THE TEARS OF ARAXESByRAPHAEL PATKANIANI walk by Mother AraxWith faltering steps and slow,And memories of past agesSeek in the waters’ flow.But they run dark and turbid,And beat upon the shoreIn grief and bitter sorrow,Lamenting evermore.“Araxes! with the fishesWhy dost not dance in glee?The sea is still far distant,Yet thou art sad, like me.“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,Why do the tears downpour?Why dost thou haste so swiftlyPast thy familiar shore?“Make not thy current turbid;Flow calm and joyously.Thy youth is short, fair river;Thou soon wilt reach the sea.“Let sweet rose-hedges brightenThy hospitable shore,And nightingales among themTill morn their music pour.“Let ever-verdant willowsLave in thy waves their feet,And with their bending branchesRefresh the noonday heat.“Let shepherds on thy marginWalk singing, without fear;Let lambs and kids seek freelyThy waters cool and clear.”Araxes swelled her current,Tossed high her foaming tide,And in a voice of thunderThus from her depths replied:—“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thouMy age-long sleep to break,And memories of my myriad griefsWithin my breast to wake?“When hast thou seen a widow,After her true-love died,From head to foot resplendentWith ornaments of pride?“For whom should I adorn me?Whose eyes shall I delight?The stranger hordes that tread my banksAre hateful in my sight.“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,Is widowed, like to me,But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,And wears it slavishly.“But I, who am Armenian,My own Armenians know;I want no stranger bridegroom;A widowed stream I flow.“Once I, too, moved in splendour,Adorned as is a brideWith myriad precious jewels,My smiling banks beside.“My waves were pure and limpid,And curled in rippling play;The morning star within themWas mirrored till the day.“What from that time remaineth?All, all has passed away.Which of my prosperous citiesStands near my waves to-day?“Mount Ararat doth pour me,As with a mother’s care,From out her sacred bosomPure water, cool and fair.“Shall I her holy bountyTo hated aliens fling?Shall strangers’ fields be wateredFrom good Saint Jacob’s spring?“For filthy Turk or PersianShall I my waters pour,That they may heathen rites performUpon my very shore.“While my own sons, defenceless,Are exiled from their home,And, faint with thirst and hunger,In distant countries roam?“My own Armenian nationIs banished far away;A godless, barbarous peopleDwells on my banks to-day.“Shall I my hospitable shoresAdorn in festive guiseFor them, or gladden with fair looksTheir wild and evil eyes?“Still, while my sons are exiled,Shall I be sad, as now.This is my heart’s deep utterance,My true and holy vow.”No more spake Mother Arax;She foamed up mightily,And, coiling like a serpent,Wound sorrowing toward the sea.Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE TEARS OF ARAXESByRAPHAEL PATKANIANI walk by Mother AraxWith faltering steps and slow,And memories of past agesSeek in the waters’ flow.But they run dark and turbid,And beat upon the shoreIn grief and bitter sorrow,Lamenting evermore.“Araxes! with the fishesWhy dost not dance in glee?The sea is still far distant,Yet thou art sad, like me.“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,Why do the tears downpour?Why dost thou haste so swiftlyPast thy familiar shore?“Make not thy current turbid;Flow calm and joyously.Thy youth is short, fair river;Thou soon wilt reach the sea.“Let sweet rose-hedges brightenThy hospitable shore,And nightingales among themTill morn their music pour.“Let ever-verdant willowsLave in thy waves their feet,And with their bending branchesRefresh the noonday heat.“Let shepherds on thy marginWalk singing, without fear;Let lambs and kids seek freelyThy waters cool and clear.”Araxes swelled her current,Tossed high her foaming tide,And in a voice of thunderThus from her depths replied:—“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thouMy age-long sleep to break,And memories of my myriad griefsWithin my breast to wake?“When hast thou seen a widow,After her true-love died,From head to foot resplendentWith ornaments of pride?“For whom should I adorn me?Whose eyes shall I delight?The stranger hordes that tread my banksAre hateful in my sight.“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,Is widowed, like to me,But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,And wears it slavishly.“But I, who am Armenian,My own Armenians know;I want no stranger bridegroom;A widowed stream I flow.“Once I, too, moved in splendour,Adorned as is a brideWith myriad precious jewels,My smiling banks beside.“My waves were pure and limpid,And curled in rippling play;The morning star within themWas mirrored till the day.“What from that time remaineth?All, all has passed away.Which of my prosperous citiesStands near my waves to-day?“Mount Ararat doth pour me,As with a mother’s care,From out her sacred bosomPure water, cool and fair.“Shall I her holy bountyTo hated aliens fling?Shall strangers’ fields be wateredFrom good Saint Jacob’s spring?“For filthy Turk or PersianShall I my waters pour,That they may heathen rites performUpon my very shore.“While my own sons, defenceless,Are exiled from their home,And, faint with thirst and hunger,In distant countries roam?“My own Armenian nationIs banished far away;A godless, barbarous peopleDwells on my banks to-day.“Shall I my hospitable shoresAdorn in festive guiseFor them, or gladden with fair looksTheir wild and evil eyes?“Still, while my sons are exiled,Shall I be sad, as now.This is my heart’s deep utterance,My true and holy vow.”No more spake Mother Arax;She foamed up mightily,And, coiling like a serpent,Wound sorrowing toward the sea.Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
THE TEARS OF ARAXES
ByRAPHAEL PATKANIANI walk by Mother AraxWith faltering steps and slow,And memories of past agesSeek in the waters’ flow.But they run dark and turbid,And beat upon the shoreIn grief and bitter sorrow,Lamenting evermore.“Araxes! with the fishesWhy dost not dance in glee?The sea is still far distant,Yet thou art sad, like me.“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,Why do the tears downpour?Why dost thou haste so swiftlyPast thy familiar shore?“Make not thy current turbid;Flow calm and joyously.Thy youth is short, fair river;Thou soon wilt reach the sea.“Let sweet rose-hedges brightenThy hospitable shore,And nightingales among themTill morn their music pour.“Let ever-verdant willowsLave in thy waves their feet,And with their bending branchesRefresh the noonday heat.“Let shepherds on thy marginWalk singing, without fear;Let lambs and kids seek freelyThy waters cool and clear.”Araxes swelled her current,Tossed high her foaming tide,And in a voice of thunderThus from her depths replied:—“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thouMy age-long sleep to break,And memories of my myriad griefsWithin my breast to wake?“When hast thou seen a widow,After her true-love died,From head to foot resplendentWith ornaments of pride?“For whom should I adorn me?Whose eyes shall I delight?The stranger hordes that tread my banksAre hateful in my sight.“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,Is widowed, like to me,But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,And wears it slavishly.“But I, who am Armenian,My own Armenians know;I want no stranger bridegroom;A widowed stream I flow.“Once I, too, moved in splendour,Adorned as is a brideWith myriad precious jewels,My smiling banks beside.“My waves were pure and limpid,And curled in rippling play;The morning star within themWas mirrored till the day.“What from that time remaineth?All, all has passed away.Which of my prosperous citiesStands near my waves to-day?“Mount Ararat doth pour me,As with a mother’s care,From out her sacred bosomPure water, cool and fair.“Shall I her holy bountyTo hated aliens fling?Shall strangers’ fields be wateredFrom good Saint Jacob’s spring?“For filthy Turk or PersianShall I my waters pour,That they may heathen rites performUpon my very shore.“While my own sons, defenceless,Are exiled from their home,And, faint with thirst and hunger,In distant countries roam?“My own Armenian nationIs banished far away;A godless, barbarous peopleDwells on my banks to-day.“Shall I my hospitable shoresAdorn in festive guiseFor them, or gladden with fair looksTheir wild and evil eyes?“Still, while my sons are exiled,Shall I be sad, as now.This is my heart’s deep utterance,My true and holy vow.”No more spake Mother Arax;She foamed up mightily,And, coiling like a serpent,Wound sorrowing toward the sea.Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.
ByRAPHAEL PATKANIAN
I walk by Mother AraxWith faltering steps and slow,And memories of past agesSeek in the waters’ flow.But they run dark and turbid,And beat upon the shoreIn grief and bitter sorrow,Lamenting evermore.“Araxes! with the fishesWhy dost not dance in glee?The sea is still far distant,Yet thou art sad, like me.“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,Why do the tears downpour?Why dost thou haste so swiftlyPast thy familiar shore?“Make not thy current turbid;Flow calm and joyously.Thy youth is short, fair river;Thou soon wilt reach the sea.“Let sweet rose-hedges brightenThy hospitable shore,And nightingales among themTill morn their music pour.“Let ever-verdant willowsLave in thy waves their feet,And with their bending branchesRefresh the noonday heat.“Let shepherds on thy marginWalk singing, without fear;Let lambs and kids seek freelyThy waters cool and clear.”Araxes swelled her current,Tossed high her foaming tide,And in a voice of thunderThus from her depths replied:—“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thouMy age-long sleep to break,And memories of my myriad griefsWithin my breast to wake?“When hast thou seen a widow,After her true-love died,From head to foot resplendentWith ornaments of pride?“For whom should I adorn me?Whose eyes shall I delight?The stranger hordes that tread my banksAre hateful in my sight.“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,Is widowed, like to me,But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,And wears it slavishly.“But I, who am Armenian,My own Armenians know;I want no stranger bridegroom;A widowed stream I flow.“Once I, too, moved in splendour,Adorned as is a brideWith myriad precious jewels,My smiling banks beside.“My waves were pure and limpid,And curled in rippling play;The morning star within themWas mirrored till the day.“What from that time remaineth?All, all has passed away.Which of my prosperous citiesStands near my waves to-day?“Mount Ararat doth pour me,As with a mother’s care,From out her sacred bosomPure water, cool and fair.“Shall I her holy bountyTo hated aliens fling?Shall strangers’ fields be wateredFrom good Saint Jacob’s spring?“For filthy Turk or PersianShall I my waters pour,That they may heathen rites performUpon my very shore.“While my own sons, defenceless,Are exiled from their home,And, faint with thirst and hunger,In distant countries roam?“My own Armenian nationIs banished far away;A godless, barbarous peopleDwells on my banks to-day.“Shall I my hospitable shoresAdorn in festive guiseFor them, or gladden with fair looksTheir wild and evil eyes?“Still, while my sons are exiled,Shall I be sad, as now.This is my heart’s deep utterance,My true and holy vow.”No more spake Mother Arax;She foamed up mightily,And, coiling like a serpent,Wound sorrowing toward the sea.
I walk by Mother AraxWith faltering steps and slow,And memories of past agesSeek in the waters’ flow.
I walk by Mother Arax
With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
Seek in the waters’ flow.
But they run dark and turbid,And beat upon the shoreIn grief and bitter sorrow,Lamenting evermore.
But they run dark and turbid,
And beat upon the shore
In grief and bitter sorrow,
Lamenting evermore.
“Araxes! with the fishesWhy dost not dance in glee?The sea is still far distant,Yet thou art sad, like me.
“Araxes! with the fishes
Why dost not dance in glee?
The sea is still far distant,
Yet thou art sad, like me.
“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,Why do the tears downpour?Why dost thou haste so swiftlyPast thy familiar shore?
“From thy proud eyes, O Mother,
Why do the tears downpour?
Why dost thou haste so swiftly
Past thy familiar shore?
“Make not thy current turbid;Flow calm and joyously.Thy youth is short, fair river;Thou soon wilt reach the sea.
“Make not thy current turbid;
Flow calm and joyously.
Thy youth is short, fair river;
Thou soon wilt reach the sea.
“Let sweet rose-hedges brightenThy hospitable shore,And nightingales among themTill morn their music pour.
“Let sweet rose-hedges brighten
Thy hospitable shore,
And nightingales among them
Till morn their music pour.
“Let ever-verdant willowsLave in thy waves their feet,And with their bending branchesRefresh the noonday heat.
“Let ever-verdant willows
Lave in thy waves their feet,
And with their bending branches
Refresh the noonday heat.
“Let shepherds on thy marginWalk singing, without fear;Let lambs and kids seek freelyThy waters cool and clear.”
“Let shepherds on thy margin
Walk singing, without fear;
Let lambs and kids seek freely
Thy waters cool and clear.”
Araxes swelled her current,Tossed high her foaming tide,And in a voice of thunderThus from her depths replied:—
Araxes swelled her current,
Tossed high her foaming tide,
And in a voice of thunder
Thus from her depths replied:—
“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thouMy age-long sleep to break,And memories of my myriad griefsWithin my breast to wake?
“Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thou
My age-long sleep to break,
And memories of my myriad griefs
Within my breast to wake?
“When hast thou seen a widow,After her true-love died,From head to foot resplendentWith ornaments of pride?
“When hast thou seen a widow,
After her true-love died,
From head to foot resplendent
With ornaments of pride?
“For whom should I adorn me?Whose eyes shall I delight?The stranger hordes that tread my banksAre hateful in my sight.
“For whom should I adorn me?
Whose eyes shall I delight?
The stranger hordes that tread my banks
Are hateful in my sight.
“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,Is widowed, like to me,But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,And wears it slavishly.
“My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,
Is widowed, like to me,
But bows beneath the tyrant’s yoke,
And wears it slavishly.
“But I, who am Armenian,My own Armenians know;I want no stranger bridegroom;A widowed stream I flow.
“But I, who am Armenian,
My own Armenians know;
I want no stranger bridegroom;
A widowed stream I flow.
“Once I, too, moved in splendour,Adorned as is a brideWith myriad precious jewels,My smiling banks beside.
“Once I, too, moved in splendour,
Adorned as is a bride
With myriad precious jewels,
My smiling banks beside.
“My waves were pure and limpid,And curled in rippling play;The morning star within themWas mirrored till the day.
“My waves were pure and limpid,
And curled in rippling play;
The morning star within them
Was mirrored till the day.
“What from that time remaineth?All, all has passed away.Which of my prosperous citiesStands near my waves to-day?
“What from that time remaineth?
All, all has passed away.
Which of my prosperous cities
Stands near my waves to-day?
“Mount Ararat doth pour me,As with a mother’s care,From out her sacred bosomPure water, cool and fair.
“Mount Ararat doth pour me,
As with a mother’s care,
From out her sacred bosom
Pure water, cool and fair.
“Shall I her holy bountyTo hated aliens fling?Shall strangers’ fields be wateredFrom good Saint Jacob’s spring?
“Shall I her holy bounty
To hated aliens fling?
Shall strangers’ fields be watered
From good Saint Jacob’s spring?
“For filthy Turk or PersianShall I my waters pour,That they may heathen rites performUpon my very shore.
“For filthy Turk or Persian
Shall I my waters pour,
That they may heathen rites perform
Upon my very shore.
“While my own sons, defenceless,Are exiled from their home,And, faint with thirst and hunger,In distant countries roam?
“While my own sons, defenceless,
Are exiled from their home,
And, faint with thirst and hunger,
In distant countries roam?
“My own Armenian nationIs banished far away;A godless, barbarous peopleDwells on my banks to-day.
“My own Armenian nation
Is banished far away;
A godless, barbarous people
Dwells on my banks to-day.
“Shall I my hospitable shoresAdorn in festive guiseFor them, or gladden with fair looksTheir wild and evil eyes?
“Shall I my hospitable shores
Adorn in festive guise
For them, or gladden with fair looks
Their wild and evil eyes?
“Still, while my sons are exiled,Shall I be sad, as now.This is my heart’s deep utterance,My true and holy vow.”
“Still, while my sons are exiled,
Shall I be sad, as now.
This is my heart’s deep utterance,
My true and holy vow.”
No more spake Mother Arax;She foamed up mightily,And, coiling like a serpent,Wound sorrowing toward the sea.
No more spake Mother Arax;
She foamed up mightily,
And, coiling like a serpent,
Wound sorrowing toward the sea.
Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.