Lingering woe of the crucified, Hanging on high like Christ who died: You flaunt no helmets to the skies, Dulling the red rain from your eyes— 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; 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; In his loving hands, Jesus walked : 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, 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; For our dying hands, Jesus walks: 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. Whereon the Poet-God lies, half dreaming- Yearning for the wistfulness of things imperfect, Even so am I to the roseate carpets of the Orient. The Magic of Khorassan weavers is known to me: And the Arabian dreamers in purple, The resonant color-singers of old Turkestan, 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: 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. 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. |