Читать книгу Poems of Bedros Duryan - Duryan Bedros - Страница 2

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 !