THE CRANE
By HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN
(Born 1869)
The Crane has lost his way across the heaven,
From yonder stormy cloud I hear him cry,
A traveller o’er an unknown pathway driven,
In a cold world unheeded he doth fly.
Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?
Farewell, belovèd bird, where’er thou roam
Spring shall return and bring thee back once more,
With thy sweet mate and young ones, to thy home—
Thy last year’s nest upon the sycamore.
But I am exiled from my ruined nest,
And roam with faltering steps from hill to hill,
Like to the fowls of heaven in my unrest
Envying the boulders motionless and still.
Each boulder unassailed stands in its place,
But I from mine must wander tempest tossed—
And every bird its homeward way can trace,
But I must roam in darkness, lone and lost.
Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark,
My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?
When shall night end this day’s last glimmering spark?
Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?
THE HAWK AND THE DOVE
FOLK SONG
The Hawk said to the Dove, “My dear,
Why dost thou shed tear after tear,
That go to swell the streamlet clear?”
The Dove said to the Hawk, “I fear
That spring is gone and autumn’s here;
The rills have ceased their glad career,
The leaves and flowers are dead and sere,
The partridges no more we hear;
So I shall weep in my despair,
And from my eyes shed many a tear:—
How shall I find my babies’ fare?”
He said, “Weep not this autumn drear,
For spring will come another year,
And sunshine bring the world its cheer,
And Hope shall for the poor appear.
Upon my pinions thee I’ll bear
Where those tall trees their summit rear,
And high upon those mountains bare
I’ll build a nest with tender care,
I’ll make for thee a dwelling there,—
A hearth laid in that rocky lair,
With chimney open to the air;
The smoke shall to the clouds repair—
And to the South Wind fly our care!”
Autumn gave place to springtime fair,
The rills were loosed on their career
And went to swell the streamlet clear,
Like blood-drops from the boulders bare.
Bright yellow flowers the hills did wear,
And violets, with perfume rare,
And flowers of countless colours fair;
And birds with music filled the air,
And bleating lambs called everywhere
To God for all His love and care.
Artavasd
“When thou ridest forth to hunt
Over the free heights of Ararat,
The Strong Ones shall have thee,
And shall take thee up
On to the free heights of Ararat.
There shalt thou abide,
And never more see the light.”
Moses of Khorene.