Kitabı oku: «Poems of Bedros Duryan»

1. LITTLE LAKE

 
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 !
 

2. WISHES FOR ARMENIA

 
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 !
 

3. 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.
“ Beloved, 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 murmured 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,
Spread wide its wings to soar,
And bade the life of solitude
Farewell forevermore.
 
 
A galaxy of glances bright,
A sweet bouquet of smiles,
A crucible of melting words
Bewitched me with their wiles!
 

4. 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.
 
 
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 fight,
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!
 

5. WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE?

 
WHAT are you, love? A flame from heaven?
A radiant smile are you ?
The heaven has not your eyes’ bright gleams,
The heaven has not their blue.
 
 
The rose has not your snowy breast;
In the moon’s face we seek
In vain the rosy flush that dyes
Your soft and blushing cheek.
 
 
By night you smile upon the stars,
And on the amorous moon,
By day upon the waves, the flowers —
Why not on one alone?
 
 
But, though I pray to you with tears,
With tears and bitter sighs,
You will not deign me yet one glance
Cast by your shining eyes.
 
 
O love, are you a mortal maid,
Or angel formed of light ?
The spring rose and the radiant moon
Envy your beauty bright;
 
 
And when your sweet and thrilling voice
Is heard upon the air,
In cypress depths the nightingale
Is silent in despair.
 
 
Would I, a zephyr, might caress
Your bright brow’s dreams in sleep,
Breathe gently on your lips, and dry
Your tears, if you should weep !
 
 
Or would that in your garden fair
A weeping rose I grew;
And when you came resplendent there
At morning with the dew,
 
 
I’d give fresh color to your cheek
That makes the rose look pale,
Shed on your breast my dew, and there
My latest breath exhale.
 
 
Oh, would I were a limpid brook!
If softly you drew nigh,
And smiled into my mirror clear,
My blue waves would run dry.
 
 
Oh, would I were a sunbeam bright,
To make you seem more fair,
Touching your face, and dying soon
Amid your fragrant hair !
 
 
But, if you love another,
His gravestone may I be !
Then you would linger near me,
Your tears would fall on me ;
 
 
Your sighs would wander o’er me,
Sighs for his early doom.
To touch you, O beloved,
I must become a tomb !
 

6. I HAVE LOVED THEE

 
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.
 
 
Then 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 hast 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.
 
 
When, 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.
 
 
When 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.
 
 
When 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 ?
 

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 !