Читать книгу: «Poems of Bedros Duryan», страница 4

7. IN MEMORIAM OF VARTAN LUTFIAN

 
OUR two devoted hearts were joined and bound
By streaming rays, with heaven’s own light aglow;
We read each other’s souls like open books,
Where ’neath each word lay depths of love and woe.
 
 
Dost thou remember, on Mount Chamlajà,
In the dark cypress shade where mourners sigh,
How we two mused, and watched the Bosphorus,
Stamboul’s blue girdle, and the cloudless sky?
 
 
We sat in silence; any uttered word
Would but have marred our souls’ infinity.
There like two flames we burned without a sound,
And shone upon each other, pale to see.
 
 
Like sad black moths that haunt the cypresses,
Our souls drank in the shadow and the gloom,
Drank endless sorrow, drank the dark-hued milk
Of hopelessness and of the silent tomb.
 
 
Deeply we drank, and long; but thou didst drain
The darksome cup that to thy lips was given,
Till thou wast drunken with it, and became
Thenceforth a pale and silent son of heaven.
 
 
Thy paleness grieved my soul; thy last faint look,
Turned on me ere thy spirit did depart,
Has fixed forevermore, O friend beloved,
The memory of thee in my aching heart.
 
 
Oh, art thou happy or unhappy there ?
Send me a message by an angel’s wing !
Tedious, alas! and weary is this world,
Mother of griefs and bitter sorrowing.
 
 
If in that world there is a shady tree.
And a clear brook that softly murmurs near;
If there are found affection and pure love,
If the soul breathes a free, fresh atmosphere —
 
 
This very day would I put off this life,
This poor soiled garment should to dust return.
Ah, Vartan, answer! In the unknown land,
Say, hast thou found the things for which I yearn?
 

8. SHE

 
WERE not the rose’s hue like that which glows
On her soft cheek, who would esteem the rose?
 
 
Were not the tints of heaven like those that lie
In her blue eyes, whose gaze would seek the sky ?
 
 
Were not the maiden innocent and fair,
How would men learn to turn to God in prayer ?
 

9. LITTLE GIFTS

 
SHE was alone. I brought a gift —
A rose, surpassing fair;
And when she took it from my hand
She blushed with pleasure there.
 
 
Compared with her, how poor and pale
The red rose seemed to be !
My gift was nothing to the kiss
My lady gave to me.
 

10. MY GRIEF

 
TO thirst with sacred longings,
And find the springs all dry,
And in my flower to fade, – not this
The grief for which I sigh.
 
 
Ere yet my cold, pale brow has been
Warmed by an ardent kiss,
To rest it on a couch of earth, —
My sorrow is not this.
 
 
Ere I embrace a live bouquet
Of beauty, smiles and fire,
The cold grave to embrace, – not this
Can bitter grief inspire.
 
 
Ere a sweet, dreamful sleep has lulled
My tempest-beaten brain,
To slumber in an earthy bed, —
Ah, this is not my pain.
 
 
My country is forlorn, a branch
Withered on life’s great tree ;
To die unknown, ere succoring her, —
This only grieveth me !