Armenian Poems/The Tears of Araxes

by Raphael Patkanian

I WALK by Mother Arax
 With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
 Seek in the waters' flow.

But they run dark and turbid,
 And beat upon the shore
In grief and bitter sorrow,
 Lamenting evermore.

"Araxes! with the fishes
 Why dost not dance in glee?
The sea is still far distant,
 Yet thou art sad, like me.

"From thy proud eyes, O Mother,
 Why do the tears downpour?
Why dost thou haste so swiftly
 Past thy familiar shore?

"Make not thy current turbid;
 Flow calm and joyously.
Thy youth is short, fair river;
 Thou soon wilt reach the sea.

"Let sweet rose-hedges brighten
 Thy hospitable shore,
And nightingales among them
 Till morn their music pour.

"Let ever-verdant willows
 Lave in thy waves their feet,
And with their bending branches
 Refresh the noonday heat.

"Let shepherds on thy margin
 Walk singing, without fear;
Let lambs and kids seek freely
 Thy waters cool and clear."

Araxes swelled her current,
 Tossed high her foaming tide,
And in a voice of thunder
 Thus from her depths replied:—

"Rash, thoughtless youth, why com'st thou
 My age-long sleep to break,
And memories of my myriad griefs
 Within my breast to wake?

"When hast thou seen a widow,
 After her true-love died,
From head to foot resplendent
 With ornaments of pride?

"For whom should I adorn me?
 Whose eyes shall I delight?
The stranger hordes that tread my banks
 Are hateful in my sight.

"My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,
 Is widowed, like to me,
But bows beneath the tyrant's yoke,
 And wears it slavishly.

"But I, who am Armenian,
 My own Armenians know;
I want no stranger bridegroom;
 A widowed stream I flow.

"Once I, too, moved in splendor,
 Adorned as is a bride
With myriad precious jewels,
 My smiling banks beside.

"My waves were pure and lipid,
 And curled in rippling play;
The morning star within them
 Was mirrored till the day.

"What from that time remaineth?
 All, all has passed away.
Which of my prosperous cities
 Stands near my waves to-day?

Mount Ararat doth pour me,
 As with a mother's care,
From out her sacred bosom
 Pure water, cool and fair.

"Shall I her holy bounty
 To hated aliens fling?
Shall strangers' fields be watered
 From good Saint Jacob's spring?

"For filthy Turk or Persian
 Shall I my waters pour,
That they may heathen rites perform
 Upon my very shore.

"While my own sons, defenceless,
 Are exiled from their home,
And, faint with thirst and hunger,
 In distant countries roam?

"My own Armenian nation
 Is banished far away;
A godless, barbarous people
 Dwells on my banks to-day.

"Shall I my hospitable shores
 Adorn in festive guise
For them, or gladden with fair looks
 Their wild and evil eyes?

"Still, while my sons are exiled,
 Shall I be sad, as now.
This is my heart's deep utterance,
 My true and holy vow."

No more spake Mother Arax;
 She foamed up mightily,
And, coiling like a serpent,
 Wound sorrowing toward the sea.