Armenian Literature

One Of A Thousand

Sweet lady, whence the sadness in your face?

What heart's desire is still unsatisfied?

Your face and form are fair and full of grace,

And silk and velvet lend you all their pride.

A nod, a glance, and straight your maidens fly

To execute your hest with loving zeal.

By night and day you have your minstrelsy,

Your feet soft carpets kiss and half conceal;

While fragrant blooms adorn your scented bower,

Fruits fresh and rare lie in abundance near.

The costly narghil exerts its power

To soothe vain longing and dispel all fear:

Envy not angels; you have paradise.

No lowly consort you. A favored wife,

Whose mighty husband can her wants suffice;

Why mar with grieving such a fortunate life?

So to Haripsime, the Armenian maid,

On whom the cruel fortune of her lot had laid

Rejection of her faith, spake with a sigh

The wrinkled, ugly, haggard slave near by.

Haripsime replied not to the words,

But, silent, turned her face away. With scorn

And sorrow mingled were the swelling chords

Of passionate lament, and then forlorn,

Hopeless, she raised her tearful orbs to heaven.

Silent her lips, her grief too deep for sound;

Her fixed gaze sought the heavy banks of cloud

Surcharged with lightning bolts that played around

The gloomy spires and minarets; then bowed

Her head upon her hands; the unwilling eyes

Shed tears as heavy as the thunder-shower

That trails the bolt to where destruction lies.

There was a time when she, a happy girl,

Had home and parents and a numerous kin;

But on an Eastertide, amid a whirl

Of pillage, murder, and the savage din

Of plundering Kavasses, the Pacha saw

Her budding beauty, and his will was law.

Her vengeful sire fell 'neath a sabre's stroke;

Her mother, broken-hearted, gave to God

The life in which no joys could now evoke

The wonted happiness. The harem of the Turk

Enfolds Haripsime's fresh maidenhood,

And there where danger and corruption lurk,

Where Shitan's nameless and befouling brood

Surround each Georgian and Armenian pearl,

She weeps and weeps, shunning the shallow joys

Of trinkets, robes, of music, or the whirl

Of joyous dance, of singing girls and boys,

And murmurs always in a sobbing prayer,

"Shall never help be sent? Is this despair?"

RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.