Classic Poem

The centuries of bloodshed
Are past, those cruel years;
But there is still one country
Whose mountains drip with tears,
Whose river-banks are blood-stained,
Whose mourning loads the breeze, —
A land of dreary ruins,
Ashes, and cypress-trees.

No more for the Armenian
A twinkling star appears;
His spirit's flowers have faded
Beneath a rain of tears.
Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth,
The dances hand in hand;
Only the weapon of the Koord
Shines freely through the land.

The bride's soft eyes are tearful,
Behind her tresses' flow,
Lest the Koord's shout should interrupt
Love's whisper, sweet and low.
Red blood succeeds love's rosy flush;
Slain shall the bridegroom be,
And by the dastard Koords the bride
Be led to slavery.

The peasant sows, but never reaps;
He hungers evermore;
He eats his bread in bitterness,
And tastes of anguish sore.
Lo! tears and blood together
Drop from his pallid face;
And these are our own brothers,
Of our own blood and race!

The forehead pure, the sacred veil
Of the Armenian maid,
Shall rude hands touch, and hell's hot breath
Her innocence invade?
They do it as men crush a flower,
By no compunction stirred;
They slaughter an Armenian
As they would kill a bird.

O roots of vengeance, heroes' bones,
Who fell of old in fight,
Have ye all crumbled into dust,
Nor sent one shoot to light?
Oh, of that eagle nation
Now trampled by the Koord,
Is nothing left but black-hued crows,
And moles with eyes obscured?

Give back our sisters' roses,
Our brothers who have died,
The crosses of our churches,
Our nation's peace and pride!

O Sultan, we demand of thee
And with our hearts entreat —
Give us protection from the Koord,
Or arms his arms to meet!