THE NIGHTINGALE OF AVARAIR BY LEO ALISHAN
WHENCE comest thou, my moon, gentle and still,
Spreading thy light o’er meadow, vale, and hill,
And o’er this patriarch, that lost in thought
The midnight plains of Avarair has sought
Whereon our fathers, martyred for the right,
As giants fell, to rise as angels bright!
Com'st thou to spread upon their ashes cold
From yonder snowy cloud a pall of gold?
Or would’st thou bind around thy brow of light
A token of Armenia's life-blood bright?-
Or art thou still in awestruck wonder lost
To think how Vartan fell, with all his host;--
Leaving death's shadow in his foeman's breast,
Trusting his soul to God, he sank to rest!
And thou, Dughmood, that stained with blood I see
Winding amongst thy rushes sobbingly;
Thou breeze that from Magou's steep rock dost waft,
Or from great Ararat descendest soft;--
Thou too like me dost tremble, and thy wings
Listlessly bear thee on thy wanderings:
O’er hill and dale thou fliest, from wood to wood,
Till on this plain thou stay’st thy wings to brood;
Then bearest on this careworn heart's last sigh
To echo in Armenia ere it die!