BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE ARMeNIA: Poems translated by Alice S. BlackwellYou and I Let me be the lake, blue & calm, And you, fair maiden, with reluctant pride, In my clear face, you see your holy picture, Whose faint & delicate reflection I clash hold suck. Or on the border [may be] may there be a weeping willow, [To] And you come & lean on it, & the tree [be] flexible [&] let you fall into the lake, and live there forever [with] undulating dancing swaying with the waves. Let me be the woods, dark and waste large, And you sometimes come there to think all alone, and let me unexpectedly hear what your [say, unex] lips say, that always tremble. moving Or you sit down on the ground under a tree, with your [song clear] sweet voice sing a good clear song, and leaves & branches above, admiring astonished & shaking, come down on your head as adornment. Let me be the forehead face of the dark sky, & shake throw on you numerous stars, & whenthey come down, do not step on them, as the tears that fall from my eyes. Let me be the writer, and you the theme; I the heart & you the affection & feeling; I will be the bouquet and you the tie, and when you untie, my flowers will be scattered. Oh, let me be the [song, the] lover of the song, & you, my angel, be the lyre, & let [the] your chords vibrate under my rough unskilled fingers [feel] until your love [?] responds my heart. I would I were the lake, so blue & calm, And [you] thou fair maiden, with reluctant pride, Shouldst see thy picture, delicate and faint, Thy sacred holy image, in my depths abide. Or would that on the shore a willow grew, And thou shouldst mightst lean on it, and the frail tree Might let thee drop into the lake, and there Sway with its waters everlastingly! I would I were the forest, dark and wide, and that thou there mightst come to muse alone, And ere I knew it on a sudden I might overhear What thy lips murmur in an undertone. I would I were the dark face of the sky, That [ever] so from heaven I might shake down on thee A multitude of stars, as twere my tears; Ah, do not tread upon them [?] scornfully! Or would that thou mightst sit beneath a tree, Singing a pure sweet song; [be] and, leaf and bough, With admiration trembling, would descend And from a coronal to wreathe thy brow. May I the writer be, and thou the theme; Mayst thou affection be, and I the heart! I the [to] bouquet, and thou its silken cord; When thou art loosed, my flowers will fall apart.Ah, would I were a lover of sweet song, And thou my lyre, angel for whom I pine! And that thy chords, beneath my unskilled hands, Might vibrate till thy love responds to mine!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. Mountains and plains are wrapt in mist; The sweetly-sounding flute Of the Armenian shepherdess To-day is hushed and mute. Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth, The dances hand in hand; Only the weapon of the Kurd Shines freely through the land. The bride's soft eyes are tearful Behind her tresses' flow, Lest the Kurd's shout should interrupt Love's whisper soft and low. Red blood succeeds love's rosy flush; Slain shall the bridegroom be, And by the dastard Kurds 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 men are our 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 Kurd, Is nothing left but black-hued crows, And moles with eyes obscured? 3 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 our honor and the Kurd, Or arms his arms to meet!Hotel Aragon Atlanta, GA. Chas. F. Dodge, Manager. New Dark AgesThe centuries of bloodshed Are past, those cruel years, But there is still one country Whose mountains drip with tears Whose river-shores are bloodstained, Whose mourning does not cease -[loads the breeze] A country all of ruins [land of dreary] Ashes and cyprus trees. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The bones, those roots of vengeance, Of heroes long ago, [dead of old] To dust can they have crumbled Ere yet on[e] shoot [?] could grow? [*] Does thy heart beat no longer O motherland so pale? Have we so wholly fallen Before the Kurd we quail? A rusty sword, a tattered flag, If these are ours no more, Have we no longer even hearts That beat like those of yore? Mountains and plains are wrapt in mist; The sweetly sounding [f]lute Of the Armenian shepherdess Today is hushed and mute. The peasant sows but does not reap: He hungers evermore, He eats his bread in bitterness And tastes of sorrow sore, While tears of blood commingle[?] 2 Throw down his pallid fan; And these men are our brothers - Of our own blood & race! The forehead pure, the sacred veil Of the Armenian maid Shall dark rude hands touch, & hell's hot breath Her purity invade? They do it as men crush a flower, By no compunction stirred; They slaughter an Armenian, As they would kill a bird? Give back our sisters roses, Give back our brothers' lives, The crosses [from] of our churches, The honor of our wives! O Sultan, we demand of thee And with our hearts entreat; Give us our honor & the Kurd, {Ar??] his arms to meet! 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 & cypress trees. O roots of vengeance, heroes' bones Who fell of old in fight! Have ye [old] all crumbled into dust; Nor sent one shoot to light? Is thine heart dead within thee, O motherland so pale? Are we so wholly fallen Before the Kurd we quail? Mountains & plains are wrapt in mist; The sweetly-sounding flute Of the Armenian shepherdess Today is hushed & mute. No more for the Armenian A shining star appears; [The] His soul's flowers all [are] have faded Beneath a rain of tears;Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth, The dances hand in hand; Only the weapon of the Kurd Gleams freely through the land. The bride's soft eyes are tearful Behind her tresses' flow, Lest the Kurd's shout should interrupt Love's whisper soft & low. Red blood succeeds love's rosy flush; Slain shall the bridegroom be, And by the dastard Kurd the bride Be led to slavery. The peasant sows, but reaps not: He hungers evermore. He eats his bread in sorrow, And tastes of anguish sore. Lo! tears and blood together Drop from his pallid face. And these men are our brothers, Of our own blood and race! Armenian hearts, Armenian faces, Are trampled every day By the rough Kurd, who carries His gun in hand always. Oh, of that eagle nation Vow smitten by the Kurd, Is nothing left but black-hued crows, And moles with eyes obscured. The forehead pure, the sacred veil Of the Armenian maid Shall rude hands touch, and hell's hot breath Her purity invade? They do it as men crush a flower, By no compunction stirred; They slaughter an Armenian As they might kill a bird! Give back our sisters' roses, Our brothers who have died, The crosses of our churches, Our nation's weal peace and pride! O Sultan, we demand of thee And with our hearts entreat, Give us our honor and the Kurd, Or arms his arms to meet!New Dark Ages DourianRoses upon roses Budding forth in crowds On the high blue ether Snowy, shining clouds, Lightly, brightly, softly Spread before thy feet. In this hour [so tranquil] of calmness Wait thy face to greet Waits [for ?] in all native Aurora sweet! Radiant, Bright and pure she rises In her veil of white With her floating tresses Gleaming golden bright Spreading voids in rifflesBy the zephyrs [made] swayed And her [pearly furious] Opening half-displayed, Delicate Aurora, The celestial maid! On There her brow's bright jewels Glow in loveliness, And her joyous glances Heaven & earth caress; While her rose-life, brighter Than earth's blooming bowers, Smiling blithely, scatter Perfume sweet in showers, Making yet more fragrant many-colored flowers, Now the small birds twitter Mid the leaves so green, Blending with their rustle; Hail, O Dawn serene! Hail! Thou changest darkness Into sunlight free; The sad earth thou makest Glad & full of glee; every living [creature] being Cries All hail to thee! To thee each [ ] offers Its first gift in love, Tenderest gift & holiest; Cloud that floats above, Zephyr, crystal streamlet, Flowers & nightingale, All with love are melted, Praise thee, bid thee hail, Heavenly maiden, lovely In the silvery veil! Thou our hearts that charmest Now with such delight, Leave us not forsaken In the grave's dark night! When [my] mine eyes close dimly, Let it beam & shine Sill before my soul's eyes, That sweet light of thine, Full of hope and promise, Dawn thou maid divine!Dawn Nar BeyIn voice thundering on heights Down the field of Ararat The blood of the brave hailing in [firing] indignation The call of fatherland is sounding everywhere The souls of Armenians are afire Who wait for the heavenly crowd Who are the divine glory on earth On! the children of the brave Armenians, [revengeful] for the fatherland. On! to arms in multitudes in dancing throbbing hearts to arms to [revenge] forwardNor left nor right On to arms to avenge Armenian trumpet's call to manVictor L'anglais (Translation from armenian books) Worthy of its heritage Who does not seek the excellence (or virtues) of his fathers Then, zealous of our ancient predecessors Let us gird[le] ourselves for usefulness in word & deed Let us do away (or shake off) with foreign [babblers] And has Haig's bright mind & soul So then, Ardent brothers Let us possess Arm. soul. Brothers, let hand to hand & heart to heart be pressed. Toward one aim let us move Let [*touch*] fiery life beget, united And one [*common*] pulse in the [*minds*] hearts of all. Let us open & bring out (forth)From tombs and monuments The glorious heritage of our immortal father To show to nations our, ancestor of [f?] And to our ancestor that [?] are worthy sons Lo then ardent brother Let us possess Arm. heart (3rd page) [ next paragraph scribbled out] 3 Ye patriots, go to the arena and declare "Here me, o children of great Armenians Now Armenia will through us rise And take off her veil of disgrace (reproach) We will endeavor into death-- O. Armenia do not sit silent and hidden To make thy name illustrious among nations, Loyal to thee until the end of our lives Lo then ardent brothers Long live Arms. nation.The Lake 4 Speak o Lake! Why art thou silent? Will thou not bewail with me unfortunate? Move ye zephyrs the rippling waves, Mix my tears with their water! This last one is the first verse of the only poem written by our greatest historian- novelist. His name and the association of the lake Van on the shore of which it was written have made is one of the most popular songs perhaps more than it deserved.Little Lake, thou art my queen, for even when the breeze produces ripples on thy surface, thou still keepest me trembling in thy stirred depth. Many have rejected me: “He has only a lyre,” said they. One said: "He trembles; he has no color.” Another said: “He is dying.” No one said, “Poor child, why does he waste away thus? If I love him, perhaps he will become beautiful, and not die.” No one said, “let us open the sad heart of this child, to see all that is written in it” Here is a fire, not a book! Here are ashes! A remembrance! Let thy waves become agitated, little lake, for a man in despair Has gazed with anguish into thy depths! Thou art my queen, O little lake! For e’en when ripples thrill Thy surface, in thy quivering depths Thou hold’st mine image still. Full many have rejected me: “What has he but his lyre?” “A child— a trembling, wan-faced boy, Whose life must soon expire!” None said, “Poor child, why pains he thus? If he beloved should be, Haply he might not die, but live— Live, and grow fair to see!” None sought the child’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![?] wit[?] [?]t res [?]er u[?] [?]s [?]ss a[?] [?]here the a[?] are [still] [?] louds se[?] [?]ro shou[?] [?]rt my qu[?] lake, [?] when [?]urface in depths hold'st [the] still. [?]ramm[?] fra[?] has he but [[?] a child] [[?] ables + l [?]] [[?]ra[?]e -] [[?]e must A child - [?] [?]d on me [?] fac[?]y chap[?] has the [?] The Lake Little lake, why are thy waves astonished, + why do they not leap? Is it because a fair woman has gazed wistfully into thy mirror? Or is it because thy waves admire the azure of heaven, and those shining clouds which resemble thy foam? My melancholy little lake, let us be friends together. I, too, like to collect my thoughts and meditate in silence. My forehead contains as many thoughts as thou hast waves; my heart has as numerous wounds as thou hast flakes of foam. But if the constellations of heaven were all of them to fall into thy bosom, thou wouldst not yet resemble my soul, which is an immense flame. There, the stars do not die, the flowers do not fade, the clouds do not moisten, when you are calm, the air and thou. 1. Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise, Thou little lonely mere? Did some fair woman wistfully Gaze in thy mirror clear? 2. Or are they waters calm and mute Admiring the blue sky, Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, Are drifting softly by? 3. Sad little lake, let us be friends! I too am desolate; I too would fain, beneath the sky, In silence meditate. 4. 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. 5. But if heaven's constellations all Should drop into thy breast, Thou still wouldst not be like my soul- A flame-sea without rest! 6. There, when the air and thou are calm, The clouds let fall no showers; The stars that rise there set no more, And fadeless are the flowers.surprise n hushed re? n wistfully or clear? & writes .sky its, like by? s be friends! te, beneath tate, re in roam; s are in kes of foam. [? ] all thy breast, be like nightThe Lake Bedros Tourian Prof. Telieray Listen also to an admirable poem published by Bedros Tourian shortly before his death, when he was scarcely twenty and knew himself to be suffering of an incurable pulmonary disease: -- Little lake, why are thy waves astonished and do they not leap? Is it because a fair woman has wistfully gazed into thy mirror? Or is it because thy waves admire the azure of Heaven and these shining clouds which resemble thy foam? My melancholy little lake, let us be friends together. I, too, like to collect my thoughts and meditate in silence. My forehead contains as many thoughts as thou hast waves; my heart has as numerous wounds as thou hast flakes of foam. But if the constellations of Heaven were to fall all of them into thy bosom, thou wouldst not yet resemble my soul which is an immense flame.2 There, the stars do not die, the flowers do not fade, the clouds do not [wet] moisten, when you are calm, the air and there. Little lake, thou art my queen, for even when the freeze produces ripples on thy surface, then once keepest me trembling in thy [?ti??] [??????] d[e]epth [foam]. Many have rejected me saying: "He has only a lyre," said they. One said: "He trembles; he has no colour!" Another said: "He is dying." No one said: "Poor child, why does he waste away thus? If I love him, perhaps he will become beautiful, and not die." No one said: "Let us open the sad heart of this child, [??] see all that is written in it...." -- Here [there] is a fire, not a book. Here are ashes! a remembrance! Let thy waves become agitated, little lake for [in thy] [depths] a man in despair has gazed with an- guish into thy depth!... (Bedros Tourian) The first female martyr Santankhd I By Khoren Nar-bey Lousinian Armenian maiden, Lilies and roses Take with bunches and carry for devotion to your queen Santankhd She herself was a maiden as you, Her eyes sweet as the hope; Her forehead beamy (radiant, brilliant) as the moon, Her cheeks inflamed as the blooming rose; With marble white neck golden hair, And [ ?]-beauty stature she walks; Like you she herself (is) delicate (tender), Kindled (ardent, burning) heart’s sweet desire. Armenian maidens, etc. Gold byssus veil on her head, When she walked (promenade) in the kingly garden (park) There was [no?] one flower (pretty) handsome colored And as her inflame in essence (odor), And when in a (cheerful, serene, clear bright spring night She fixes her bright pupil to the skies,[2] The brilliant (darling) venus (evening or morning star) would blush on presence in the light of that burning (fire dropping) eyes. Armenian Maiden etc. Armenian mother would say, "we don't envy our queen for her crown, but because she has a daughter on this." And the Armenian father would say "What a fortune (luck) is for our king. Rome and Armenia together (united). Do not worth (equal) this miraculous beauty treasure." Armenian maiden etc. But she under her tender feet Hit and trampled the treasure and the crown; Oh! no these are not worthy of Santoukhd's Heart's worthy desire. Her pure heart and eyes the need of heaven have turned upward. Which heart in the earth, which young man Is worthy to the heart of that maiden? Armenian maiden etc. The father of the maiden troubled. [3] And much tears shed her mother. "Do not say so (that) lovely (darling) girl Do not run away from the baron of your father & mother ; If you want golden necklaces, Let us bring for you the gold of all the world. If Metrpin (a city, nearest name is Nirib) is small for you as royal palace, Let us present you the whole Armenia. Armenian maiden etc. -"Give me for a palace that dark prison Where noble Thadeus stays in chains. For use as necklaces and bracelets I ask of you the iron chains of his (Thadeus) If you even give me the world it is too little My heart asks as present the heaven." She wailed and left the lap of her unhopeful (despaired) mother. And ran into prison that tender delicate maiden. Armenian maiden etc. Part II & III are 8 and 12 stanza respectively four line each stanza. In several places of them is mentioned the bridegroom etc. as in that of Alishaus.Poem on Santoukht Nar-BeyTo Huntchag Though sojourning in a distant land Thou art aware of the fate of fatherland Valiant preacher of Sublime new principles The signal-bell of revolution, Huntchag! From seeds of new ideas sown by thee, Noble fruits are fast ripening, Through thee in Erzroom and Stambool Were born the first thundering movements, Huntchag! Base tyrant, the oppressor of Armenia, Aid himself frightened under the golden throne. The cabinets of deaf Europe resounded, Armenians were stirred, and reddened Huntchag Behold the new fruits of thy seeds Are being ripened like blood The sacred hour of life and death is approaching We are waiting for thy red call, Huntchag!Poem, Huntchag Ring thy bell, ring on with vigor. Let the Armenians rise from end to end Let the heavy chains be shattered, and the new sun rise. Until "We are free" shall sound the golden Huntchag By Mihran DamadianMountains + [???s] are blighted, parched & dry; July's hot sun burns down with scorching breath; Thirst & grim fear have fallen on the world, Bodings of agony & coming darksome death. Nature is sad, the cricket's flute is hushed. [The] Amid the arid waste of yonder field, All desolate & parched, a poor flower sways.[?hose] petals [???] some [frag???] sweet can yield. But it already feels its death draw near. Imploringly it gazes toward the sky, Where, beautiful amid the lovely vault, A wandering cloud is floating slowly by, Drifting like wreckage from a sunken ship Across the vast plain of the ocean driven White as a [w?] swelled [?] & full of pride, The lonely cloudlet walked the pallid heaven, The flower said, "little cloud, in mercy stay, And of the dew that always [?] thy Give but a drop to sprinkle my young stalks! Be fruitful, and pause at my behest! "One drop will be enough for my brief life, I in return will give thee my perfume sweet Stay! Do not pass me by, unpitying than cruel one! Hear how I pray thee fainting in the heat![?ut] haughtily [?] [?loud] refused to lend even its shade to the thirsty flower, which, drooping low its pale, discouraged head, withered away, slow fading hour by hour, And all the plants around it, in like woe, stood Were scorched & burning, dusty, pale & dry Their thin, frail branches, parched & withering, Rustled, & faintly breathed a hopeless sigh. [Still] [Haughity] & pitiless the cloud sailed on, Widened & swelled with in pride oer all beneath, And glowed with red & yellow lines like rust, On all the earth reigned silence as of death the poor flowers lamentation & complaint The heavens heard, and pierced the haughty cloud [wit] from [?] side with flashes [?] keen fire, While angry thunder sounded deep & loud, By zig zag lightnings & firece thunder claps, Lo, the vainglorious cloud was rent & torn, Its fragments spread before the burning sun, Shadowing the world all thirsty + forlorn. Anon, like teardrops of [from] the humbled cloud, Warm drops of rain fell, watering the dry earth. Beneath that shower, the pale flower of the field Drank in fresh life & knew a second birth. He who before was high & arrogant And found the heavens too small Now at the [?] for his desire of the reviving flower, [?] why brook in mud & [?]Cloud & the Flower AdamianCradle Song Patkamian 14 syls Cradle Song (probably an imitation from [translation] Lermontoff) Patkamian Awake, my dear boy! Open those bright eyes! Throw down from thine eye-lids sleep! Rest on thy mother's bosom. Enough! how long the good angels told thee tales in dream Now come, I will tell thee what thou art to see in the world. 8 Syls Awake, little one! how long wilt thou sleep? Open thy beautiful eyes Where thy mother sees her fate, glory, life, & sun Thou shalt grow up, shalt get a tall figure I love (May sacrifice myself to thy plane-tres figure!)14 [2] The ghosts of the heroes of Massis will give power to thee, That thou mightst be brave (as) Vartan. I have sewed [*wrought*] a golden girdle for thy waist with my fingers, I will hang a sword to thy girdle, which I have sharpened myself. Also. A [*The] horse is standing in our yard, Which waits for you impa- tiently. Awaken, little boy, how long will you sleep? Take thy death bringing sword. Thy Armenian nation is sobbing, hands & feet fettered. Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one, 3 Why Only thou art sleeping. No, my son will get up soon, will mount his champing steed [**horse**] He will wipe away the tears of [*the*] Armenia. Wait a little my Agassi Tied his awoke girdle. No, my son will awake soon, Will mount his champing steed, Will wipe away the tears of Armenia, Will cause to cease the wailing cry & mourning. Armenian brethren, wait yet a little! My Agassi awake, tied his girdle, hung his sword (to it) and mounted his steed.Cradle Song Patkamian Awake my darling! Open those bright eyes, dark & deep, And scatter from thine eye lids the heavy shades of sleep! Sweet tales the angels long enough in dream have told to thee. Now I will tell thee of the things thou in the world shalt [*wilt*] see. Awake! how long wilt thou sleep on, my child, my little one? Ope thy fair eyes! thy mother sees therein her life, her sun. The heroes of Mt Ararat, their ghosts shall strengthen thee With power & might, that there as brave as Vartan's self may be.A golden girdle for thy waist my fingers deft have made, And from it I will hang a sword - my own hands ground the blade. Within our courtyard stands a horse that, chomping, waits for thee. Awake, my son, & take thy sword! How long shall slumber be? Thy nation is in bondage ; in felters, lo, they weep. Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one ; will thou sleep? Thou shalt grow up, grow straight & tall, as rises in the air. A stately plain-tree ; how I love thy stature tall and fair! No, soon my son will waken, will mount his chomping steed, Will wipe away Armenia's tears, & staunch the hearts that bleed, Will bid his nation's mourning cease, & those who weep shall smile. Ah, my Armenian brethren wait yet a little while! Lo, my Agassi woke from sleep, & girt himself with speed, and from his sword belt hung the sword, & mounted on his steed.Cradle Song Patkanian Armenian Cradle-Song. For the Times-Democrat. (From the Armenian of Raphael Patkanian) Awake, my darling! Open those bright eyes, dark and deep, And scatter from thine eye-lids the heavy shades of sleep! Sweet tales the angels long enough in dreams have told to thee; Now I will tell thee of the things thou in the world shalt see. Chorus. Awake, and ope thy beauteous eyes, my child, my little one! Thy mother sees therein her life, her glory and her sun. Thou shalt grow up, grow tall and strong, as rises in the air A stately plane-tree; how I love thy stature tall and fair! The heroes of Mt. Ararat, their2 ghosts shall strengthen thee With power and might, that thou as brave as Vartan's * self mayst be. A golden girdle for thy waist my fingers deft have made, And from it I will hang a sword-- my own hands ground the blade. Chorus. Within our courtyard stands a steed that, champing, waits for thee. Awake, and take thy sword! How long wilt thou a slumberer be? Thy nation is in misery; bound hand and foot, they weep; Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one; wilt thou sleep? Chorus. * The national hero of the Armenians, who commanded their forces [during] at the time of the invasion of the Persian fire- worshippers, in 451 A.D. The mountaineers of the Caucasus still drink his health at their festivals. 3 No, soon my son will waken, will mount his champing steed, Will wipe away Armenia's tears, and stanch the hearts that bleed; Will bid his nation's mourning [cease,] cease, and those who weep to smile. Ah, my Armenian brethren, wait yet a little while! Lo, my Aghassi woke from sleep! He girt himself with speed, And [from] to his sword belt hung the sword, and sprang upon his steed. Alice Stone Blackwell. {Dorchester, Mass.]Cradle Song. Awake, my darling! Open those bright eyes, dark and deep, And scatter from thine eye-lids the heavy shades of sleep! Sweet tales the angels long enough in dreams have told to thee; Now I will tell thee of the things thou in the world shalt see. Chorus. Awake, and ope they beauteous eyes, my child, my little one! Thy mother sees therein her life, her glory and her sun. Thou shalt grow up, grow strong and tall, as rises in the air A stately plane-tree; how I love thy stature tall and fair! The heroes of Mt. Ararat, their ghosts shall strengthen thee With power and might, that thou as brave as Vartan's self may'st be. A golden girdle for thy waistOFFICE OF The Woman's Journal, No. 3 Park Street. Boston, 189 2 my fingers deft have made, And from it I have hung a sword-my own hands ground the blade. Within our court-yard stands a steed that, champing, waits for thee, Awake, and take they sword! How long wilt thou a slumberer be? Thy nation is in misery, in fetters, lo, they weep; Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one; wilt thou sleep? No, soon my son will waken, will mount his champing steed, Will wipe away Armenia's tears, and staunch the hearts that bleed, Will bid his nation's mourning cease, and those that weep shall smile, Ah, my Armenian brethren, wait but a little while! Lo, my Aghassi has awaked! He girt himself with speed, And from his sword-belt hung the sword, and mounted on his steed.Cradle song 3 Come my nightingale, leave our garden, Bring sleep with thy songs to the eyes of my child, But he cries, do not come my nightingale. My child does to like to be a chorister.1st verses of songs DamgagianCradle Song-- Come my nightingale Leave [let] our gardens [bring] [sleep] Bring sleep to my boy with thy songs But he weeps. Thou nightingale, come not. My son wishes not to be a priest. [The jackdaw] O thievish [jackdaw] [jackdaw] and clever [for] jackdaw, with thy telling of (interest, gold, money) bring sleep to my boy. But he weeps. Do not come. My son wishes not to become a merchant.Come, O (wild) dove, leave [let] thy field & meadows; with sorrowful song bring my boy sweet sleep. But no, dove, do not come. My son does not wish to be a mourner. [Lay thy hand] Leave [Let] thy hunt, brave- hearted falcon, perhaps my son wishes [to] thy song. When the falcon came, my son became silent. He slept with the sounds of the war. The Armenian Girl. Hast thou seen in the sky shining the bright moon? or in the green garden the rosy apricots [?] shimmer?