
And with our hearts entreat —
Give us protection from the Koord,
Or arms his arms to meet!