Poems of Bedros Duryan. Duryan Bedros

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      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 !

      WHEN bright dews fall on leaf and flower,

      And stars light up the skies,

      Then tears and sparks commingled

      Burst forth from my dim eyes.

      Forget thee, O Armenia!

      Nay, rather may I be

      Transformed into a cypress dark,

      And so give shade to thee !

      The starry sky no comfort brings :

      To me it seems a veil

      Strewn with the tears that Ararat

      Sheds from his summit pale.

      O graves! O ruins! to my soul

      Your memory is as dear

      As to the lover’s thirsting heart

      The maiden’s first love-tear.

      And shall my spirit after death

      Oblivious be of you ?

      Nay, but become a flood of tears,

      And cover you with dew !

      Not sword nor chains, abysses deep

      Nor precipices fell,

      Not thunder’s roll, nor lightning’s flash,

      Nor funeral torch and knell —

      Not all of these, ’neath death’s dark stone

      Can ever hide from me

      The glowing memories of the past,

      Our days of liberty.

      Forget you? Ne’er will I forget,

      O glorious days of yore !

      Rather may I be changed to fire

      And bring you back once more !

      When twinkle pale the stars at dawn,

      When dewy buds unclose,

      And tenderly the nightingale

      Is singing to the rose,

      All Nature’s harmonies, alas !

      Can ne’er give back to me

      The sighs that sound where cypress boughs

      Are moaning like the sea.

      Forget you, black and bitter days ?

      No, never! but instead

      Rather may I be turned to blood,

      And make your darkness red !

      Armenia’s mountains dark may smile,

      Siberia’s ice may smoke,

      But stern, unbending spirits still

      Press on my neck the yoke.

      Inflexible and cold are they;

      When feeling surges high,

      And I would speak, they stifle down

      My free soul’s bitter cry.

      Forget thee, justice? Never!

      But ere my life departs,

      Rather may I become a sword,

      And make thee pierce men’s hearts!

      When e’en the rich man and the priest

      A patriot’s ardor feel,

      And when Armenian hearts at length

      Are stirred with love and zeal —

      When free-souled sons Armenia bears,

      These days of coldness past,

      And fires of love and brotherhood

      Are lighted up at last —

      Shall I forget thee then, my lyre?

      Ah, no! but when I die

      Rather may I become thy voice,

      And o’er Armenia sigh !

      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

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