Raphael Patkanian

UNDERNEATH the south wind’s breathing,
From the fields the snow has fled;
All the children are rejoicing —
Christ is risen from the dead !
...

HAVE you seen the bright moon rising
In the heavens? Have you seen
Ruddy apricots that shimmer
Through the garden’s foliage green?
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WHY didst thou cease, O nightingale, thy sweet, melodious song,
That to my sad and burning eyes bade floods of teardrops throng?
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'WHAT shall we do ? ' Now, shame on those who that weak plaint renew !
He that despairs, in deepest shame his cowardice shall rue.
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'Have you forgotten, Europe, how the dart
Of the fierce Persian pointed at your heart,
Until, on that dread field of Avarair,
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NIGHTINGALE, oh, leave our garden,
Where soft dews the blossoms steep ;
With thy litanies melodious
Come and sing my son to sleep!
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Mother

SWEET slumber now creeps o’er thee slow,
Sweet breezes rock thee to and fro:
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WHEN the mother, with sore travail,
To the world a man-child gives,
Let a sharp sword from his father
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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,
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LET the wind blow cold, let it beat my face,
Let the clouds above heavy snow-flakes fling,
Let the north wind blow, raging all it will,—
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I WALK by Mother Arax
With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
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IF my white hair could once again be black,
And my old strength return to me at need,
And if I could become a valiant youth,
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AWAKE, my darling ! Open those bright eyes, dark and deep,
And scatter from thine eyelids the heavy shades of sleep.
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OUR thanks to you, great Sultan ! You have turned
Armenia to a chaos of hewn stone;
Daily by myriads you have slaughtered us;
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SHALL we be silent, brothers?
Shall we be silent still?
Our foe has set against our breasts
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I WILL not rock you, little boy, that sleep your soul may bind;
Your brothers have arisen; you only stay behind.
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