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 splendour,

Adorned as is a bride

With myriad precious jewels,

My smiling banks beside.

“My waves were pure and limpid,

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.