ARMENIAN
LEGENDS AND POEMS

LEO VI, LAST KING OF ARMENIA.

ARMENIA

The Ages pass, no tidings come;

My brave ones fall, are lost and gone.

My blood is chilled, my voice is dumb

And friend or comfort I have none.

ARMENIAN LEGENDS AND POEMS

ILLUSTRATED & COMPILED
by
ZABELLE C. BOYAJIAN

Tigranes the Great
King of Armenia

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE RIGHT HON. VISCOUNT BRYCE, O.M.
AND
A CONTRIBUTION ON “ARMENIA: ITS EPICS, FOLK-SONGS, AND MEDIAEVAL POETRY,”
By ARAM RAFFI

LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

Miss Boyajian is giving all the profits of this edition to the Lord Mayor’s Armenian Fund

Dedicated

TO

THE UNDYING SPIRIT OF ARMENIA

PREFACE

In preparing this book of Armenian Legends and Poems my principal object was to publish it as a Memorial to an unhappy nation.

The book does not claim to represent Armenian poetry adequately. Many gifted and well-known authors have been omitted, partly from considerations of space, and partly because of the scope of the work. For instance, I should have liked to include some of the Sharakans (rows of gems) of Nerses Shnorhali; but the impossibility of reproducing their characteristic forms in another language, and doing them any justice, made me decide not to translate any of them. I have only given a few typical legends and poems, endeavouring, as far as possible, to convey the local colouring by adhering closely to the form, rhythm, and imagery of the originals in my translations. I have also largely based the decorative scheme of the illustrations upon Ancient Armenian Art as we see it in mediæval missals and illuminations.

Should this anthology create an interest in Armenian literature the Armenian Muses have still many treasures in their keeping which cannot be destroyed; and another volume could be compiled.

In conclusion, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to Miss Alice Stone Blackwell, of Boston, U.S.A.—one of Armenia’s truest friends—for allowing me to reprint several of her renderings of Armenian poems; to G. C. Macaulay, M.A., and the Delegates of the Oxford University Press, for permission to reprint the “Tale of Rosiphelee” from their edition of Gower’s Confessio Amantis; to Mr. William Watson and Mr. John Lane for permission to reprint the sonnet on Armenia, “A Trial of Orthodoxy,” from The Purple East; and to the heirs of Vittoria Aganoor Pompilj for permitting me to reprint two of her poems, “Pasqua Armena” and “Io Vidi,” from the Nuova Antologia. I wish also to thank Mr. M. E. Galoustiantz for designing the cover of this book.

The proceeds of the present edition will be handed over to the Armenian Fund.

ZABELLE C. BOYAJIAN.

INTRODUCTION

Severed for many centuries from Western Europe by the flood of Turkish barbarism which descended upon their country in the Middle Ages, and subjected for the last two generations to oppressions and cruelties such as few civilised people have ever had to undergo, the Armenians have been less known to Englishmen and Frenchmen than their remarkable qualities and their romantic history deserve. Few among us have acquired their language, one of the most ancient forms of human speech that possess a literature. Still fewer have studied their art or read their poetry even in translations. There is, therefore, an ample field for a book which shall present to those Englishmen and Frenchmen, whose interest in Armenia has been awakened by the sufferings to which its love of freedom and its loyalty to its Christian faith have exposed it, some account of Armenian art and Armenian poetical literature. Miss Boyajian, the authoress of this book, is the daughter of an Armenian clergyman, whom I knew and respected during the many years when he was British Vice-Consul at Diarbekir on the Tigris. She is herself a painter, a member of that group of Armenian artists some of whom have, like Aïvazovsky and Edgar Chahine, won fame in the world at large, and she is well qualified to describe with knowledge as well as with sympathy the art of her own people.

That art has been, since the nation embraced Christianity in the fourth century of our era, chiefly ecclesiastical. The finest examples of ancient Armenian architecture are to be seen in the ruins of Ani, on the border where Russian and Turkish territory meet, a city which was once the seat of one of the native dynasties, while the famous church of the monastery of Etchmiadzin, at Vagarshabad, near Erivan, is, though more modern, a perfect and beautiful existing representative of the old type. Etchmiadzin, standing at the north foot of Mount Ararat, is the seat of the Katholikos, or ecclesiastical head of the whole Armenian church. There was little or no ecclesiastical sculpture, for the Armenian church discouraged the use of images, and fresco painting was not much used for the decoration of churches; missals, however, and other books of devotion and manuscripts of the Bible were illuminated with hand paintings, and adorned with miniatures; and much skill and taste were shown in embroideries. Metal work, especially in silver and in copper, has always been a favourite vehicle for artistic design in the Near East and is so still, though like everything else it has suffered from the destruction, in repeated massacres, of many of the most highly skilled artificers.

One of the most interesting features in the history of Armenian art is that it displays in its successive stages the various influences to which the country has been subject. Ever since it became Christian it was a territory fought for by diverse empires of diverse creeds. As in primitive times it lay between Assyria on the one side and the Hittite power on the other, so after the appearance of Islam it became the frontier on which the East Roman Christian Empire contended with the Muslim Arab and Turkish monarchies. Persian influences on the East, both before and after Persia had become Mohammedan, here met with the Roman influences spreading out from Constantinople. The latter gave the architectural style, as we see it in those ecclesiastical buildings to which I have referred, a style developed here with admirable features of its own and one which has held its ground to the present day. The influence of Persia on the other hand was seen in the designs used in embroidery, in carpets, and in metal work. The new school of painters has struck out new lines for itself, but while profiting by whatever it has learnt from Europe, it retains a measure of distinctive national quality.

That quality is also visible in Armenian poetry of which this volume gives some interesting specimens. The poetry of a people which has struggled against so many terrible misfortunes has naturally a melancholy strain. But it is also full of an unextinguishable patriotism.

Those who have learnt from this book what the Armenian race has shown itself capable of doing in the fields of art and literature, and who have learnt from history how true it has been to its Christian faith, and how tenacious of its national life, will hope that the time has now at last come when it will be delivered from the load of brutal tyranny that has so long cramped its energies, and allowed to take its place among the free and progressive peoples of the world. It is the only one of the native races of Western Asia that is capable of restoring productive industry and assured prosperity to these now desolated regions that were the earliest homes of civilisation.

BRYCE.

3, Buckingham Gate,
July 1916.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

REPROACHES

By “FRIK”

(Died 1330)

O God of righteousness and truth,

Loving to all, and full of ruth;

I have some matter for Thine ear

If Thou wilt but Thy servant hear.

Lo, how the world afflicteth us

With wrongs and torments rancorous;

And Thou dost pardon every one,

But turnest from our woes alone.

Lord, Thou wilt not avenge our wrong

Nor chase the ills that round us throng;

Thou knowest, we are flesh and bone,

We are not statues made from stone!

We are not made of grass or reeds,

That Thou consumest us like weeds;—

As though we were some thorny field

Or brushwood, that the forests yield.

If that ourselves are nothing worth—

If we have wrought no good on earth,

If we are hateful in Thy sight

That Thou shouldst leave us in this plight—

Then blot us out;—be swift and brief,

That Thy pure heart may find relief;

This well may be, by Thy intent,

Great Lord and good, omnipotent.

How long must we in patience wait

And bear unmurmuringly our fate?

Let evil ones be swept away

And those whom Thou dost favour, stay!

A TRIAL OF ORTHODOXY

(Sonnet on Armenia)

By WILLIAM WATSON

The clinging children at their mother’s knee

Slain; and the sire and kindred one by one

Flayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless done,

Not to be told: while imperturbably

The nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea,

Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run,

And where great armies glitter in the sun,

And great Kings rule, and man is boasted free!

What wonder if yon torn and naked throng

Should doubt a Heaven that seems to wink and nod,

And having mourned at noontide, “Lord, how long?”

Should cry, “Where hidest Thou?” at evenfall,

At midnight, “Is He deaf and blind, our God?”

And ere day dawn, “Is He indeed at all?”

THE EXILE’S SONG

FOLK SONG

Belovèd one, for thy sweet sake,

By whirlwinds tossed and swayed I roam;

The stranger’s accents round me wake

These burning thoughts that wander home.

No man such longings wild can bear

As in my heart forever rise.

Oh that the wind might waft me there

Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!

Oh that I were the zephyr fleet,

That bends her vines and roses sweet.

For I am piteous and forlorn,

As is the bird that haunts the night;

Who inconsolably doth mourn

Whene’er his rose is from his sight.

O’er earth and ocean, everywhere

I gaze in vain, with weary eyes.

Oh that the wind might waft me there

Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!

Oh that I were the zephyr fleet

That bends her vines and roses sweet.

I would I were yon cloud so light,—

Yon cloudlet driven before the wind.

Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight:

My heart’s true way I soon would find!

Oh, I would be the wind so fleet

That bends her vines and roses sweet.

THE APPLE TREE

FOLK SONG

The door of Heaven open seemed

And in thy house the sunlight gleamed.

As through the garden’s willow’d walks I hied

Full many a tree and blossom I espied.

But of all trees, the Apple Tree most fair

And beautiful did unto me appear.

It sobbed and wept. Its leaves said murmuringly:

“I would that God had ne’er created me!

The badge of sin and wickedness I am

E’en at thy feast, O Father Abraham.[1]

The apple growing on me first

From Eden came ere it was cursed,

Alas, alas, I am undone!

Why fell I to that evil one?”

[1] The “feast of Father Abraham” means plenty. [↑]

MY HEART IS TURNED INTO A WAILING CHILD

By N. KOUCHAK

(Fifteenth Century)

My heart is turned into a wailing child,

In vain with sweets I seek to still its cries;

Sweet love, it calls for thee in sobbings wild

All day and night, with longing and with sighs.

What solace can I give it?

I showed my eyes the fair ones of this earth

And tried to please them—but I tried in vain.

Sweet love, for them all those were nothing worth—

Thee—only thee my heart would have again.

What solace can I give it?

O NIGHT, BE LONG

By N. KOUCHAK

O Night, be long—long as an endless year!

Descend, thick darkness, black and full of fear!

To-night my heart’s desire has been fulfilled—

My love is here at last—a guest concealed!

Dawn, stand behind seven mountains—out of sight,

Lest thou my loved one banish with thy light;

I would for ever thus in darkness rest

So I might ever clasp him to my breast.

BLACK EYES

By AVETIS ISAHAKIAN

(Born 1875)

Do not trust black eyes, but fear them:—

Gloom they are, and endless night;

Woes and perils lurking near them—

Love not thou their gleaming bright!

In my heart a sea of blood wells,

Called up by their cruel might,

No calm ever in that flood dwells—

Love not thou their gleaming bright!

YESTERNIGHT I WALKED ABROAD

ANONYMOUS

Yesternight I walked abroad.

From the clouds sweet dews were falling,

And my love stood in the road,

All in green, and to me calling.

To her home she led me straight,

Shut and barred the gate securely;

Whoso tries to force that gate

Brave I’ll reckon him most surely!

In the garden she did go,

Gathered roses dewed with showers;

Some she gave her lover, so

He might lay his face in flowers.

Garments loose and snowy breast,

I slipped in her bosom tender

And I found a moment’s rest,

Clasped within those arms so slender.

Then I raised my hands above—

Grant, O Lord, that I wake never;

On the bosom of my love

May I live and die forever!

What have I from this world gained?

What advantage gathered ever?

For the hunt my falcon trained

I let fly—it went forever!

Ah, my falcon, woe the day!

Tell me, whither art thou flying?

I will follow all the way—

Since thou wentest I am dying.

I am ill, and near my end—

With an apple[1] hasten to me.

I shall curse thee if thou send

Strange physicians to undo me.

No physicians strange for me—

All my griefs in thee I centre.

Come and take my bosom’s key,

Open wide the door and enter.

Once again I say, ’twas not

I that came—’twas thy love brought me.

In my heart thy love hath got

And its dwelling-place hath wrought me.

When the falcon hunger feels

Then he finds the game and takes it;

When love thirsts, the lover steals

Kisses from his love and slakes it.

But thou hold’st me with thy charms;

When I kiss thee thou dost bind me:

’Twas but now I left thine arms,

And my looks are turned behind me.

I am ever, for thy love,

Like the sands in summer, burning:

Looking up to heaven above,

For one little raindrop yearning.

I would kiss thy forehead chaste,

And thine eyes so brightly gleaming;

Fold mine arms about thy waist—

Thick with all thy garments seeming.

Oft and often have I said

For my love make garments shining:

Of the sun the facing red,—

Of the moon cut out the lining;

Pad it with yon storm-cloud dark,

Sewn with sea weed from the islets:

Stars for clasps must bring their spark—

Stitch me inside for the eyelets!

[1] An apple is the symbol of love. [↑]

VAHAGN, KING OF ARMENIA

From the History of Armenia,

by

MOSES OF KHORENE

(Fifth Century)

Concerning the birth of this king the legends say—

“Heaven and earth were in travail,

And the crimson waters were in travail.

And in the water, the crimson reed

Was also in travail.

From the mouth of the reed issued smoke,

From the mouth of the reed issued flame.

And out of the flame sprang the young child.

His hair was of fire, a beard had he of flame,

And his eyes were suns.”

With our own ears did we hear these words sung to the accompaniment of the harp. They sing, moreover, that he did fight with the dragons, and overcame them; and some say that his valiant deeds were like unto those of Hercules. Others declare that he was a god, and that a great image of him stood in the land of Georgia, where it was worshipped with sacrifices.

The Birth of Vahagn, King of Armenia

“Heaven and earth were in travail,

And the crimson waters were in travail.

And in the water, the crimson reed

Was also in travail.

From the mouth of the reed issued smoke,

From the mouth of the reed issued flame,

And out of the flame sprang the young child.

His hair was of fire, a beard had he of flame,

And his eyes were suns.”