Blackwell Family Subject File Armenia: Poems Translated By Alice Stone Blackwell (Printed Blackwell, Alice Stone2 Dec 9/16 THE EVENING POST: NEW YORK Lyric Armenia Poetic Expression of a Persecuted People ARMENIAN POEMS. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. Boston: Robert Chambers. $1.50. The pity which the fate of the unhappy Armenians has inspired in the Anglo-Saxon world will take on a keener edge from reading this volume of poems. Its lyrics, some of which have appeared before in a book of hers now out of print, have been rendered by Miss Blackwell from literal translations in prose into fluent and melodious verse, whose skillful expression aptly conveys the fire and the grace of the original lines. Written in the main within the last century, when the persecuted Armenian people were suffering only less sorely than to-day, they reflect in vivid manner the idealistic temper of a race too generally known for its practical qualities alone. The treatment of their dominant motives, devotion to country, and love of nature, reveals the poetic genius of the nation as one of passionate intensity of purpose and loftiness of soul, together with tenderness of feeling and delicacy of fancy. The nature poetry here collected, in the main subjective rather than speculative or merely descriptive, is touched by a wistfulness of mood that makes gentle appeal, as, for example, in the following stanzas from Bedros Tourian's "Little Lake": Why does 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 will wouldst not be like my soul, A flame-sea without rest. In the patriotic verse, which is tantamount to saying in the greater part of the collection, there breathes a virile and exalted, if melancholy, spirit. Its despair takes lyric expression that recalls the outpourings of the English poets in singing the woes of Greece, as in Tourian's "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. Purity of thought and restraint of expression mark the rather scant love-poetry, and there is grace in such verse as that of the "Cradle Song," by Raphael Patkanian, Armenia's most popular poet, the first stanza of which follows: 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. Richness of imagery and simplicity and vigor of thought, together with tenderness of sentiment, are perhaps the most marked characteristics of these poems as a whole. All in all, they are a pleasing revelation of the qualities of a literature that, except for Miss Blackwell's earlier translations, has found practically no interpretation in English, not withstanding the fact that, although having its roots in the past, it is plastic and vital to-day. The volume, which is privately published, is sold for the benefit of the Armenian Relief Fund. THE FLUTE. [From the Armenian of Siamanto.] I was alone with my pure-winged dream, in the valleys my sires had trod; My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, and my heart with joy was thrilled; I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days; Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled. Basket on basket, the Summer rich present- ed her fruit to me, From my garden's trees-each kind of fruit that to our clime belongs; And then from a willow's body slim, melodi- ous, beautiful, A branch from my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs. I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home. And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days, And the gentle breeze and airs of dawn like my sister's soft embrace, United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays. To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more, I took you in my hand; You felt to my lips like a kiss-a kiss from the days of long ago. But when those memories old revived, then strangthway failed my breath, And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Chilmark, July 17, 1911. Armenian Poems THE LONGING LETTER. [From the Armenian Daniel Varoujan.] My mother writes: "My son on pilgrimage, How long beneath a strange moon will you roam? How long a time must pass ere your poor head To my warm bosom I may press, at home? "Oh long enough upon strange stairs have tred Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day- Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once, Far from my empty heart has pined away! "My arms are weary at the spinning wheel; I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow, Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again, Then close forever, with my heart below! "Always I sit in sadness at my door, And tidings ask from every crane that flies. That willow slip you planted long ago Has grown till over me its shadow lies. "I wait in vain for your return at eve. All the brave fellows of the village pass; The laborer goes by, the sturdy herd- I with the moon am left alone, alas! "My house is left without a head. Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer Of my own hearth I yearn. A turtle I, Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere! "Oh come, my son, your ancient home restore! They burst the door, they swept the larders bare. Now all the swallows of the spring come in, Through shattered windows, open to the air. "Of all the goodly flocks of long ago One brave ram only in our stable stands. His mother once-remember, little son!- While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands. "Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now, To nourish his rich djak,* of noble size; I comb his soft fleece with a wooden comb; He is a dear and precious sacrifice. "When you come back, his head with roses wreatherd, He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet; And in his blood, my well-beloved son, I then will wash my pilgrim's weary feet." *A large mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed instead of a tail. Record, Oct, 11, 1915 New Dark Days From the Armenian of Bedros Tourian. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. Tourian, one of the best Armenian poets, was the son of a blacksmith at Scutari. He died of consumption in 1872, at the age of 20. When this poem was written, it was against the law for Christians in Turkey to possess any weapons, although their oppressors were fully armed. The situation today is a thousand times worse than it was then. 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 fights, 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! SAD SNOW (From the Armenian, Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell.) What are thou, O thou light and fleecy snow? A flower, a coverlet, a winding sheet? That o'er Armenia's plains thou spreadest far, Unfolded white and wide, the sky to meet? Or art thou a white dove from Paradise, That, when it saw the Holy Virgin there, Shook down the snowy feathers from its wings To form a scarf upon her shoulders bare? Or cam'st thou from the angels up above, Who sometimes seek their future fate to know, Playing on high, "To die or not to die?"* With roses white, whose petals drift below? Or art thou downy cotton or soft wool That the north wind upon Armenia sheds, A pure and restful pillow to become Beneath our martyred sires' and brothers' heads? If 'tis a feathery scarf thou art, O snow! Be swaddling bands and cradle soft as silk To children small who perished at their birth, Ere they had tasted of their mothers' milk! If thou art rose-leaves, pure and stainless snow, Oh, then bud forth, a fresh and dewy wreath, Upon the lowly and forsaken mounds Where slim Armenian maidens sleep in death! O mournful snow, fall thick and heavily And cover mount and valley, rock and plain! Cover the graves, that through the days to come Unbroken the sweet slumber may remain. Of those who for their nation and the cross, Now and forever, silent and alone, In hope of immortality in heaven, Repose in death, with no memorial stone! *The Armenians play "To die or not to die?" with the flower petals, as we play "He loves me, he loves me not." ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Dorchester, March 30, 1914. The Sad Faced Moon From the Armenian of Raphael Patanian. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. (Patkanian, the most popular of Armenian poets, was born in in 1830 and died in 1892. Though written many years ago, this poem might have been called out by the present situation in Armenia). O moon, fair moon, how long wilt thou appear So pale, so mournful in the heavens' height? Have the dark storm-clouds filled thee with alarm, Or fiery lightnings, flashing through the night? There is none like to thee among the stars; The only beauty of the heavens thou art. Hast thou grown pale with envy? Nay, O moon, Thou hast some other secret in thine heart. Why is thy countenance thus changed and sad? Speak to me freely! On the darkest day, If we but find a sympathizing friend, 'Tis said that half our grief will pass away. The mourner is the mourner's comforter. Where wilt thou find a sadder man than I, Forsaken and in sorrow, and, like thee, Hiding a secret, without word or cry? I pass my days in grief, gay amongst men, Weeping in solitude, my salt tears flow. My sad sighs sound forever, without rest; I have no sympathizer in my woe. Yet every living creature has a friend: Shall I alone lack love and friendship? Nay, Open thine heart to me! If thou art sad, My sympathy will charm thy grief away. (THE MOON SPEAKS) Hearken! One night innumerable stars Filled the blue sky. Among them, like a bride, I glided softly, with my bright face velled, I passed o'er Pontus, bathing in its tide. I touched the summits of the Caucasus: I saw in Lake Sevan my mirrored face; I came to great Lake Van, of fishes full, And cooled me in its waves a little space. O'er many mountains, many fields I passed, Shedding my light: o'er all reigned silence deep. Amid his cattle in the quiet field The weary farmer lay in peaceful sleep. Ah, fair Armenia on that night was blest! The stars of heaven made her more glorious still; And I, slow passing o'er her through the skies, Gazed on that land, and could not gage my fill. In one short month, my circuit I renewed, O'er cities, mountains, lakes, I passed in haste. Longing to visit the Armenian land. Night had again her fruitful fields embraced. But oh! where were the bounteous harvests now? Where was the tireless tiller of the soil? Where was his little thick-necked buffalo? Where were the gardens, product of his toil? Dark smoke had covered the Armenian sky; Cities and hamlets, burning, crashed and fell; Fierce tongues of flame reached even to the clouds; To see Armenia was to gaze on hell! Armenia, garden wet with heavenly dew, Whence came this mighty woe, at whose behest? Did jealousy possess his evil heart? Had in his soul a serpent made its nest? Yes, it was age-long jealousy and hate. That, smoldering deep consume man's heart away, Until at last, with fierce and thundering sound, The hidden fires break forth, to scorch and slay. Like a mountain, still and calm without, On which the smooth snow all unmelted sleeps; Then sudden lightnings form its breast are born, And o'er whole cities fiery ruin sweeps. O fair Armenian land! Armenian race! O happy places, ruined now and void! Hamlets and cornfields, cloisters, teeming towns! Where are you? Why were you so soon destroyed? _ The moon was silent. And the dark clouds came And hid the sky; she passed behind a cloud; And I was left alone and sorrowful, Musing with folded arms and forehead bowed. And ever since that time, when evening comes, I wait the pale moon's rising, calm and slow; And as I gaze upon her mournful face I think upon my nation and its woe.VOL II. THE STRATFORD JOURNAL No. 2 THE STRATFORD JOURNAL An International Magazine VOL II. FEBRUARY, 1918 No. 2 IN THIS ISSUE RUSSIAN STORIES I Carelessness . . . . . . . by Anton Chekhov II Overspiced Translated by Henry T. Schnittkind A GARDLAND OF ARMENIAN VERSE She by Bedros Tourian The New Generation by Raphael Patkanian Thirst by Siamanto Alms by Daniel Varoujan When Some Day by Hovhannes Toumanian The Lamenting Soldier by M. C. Hairig The Snow by A. D. Mahdesian Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell AMERICAN AUTHORS Fog at Sea, A Poem by Leonora Speyer In the Open Code, A Story by Burton Kline ITALIAN DRAMA The Rights of the Soul by Giuseppe Giacosa Translated by Isaac Goldberg VIEWS AND REVIEWS Rhythmus, Rhapsody, and Rubbish The Yiddish Novel Published Monthly THE STRATFORD COMPANY, Publishers Boston, Massachusetts 25 Cents a Copy . . . . . . . . . $3.00 a Year Entered as second-class matter January 6, 1917 at the post office at Boston, Mass. under the Act of March 3, 1879.ENIA 71 treasurer, and the Rev. Stephen Trowbridge, secretary, was at once formed to give further help. "Mr. Trowbridge is a Princeton graduate and was formerly pastor of St. Paul's Congregational Church of Brooklyn. He is a gentleman of unusual charm and power, and I have no doubt that some friends of interested readers would like to assist him in this work, for despite the help given, more is needed, especially proper food for infants, soap and towels, clothing and tools of all sorts and money. This valiant and courageous band of Armenians who so successfully routed the enemy should have a little help from the States, and contributions may be sent to Mr. Trowbridge direct. Address the Rev. Stephen Trowbridge, American Relief Committee, 5 Sharia Imad-id-din, Cairo, Egypt." * * * Sig. Philip Bennyan, the phenomenal and newly discovered baritone, a "prodigy" pupil of the world- renowned Maestro Fernando Tanara, who has been the instructor of operatic celebrities, gave a notable concert at Aeolian Hall, New York, on Saturday evening, January 8. He was assisted by Miss Mildred Dilling, a charming and gifted harpist. Half of the proceeds from the concert were donated for the benefit of the Armenian refugees. ____ Dawn From the Armenian of Archbishop Khorene Nar Bey Roses upon roses Spread in sheets below, In the high blue ether Clouds that shine like snow, Lightly, brightly, softly, Spread before thy feet, In this tranquil season Wait thy face to greet; Waits in hope all nature O Aurora sweet! Radiant, pure she rises, In her veil of white, With her floating tresses Gleaming golden bright, Spreading wide in ripples By the zephyrs swayed, And her pearly pinions Opening, half displayed-- Gracious, fair Aurora, The celestial maid. On her brow bright jewels Glow in loveliness, And her joyous glances Heaven and earth caress; While her rose-lips, brighter Than earth's blooming bowers, Smiling blithely, scatter Perfume sweet in showers, Making yet more fragrant Many-colored flowers. The Nightingale of Avarair (From the Armenian of Father Leo Alishan) Trans. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. WHENCE dost thou come, O moon, so calmly and softly, Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain thy light, And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly, With wandering thoughts, in Avarair to-night? Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers Fell as giants, as angels to rise anew, Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a cover Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue? Or dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already, Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well? Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell, Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness, And giving his spirit into the hands of God? And thou, O River Deghmoud, thou flowest lamenting Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood. And thou, O wind from Manguran's upland blowing, Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar, Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest, On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er. From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting, Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine, To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine. Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses, Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are sighing! Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that hillock, Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying! Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and thrilled me; My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie grave, Suddenly bounded and throbbed; from the cross I hastened to seek thee -- Came forth and found thee here, on the field of Vartan the brave. Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers have told us: That Avarair's nightingale, singing so sweetly at daylight's dim close, Is not a bird, but a soul,-- it is Eghiche's sweet-voiced spirit, That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red-blooming rose. In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of the desert; In spring comes to Avarair, to the bush with roses aflame, To sing and to call aloud, with Eghiche's voice, upon Vartan, To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when called by his name. If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary, Sons of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears,-- Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former years,-- If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain, The fout of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea,-- If you would that your country's glories for you be written, Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with me.The Lullaby of Nazi (From the Armenian of A. Aharonian) OH, sleep, my little one: oh, sleep once more! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept full sore. The blind wild geese flew, screaming mournfully, Across our heavens black, o'er vale and hill. Oh, they were blinded 'mid our mountains high! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. The gale is moaning in the forests dark; 'Tis the lament of homeless corpses chill. Ah, many and many a corpse unburied lies! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. Laden with tear, the caravan passed by, Knelt in the forest black, and stays there still. It was our land's calamities and woes! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. Beads have I strung on and thy cradle bound, To guard thee from our foeman's evil eye. Oh, sleep and grow, my little one, make haste! Thou need'st not weep; my tears were seldom dry. My milk has frozen on thy pallid lips; 'Tis bitter, and thou dost not want it more; With it is mixed the poison of my grief. Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept full sore. Oh, with my milk drink in my black grief too; Let it black vengeance in thy soul instil! Shoot up, my darling, grow to stature tall! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL From the New ARmenia 15, Jan 1917 16 BOSTON EVENING TRANSCRIPT, THURSDAY, JANUARY 27, 1916 SOME ARMENIAN LOVE SONGS Translated by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL A TERRIBLE tragedy is taking place today in Turkey--the systematic extermination of the Armenians. The tragedy is deepened by the fact that the Armenians as a race are endowed with keen intelligence and warm affections, and with abilities far above the average. They have not only an ancient civilization, but a beautiful literature, which is cut off from the knowledge of most Americans and Europeans by a little-known language. At this time, when the sympathy of the whole civilized world has been awakened for these persecuted people, it may be of interest to get a glimpse into their hearts through their love songs. Some of the most striking Armenian poetry is the work of Bedros Tourian, the son of a Scutari blacksmith. He died of consumption in 1872, at the early age of twenty. One of his best poems is "Little Lake." 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 art 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 holdst 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! In "I Have Loved Thee" he again breathes out the sorrow of his heart: It was the hour of dew and light; In heaven a conflagration cold Of roses burned, instead of clouds; There was a rain of pearls and gold. (From )deep within a flowering grove I saw thee, love, reclined at ease, And thou wast languishing and pale, And sighing like a summer breeze, Plucking a blossom's leaves apart With fingers fair as lilies are, Thine eyes, the temples of love's fire, Were fixed upon the heavens afar. I marvelled that thy fingers soft, Wherein the haughty rose was pressed, Had power to pluck her leaves away And scatter them upon thy breast. A strange new heaven shone within Thine eyes, so dark and languishing; A heaven where, instead of stars, Arrows of fire were glittering. Ah, thou has made of me a slave To one bright glance, one word of thine! The rays thy soul sheds, cruel maid, Become as fetters laid on mine. Oh, leave my heart, from me depart! I for my queen desire not thee; Thy breast is like the rose's leaf, Thy heart as granite hard to me. Thou knowest naught, thou fragrant one, Save wounds in tender hearts to make, Happy when thine adorer's breast Bleeds in profusion for thy sake. Then, lonely in a grove's deep shade, I weep, and all my sad heart grieves, Lo, thou art there! Thou findest me, Thou speakest to me through the leaves. Then in the swift and shining stream I seek oblivion of thy face, Thou findest me, and from the waves Thou smilest up with witching grace. Then to the rocks and mountains steep To break my heart and lyre I flee, Thou murmurest ever in the wind That thou hadst never love for me. I will embrace the frozen earth, And hide from thee in dreamless sleep. The dark grave is a virgin, too; Is any other heart so deep? Not all of Tourian's love songs are sad, however. Witness "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, "Belovèd, 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 murmered 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, S[read wide its wings to soar, And bade the life of solitude Farewell forevermore. In another poem Tourian wishes that he were the breeze to caress his sweetheart's face, a sunbeam to touch her hair, a rose that she might gather, etc. In conclusion he says: But, if you love another His gravestone may ( .....) Then you would linger ( ....) Your tears would (......) Your sighs would wander o'er me, Sighs for his early doom. To touch you, O beloved, I must become a tomb! In modern times Armenians (..................) too have begun to write poetry. A good sample of their work (..............) Here is another old (......... )ova (born 1712, died 1795): I sigh not, while thou art in my soul! Fair one, thou art to me A golden cup, with water filled of immortality. I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, sweet; Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from the heat. First hear my fault, and, if you wilt, then slay this erring man; Though hast all power; to me thou art the Sultan and the Khan. Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in sooth; Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin smooth. Thy teeth are pearls and 9....) , the gates of dulset tones; Thine eyes are gold-enamelled cups adorned with precious stones. Thou art a rare and priceless gem, most wonderful to see; A ruby rich of Mt. Bedakhsb, my love, thou art to me. How I bear this misery,unless my heart were stone? My tears are blood because of thee, my reason is o'erthrown A young vine in the garden fresh thou art to me, my feiar, Ershrined in greenness, and set round with roses everywhere. I, like love-lorn nightingale,would hover over thee. A landscape of delight and love,my queen, thou art to me! Lo, I am drunken with love! I wake, but my heart sleeps. The world is sated with the world; my heart its hunger keeps. What shall I praise thee by when naught is left on earth save thee? Thou art a deer, a Pegasus sprung from the fiery sea! Speak but one word, to say thou art Saiat Nova's* love. And then what matters aught to me, in earth or heaven above; Thy rays have filled the world; thou art a shield that fronts the sun. Thou dost exhale the perfume sweet of clove and cinnamon, Of violet, rose and marjoram to me, with love grown pale, Thou are a red flower of the field, a lily of the vale. *An Armenian minstrel often weaves his name into the last stanza of his song, in order the he may be known as its composer. Some of the sweetest of the Armenian love songs are of unknown authorship, like "Thou and I": I would I were the lake, so blue and calm, And thou, fair maiden, with reluctant pride, Wouldst see thy picture, delicate and faint, Thy sacred image, in my depths abide. Or would that on the shore a willow grew, And thou mightst lean on it, and the frail tree Might let thee fall into the lake, and there Sway with its waters everlastingly. I would I were the forest, dark and vast, And that thou there mightst come to muse alone, And, ere I knew it, I might overhear What thy lips murmur in an undertone. Or would that though mightst sit beneath a tree, Singing a pure, sweet song; and leaf and bough, With admiration trembling, would descend And form a coronal to wreathe thy brow. I would I were the face of yon dark sky, That so from heaven I might shake down on thee A multitude of stars, as 't were my tears; Ah, do not tread upon them scornfully! Would I the writer were, and thou the theme! Would thou affection wert, and I the heart! I the bouquet, and thou its silken string; When thou art loosed, the flowers will fall apart. Oh, 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 heart respond to mine! Of unknown authorship, too, is: Down from yon distant mountain The streamlet finds its way, And through the quiet village It flows in eddying play. A dark youth left his doorway, And sought the water-side, And, laving there his hands and brow, "O streamlet sweet!" he cried. "Say, from what mountain com'st thou?" "From yonder mountain cold Where snow on snow lies sleeping, The new snow on the old." "Unto what river, tell me, Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?" "I flow unto that river Where clustering violets grow." "Sweet streamlet, to what vineyard, Say, dost thou take thy way?" "The vineyard where the vine-dresser Is at his work today." "What plant there will thou water?" "The plant upon whose roots The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms, And orchards bear sweet fruits." "What garden wilt thou visit. O water cool and fleet." "The garden where the nightingale Sings tenderly and sweet." "Into what fountain flow'st thou?" "The fountain to whose brink Thy love comes down at morn and eve, And bends her face to drink, "There shall I meet the maiden Who is to be thy bride, And kiss her chin, and with her love My soul be satisfied." A great favorite among the Armenians is "The Armenian Girl," by Raphael Patkanian (born 1830, died 1892): Have you seen the bright moon rising In the heavens? Have you seen Ruddy apricots that shimmer Through the garden's foliage green? Have you seen the red rose glowing Where green leaves about her meet, And around her, in a bevy, Lilies, pinks, and iris sweet? Lo, beside Armenia's maiden, Dark and dim the bright moon is; Apricots and pinks and iris Are not worth a single kiss. Roses on her cheeks are blooming, On her brow a lily fair, And of innocence the symbol Is the smile her sweet lips wear. From her friend she takes the zither With a blush the heart that wins; Touching it with dainty fingers, The lekzinca* she begins. Like a tree her form is slender, Swaying with a dreamy grace; Now with swiftness she advances, Now recedes with gliding pace. All the young men's hearts are melted When the maiden they behold, And the old men curse their fortune That so early they grew old. *An Oriental dance. Some of these popular songs of unknown origin strike a weird note, like the following: [Paragraph clipped out] Since last spring, Turkish cruelty has slaughtered hundreds of thousands of strong young men and beautiful dark girls--dark and fair as well, for both complexions are found among the Armenians. Wise old people and bright, winsome Armenian children, with vivid intelligence shining from their large eyes--myriads of them have been wiped off the face of the earth as completely as if their mothers had never given them birth. And now hundreds of thousands of refugees, massed in Russia and Greece and Egypt, are perishing like flies, for want of help.TO MAY From the Armenian of Bedros Tourian. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. O virgin, mother of the sweet spring flowers! O lovely May, in shining blossoms clad! Why bring you not the blossom of my soul Among your many-colored flowerets glad? Ah me! Another angel may there be, The May of the soul's flowers? Some happy day Then may that angel come, and on my head Shine with soft light -- an infinite pale May! Ward's Boston Gifts for the Bride in Leather and Brass 57-61 Franklin St. TO MAY From the Armenian of Bedros Tourian. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. O virgin, mother of the sweet spring flowers! O lovely May, in shining blossoms clad! Why bring you not the blossom of my soul Among your many-colored flowerets glad? Ah me! Another angel may there be, The May of the soul's flowers? Some happy day Then may that angel come, and on my head Shine with soft light -- an infinite pale May! Ward's Boston Gifts for the Bride in Leather and Brass 57-61 Franklin St.Thrifty Armenians. One Hundred Thousand Now Dwell in This Country. History of What Was Once a Powerful Kingdom-Legends of the Wise and Brave Queen Tamar- An Armenian Wedding. ----------------------------------- [Special Letter.] Living amongst us and beginning to exercise some influence by their numbers, their intelligence and their unusual talent for business and for amassing wealth, are thousands of Armenians. In New York and Chicago alone, it is estimated, there are about 15,000, and in the whole of the United States their number will not fall short of 100,000. "Armenians? What are they? What country do they hail from?" These and similar questions, clearly proving the most complete absence of acquaintance with this interesting race, I have often heard. And it is no (drowing of aman) A TYPICAL ARMENIAN. wonder, for up to recently Armenians [were] not in the habit of emigrating [to this] country, and the facts I am going to [encite] further on will explain how it comes that the world at large does not know much of this people. For the Armenians somewhat resemble the Jews in this that they are a race, but not a nation, being also widely l scattered and leading no independent political existence. Like Poland, the territory once occupied by the Armenians under rulers of their own has been parceled out to three powers- the eastern districts belonging to Persia; the [northern] to Russia, and the largest portion, the western, forming part of Asiatic Turkey. Erivan is the capital city of Russian Armenia, while Erzerum is that of the Turkish part and Tabriz that of the Persian. How large the number of Armenians is to-day is not definitely known, but it is probably not less than 10,000,000, for besides the wholly Armenian population of those three districts- together the size of France- there are thousands and scores of thousands of them to be found in other parts of Turkey, Russia and Persia, and their influence is very strong in all those countries, by reason of their superior i intellectual gifts. As financiers and administrators especially they are eminently successful. Of late years the Armenians, conscious of their ancient civilization, of their Christianity and of their superiority in both ethical and mental respects, have shown an increasing restlessness under the yoke of their Moslem conquerors, and are anxious to reestablish their national independence. The horrible persecutions and the despotic oppression they have to undergo at the hands of the Turks especially have made this resolution stronger and stronger, and the fearful conditions under which they have to live at home have also induced them to emigrate in large numbers to this country. It would not be the proper caper to write here a history of Armenia, but I will briefly outline its past at least. Armenia was for many years a great and prosperous kingdom, ex[panding] from the Black to the Caspian [Sea] taking in some of the most fer[??] [??] districts of [???] watered by the Araxes, the Tigris and Euphrates of old and producing on its volcanic soil nearly everything that a benigrant sun can ripen. Mount Ararat lies in the heart of the Armenian (drowing of a woman's head) QUEEN TAMAR mountain ranges and its highest peak, the Mussis, after lying dormant for centuries, resumed its vol- canic activity in 1840, and during that eruption the village of Argoorz, where tradition has it Noah planted his first vine, was destroyed. Armenian history goes far back- to 2,500 years B.C. and 428 of our era they preserved their national integrity against all conquerors. The two dynasties of the Haighians and of the Arsacides were flourishing during this long period, and then came the Persians, the Greeks, the Arabs, the Turks, the Tartars, who ravaged the country by turns and made it a mere dependency. Armenia had another period of prosperity during the time of the Crusaders, from 1089 until about 1300, the most brilliant epoch being that of David the Restorer, and of his beautiful daughter, Queen Tamar. The latter occupies in the legendary lore of the Armenians as prominent a place as King Solomon among the Jews, and some poems and hymns com- posed by her still survive. She was not only a wise and just ruler but also a great warrior, defeating armies of Turks and of Russians in turn. That, however, was the last brilliant point in the history of Armenia. From that time on- some 600 years- the country languished and decayed, the prey of her Moslem neighbors, until the last remnant of Armenian independence was swept away in 1800 by the cession of her Caucasian territory to Russia. As I noticed above, however, the Armenians of to-day dream once more of the restitution of their national independence, and it is quite likely that they will ultimately achieve it. The Armenians of the present time are a people who are physically strong and enduring, generally of regular features, dark-eyed and dark-haired; during their youth the girls and women are apt to be beautiful, but they wither and age very quickly, so that at 25 they are like our women of 50. The men wear better. They are of Christian faith- a type of the Greek-Catholic - but missionaries have been converting a quite large fraction of them to purer and simpler forms of Christianity. They are progressive, enterprising , industrious, endowed with great mental gifts, so that in Russia and Turkey there is an exceptionally high percentage of Armenians among the highest officials. Their commercial instinct is very strong, and they make the most successful dealers and merchants everywhere, outstripping even the Jews wherever they come into competition with the latter. Their morals are good, and their family life is happy and peaceful. They are patient, having become so in the school of adversity, and know how to dissemble when necessary, and their apparent humility is, in fact, their chief strength. Among their virtues is hospitality; and I remember with pleasure a wed- ding festivity in an Armenian house- [hold] which I was an invited guest [There] [was???] [a??] young girl of 14, but perfectly developed, looked a charming picture. Rather small in size, but of a delicate complexion, magnificent teeth, and hair that was silky and profuse and of beautiful shade, she was attired in a caba (a long, flowing robe) of atlas, and a sort of vest, made of white silk and embroidered with gold, was visible at the neck. A long veil (letchaki) of tulle and embroidered with gold and silver was held around her head by that handsome diadem of the (drowing) ARMENIAN MUSICIANS. young Armenian ladies which they call thavsacravi. Musicians played on queer instruments, the daira (a species of drum), and the Fourna (a kind of flute), and there was some dancing, but dancing of a style not seen elsewhere - the davlouri and the lesginka. The most extensive hospitality reigned -sweets of ever kind, meats and other solid food, wine and sherbet were dished out to whomsoever wished any. There were singing and conversation, and outside the broad veranda and the garden paths were brightly illuminated, and then everybody went to church and witnessed ceremony, a much more symbolical and impressive one than our wedding ceremonies. But then, there is no divorce in the Armenian church, and hence they deem no expense too large for the one great even of their lives. WOLF VON SCHIERBRAND. Some of the statements made by Dr. Farnsworth in the last Beacon- in his letter from Turkey- have been questioned by a few of our Armenian friends at Berkeley Temple, and we have been asked to print a reply from them. We do not feel, however, that The Beacon is the proper place for a discussion of the Turkish-Armenian question, though this church is heartily in sympathy with the oppressed of that land as well as our own. Berkeley Temple has many good faithful workers among the Armenian race, and she has already shown her sympathy for them in many ways. Many travellers bear out the statements that the Turkish government is doing far from its duty to the Armenians, and the liberty-loving people of this country can fully understand the desire of the exiled portion of that race to have their cause fully understood and advanced as rapidly as possible. Berkeley Beacon, July, 1894. The American Literary Club of Boston mtd Tuesday evening at the residence of Henry B. Blackwell, in Dorchester, and listened to a paper by Ohannes Chatschumian on "The Armenian Church." An animated discussion followed. Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, Miss Maia Holland land and other guests were present, and the club regaled them with a number of strange Oriental songs, which were much enjoyed. Bo[ston Literary Club] [June] 27, 1894LET US DIE ARMENIANS. ____ [From the Armenian of Archbishop Khorène Nar-Bey de Lusignan.] BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. ___ Brothers, we have no hope from foreigners; Gaze not around for aid! Though with goodwill The foreigner receive you as a guest, He is an alien still. Unmoved he sees your pain; what matters it Although to tears of blood your heart be grieved ? None save Armenians feel Armenia's woes. Why are you still deceived? Rest not upon the foreigner your hope; Show not to cruel eyes your deep distress. Do you then look for sympathy and help? They mock your nakedness! Heavy your burden is, but do you think That foreign hands will lift it? You are wrong. Nay, leave the foreigner, lend brother's arm To brother, and be strong! Fate is your enemy? Be not dismayed, But show Armenian hearts, to brave her hate. Fate cannot vanquish an heroic land That battles against fate. Nor swords nor chains could crush the minds and hearts Of your ancestors, those valiant ones. Why are your hearts to-day so weak and faint? Are you not heroes' sons? Sons of those matchless heroes who of old Upon their country's altar bled and died- Sons of those great Armenians whose lives To-day are the world's pride? Even the mighty nations of the earth With envy view our nation's history. Then why, forgetting your past glory, say To aliens, "Blest are ye"? Forward! Let him who has an earnest heart Forsake the stranger, follow his brave sires! The life of all Armenians centres round Religion's altar-fires. Armenia's life shall not become extinct; The heavens are full of that life-giving flame. While the all-conquering cross of Christ shall reign. So long shall live her name. Why are you fearful? See you not, sublime Above your heads, the shadow of the rood? Of old your fathers with that sacred sign Mingled their sacred blood. Anchor your hope, too, on the cross! Have faith The light will shine, since you to it are true. It was your nation's bulwark; be it still Weapon and flag to you! A nation that was faithful to the cross Cannot be lost, though centuries roll past. While in the world religion shall endure, Her life shall also last. In the great names of faith and fatherland, Clasp hands in love, bid hate and malice flee, Armenian brothers! Let the nation's foe Alone accursed be. Let each heart glow with love for fatherland, Each mind your country's welfare seek alone; Let your least brother's pain and tears be felt As keenly as your own. Ah! foreign bread can never nourish us, And foreign water never quench our thirst; Thou art our life, Armenian font, where we Received baptism first! For no vain hope let us deny that font, Our nation's baptistery! When we yield Our breath forever, be our place of death The holy battlefield. Let the same earth receive that cradled us; Armenians we, when life to us was given; Armenians let us live, Armenians die, Armenians enter heaven! Woman"s jou...y 7.1894 $1.00; in paper, 50 c The Royal Cook Book. Compiled by The Light Bearers' Circle of The King's Daughters. Receipts, tried and tested, practical and economical, for the Home Makers and the House Keepers of the Order. Paper. Price, 25 cents. Address, I.C. DAVIS, ....The Congregationalist has further facts in reference to the forty-two Armenians whose names have been stricken from the rolls of the Congregational churches in Fresno, Cal. We are glad to say that three other churches in the town have opened their doors to them, altho their pastor, who was active in the removal, impugns their honesty and veracity. It appears to be a simple case of contemptible caste prejudice. We give elsewhere the condemnatory action of Congregational ministers in California. N.Y. Independent June 14, 1894. inspectors that Stundist children refsed to join the ordinary religious exercises of the school, but that their chief offenses were not crossing themselves or doing obeisance to the icon with which every school is supplied. The inspectors took the matter to the Ministry of Education and the Minister to the Synod with the result that an ordinance has been published and sent to all schools in the provinces where Stundists reside directing the teachers to enforce the crossing and bowing, and if the Stundist children prove contumacious they are to be expelled summarily. ....The Congregational Ministers' Union, of Los Angeles and vicinity, just organized, have voted to ask the publication of the following resolution in THE INDEPENDENT: "At a meeting of twenty-two Congregational ministers at Los Angel, Cal., June 4th, answering a call for the formation of a Congregational Ministers' Union, after a full discussion of the subject, the following resolution was unanimously adopted: ""Resolved, That as Congregational ministers we condemn the action of the Congregational Church and pastor at Fresno, in its recent dealing with its Armenian members, as uncongregationa and unchristian.' "It may be added that these ministers had ample knowledge of this subject, as the Rev. Dr. Robert G. Hutchins, pastor of the First Congregational Church in Los Angeles, was a member of the recent Council in the Fresno church, and has the documents of the case. J.B. IRVINE, Jr., Scribe. "Los Angeles, June 14, 1894." We understand that the church pastor at Fresno stubbornly refuse to follow the advice of the council called to consider the case. -------- Dr. Mary Bradford wrote from Tabriz, Persia, March 1: "Weddings are thick and fast these days, for only about ten days remain until both the Armenian and Mussulman fasts and then they can not get married until they are over. My Yagoot (the Armenian woman who lives with me) is marrying her son and it is his betrothal I am to attend to-day. A sister of my cook came this morning and asked if I was willing for her to marry her brother. This might indicate a peculiar state of society, but it simply means that there always has to be a third person in the matter and she was the go-between. It seemed funny to have my cook say "they had asked me first and it all depended on whether I would give my consent.' When I found the girl selected was only eleven year old, I told them I could not approve and although I supposed their asking me was only a matter of form, yet they say they will have only the engagement now and postpone the wedding till a proper time. "Last night I attended an Armenian wedding, and how I wished some of the home friends could have been with me. Could you imagine forty-four people in a room fifteen by twenty, seated around the sides of the room and eating their dinner which is spread in the center of the room. A large table cloth is spread and the waiters have to walk on it to bring in the food. There is often a row of little children also down the center. I am afraid it would be hard work for people to crowd up so closely unless they had been used to it all their lives. When we first go, the bride appears in very common clothes, and has a red veil over her face. She is often busy about the house, but if not, stands in one corner of the room as motionless as a statue. All her be- longings, from dresses to needles, playthings and soap, are brought our in neat packages. These are opened and contents shown to the guests and counted. Comments are made as to beauty, num- ber, quality, etc. Many times they exclaim ‘may they be blessed.' "Then the time is often taken up with dancing, and at last a fife and drum are heard, which announce that the clothes for the bride have been sent by the bridegroom. They are brought in on a large tray which is often adorned with large pieces of sugar, oranges and red apples. The woman who comes with them shows them to the company and when the tray is empty, the bridegroom's clothes are put on it. Often a large piece of rock candy or something very sweet is hidden in one of the pockets and then with music they are sent to the groom. Now the priest comes in and blesses the clothes and the the bride may go and put them on. After she is dressed she comes in and kneeling before each guest makes a bow and the special friends lift her veil and kiss her on each cheek. Then dinner is served and again dancing takes up the time until the bridegroom comes with his friends and they go to the church to be married. Then they go to the home of the husband and often it is almost morning when the guests go home. We always enjoy going, though we do not often stay to see the whole thing out." Interior, . July, 1894 le Badge-Silver Cross, ........ 30 Cts. LIST, PINS, WITH- OUT BADGE. Watch Chain, with .......................................75c. Bar Pin..........................30c. Bow Knot, Stick Pin, n ......................................40c. Bow Knot, Catch Pin, able enamel on silve 35c. Bar and Chain........... .50c. Sword, Stick Pin....... 25c. Crown, Catch Pin...... 25c. Shepherd's Crook.... 15c Scroll Bar Pin . .......... 25c. -Linked Circles, ch Pin .... .......................30c. -Heart, Catch Pi....n. 25c. -Ornamental Catch ...... ................................ 30c. with Catch Pin in the k ................... ............. 50c. Pins and Chains Sterling d Hurting . . ......... .0 to save . . ....... .03 off Gar- . . .05 Practical n of the . . . .03 or," .05 nd Sons r k . . 05 RM, 20 CTS KS acin Ribbon ble, Mrs. Mary "If we had t reminder of the Conse- throughout the PHOTO- ME. NSON, S DAVIS. photographs eneral work. PER DOZEN