ARMENIAN POEMS

Contents | Table of contents [as in the book] | Preface | Introduction

APPENDIX: The Armenian Women | The Armenian Church
Bibliography | Comments on the first edition of "Armenian Poems"

TIGRANE YERGATE.

THE DYING POET.

WHY should not I, like the great poet, wear
Laurels upon my hair?
And why around my heart, for my relief,
Should they not ring, those songs deep sorrows sing,
Which from the heart like some dark essence spring,
Making the mourning great as is the grief?

When fate oppresses me and lays me low,
Why should I yield to woe,
Nor lift my brow with curses on my breath?
Grief can like wine intoxicate, in truth,
And grief can sing your glory and your youth,
Then lay you low in death!

What matter that at twenty years you die
If fame immortal shall your memory crown,
And o’er your bier the Angel of Renown
Exalt you to the sky?

Would you, a frail old man, drag out your days
Amid the foolish throng,
And let them mock you as your life decays,
While for your goods they long?

Come, dream no longer! Take your harp and sing.
When on our lakes a bird falls nigh to death,
Far rings his voice, more touching is his note;
The tall reeds shiver with a sighing breath.

He spreads his wings in a last flight, and looks
At the far heights—his song with sorrow rife—
And then falls, shattered at his high cliff’s foot.
Naught has he carried with him out of life;

Yet a vague memory of boundless grief
Shall linger long upon the shore, the waves,
Like magic sweetness of a broken lute,
Or sound of teardrops falling upon graves.

Sing, poet, sing to-day your latest hymn!
In your endeavor, Glory smiles on you.
Poet, remember, to the world you speak,
And you in dying shall be born anew!