Lingering woe of the crucified,

Hanging on high like Christ who died:
Time not to weep by your crucified--
March, march, Armenia, march!

You flaunt no helmets to the skies,

Dulling the red rain from your eyes—
March, march, Armenia, march!

Blinded, grope to the desert wild,

Trampling the head of the slaughtered child;

Over the limbs of the maid defiled,

March, march, Armenia, march!

Climbing Arahrat's sacred crest

Where came the Ark of Life to rest,

March, march, Armenia, march!

Sounds the last charge: the trumpets blow;

Waves of steel through your thin ranks flow;
Four thousand feet to the crags below,
March, march, Armenia, march!

Christ's arms outstretched no hate can hide-When Rome slew him, it nailed them wide! Into the heart of the Crucified,

March, march, Armenia, march!

SYRIAN MOTHER'S LULLABY

Low hangs the morning star,

Arahan arahan!

Dull, like a fading scar,

Arahan,

Lies the Dead Sea.

Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe!

On these Syrian sands,

Golden Syrian sands, Jesus walked;
Holding children's hands

In his loving hands, Jesus walked :
Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.
In my bosom hide your eyes,
For a red dawn paints the skies.
Little darling, do not weep-
Jesus' heart its watch doth keep.
Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.

Green flags blow down the sky,

Arahan arahan!

Turk horsemen thunder nigh,

Arahan,

By the Dead Sea,

Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.

On these Syrian sands,

Golden Syrian sands, Jesus walked;

Clasping baby hands.

In his tender hands, Jesus walked:
Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.
Swift the crimson Turkmen ride-
Near my heart your wee head hide.
Jesus' heart its watch doth keep;
You shall slumber safe and deep.

Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe,

Where died the morning star,

Arahan arahan,

Flames Islam's scimitar,

Arahan,

O'er the Dead Sea.

Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.

From these golden sands,

Ancient homeland sands, Jesus walks;
Reaching living hands

For our dying hands, Jesus walks:

Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.
While the cold dark waters rise
In my bosom hide your eyes.
Christ before us treads the deep,
Jesus' heart its watch doth keep;
You shall never wake to weep!
Sleep, sleep, my Christian babe.

1

THE PRAYER RUG OF ISLAM

Men there are who live among flowers

And the colors of the rose are known to them in the seed

Even as the hands of a woman in the dark

Make of the shadows a garden,

Filling the night of her husband with fragrance.

Men there are who know the stars:

To them, the night sky is a velvet woof

Crossed with the tints of jewels and April waters.
It is a carpet infinitely patterned,

Whereon the Poet-God lies, half dreaming-
Amid the perfect and the boundless

Yearning for the wistfulness of things imperfect,
And so making the Song that is Humanity.

Even so am I to the roseate carpets of the Orient.

The Magic of Khorassan weavers is known to me:
The dyers of Khiva and Damascus,

And the Arabian dreamers in purple,

The resonant color-singers of old Turkestan,
Have come to me out of the dim shadows

Of the carpet-bales,

Under the flickering gas-jets,

In the back room of a little shop on upper Broadway.

For how long ago!-in the time of peace

I was a rug vendor.

Nineteen Hundred and Sixteen, Anno Domini:
And Spring bursting with young green in the parks,
And bird-wings rhythmically weaving

Into the New Earth's carpet

Little mottoes of freedom!

Gajor wept and said, "You will never return."

And my friends in the Syrian café on Tenth Avenue

Laid their hands heavily upon me.

But I saw only the hands of the ancient color-singers beckoning;

Heavier were their ghostly fingers tapping at my soul.
Oh! never were the lips of her I love

More desirous and more dear

Than when she alone whispered:

"If thou diest, I die; yet go!"

Makhir Subatu!

Nineteen Hundred and Sixteen, the Year of Our Lord,

And Spring; and the Rose of Sharon blooming

By crimson-clotted brooks:

And gold-tongued lilies

That once, with my youth, answered the nightingale,

Now dumb beneath the moon,

Their white throats choked with blood!

Among the trampled green of olive-groves

Are strewn the stained girdles of young women,

Or wrapped about small-pitifully small-black mounds of

death.