ARMENIAN POEMS

Contents | Table of contents [as in the book] | Preface | Introduction

APPENDIX: The Armenian Women | The Armenian Church
Bibliography | Comments on the first edition of "Armenian Poems"

MIHRAN DAMADIAN was born in Constantinople about 1863. He was educated at the Armenian Catholic Seminary at Venice, Italy. He became a teacher in the Sassoun district, and was much beloved. With H. Murad, he led the fighting against the Turks, about the year 1893. He was taken prisoner, and his captors broke his leg to prevent any possibility of his escape. He was sent in chains to Constantinople, and kept for some time in prison. He is now living in Alexandria.

1. The Son of Dalvorig
2. The Imprisoned Revolutionist
3. Furfurcar
4. The Lament of Martyred Sumpad's Mother

1.THE SON OF DALVORIG

BRAVE son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig’s son am I;
Son am I of the mountain, son am I of the rock.
Not like the timid dwellers in city walls am I;
I am the remnant of the old, the brave Armenian stock.
The brave son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig’s son am I,
And in the presence of the Turk I do not cringe or bow;
The free son of the rocky hills, the rugged heights, am I;
My eyes have never looked upon the plough-haft or the plough.

CHORUS.
Ho, my Armenian brothers, Dalvorig’s son am I;
Oh, come to me, come hither, for the love of liberty!

When on the world I ope’d my eyes I saw our mountains high,
Our rocks and cliffs; our mountains, our rocks and cliffs were free.
Until I close my eyes upon the darkness when I die,
Ne’er shall the feet of foreigners tread here triumphantly.
My mother gave me birth in a narrow, rocky gorge,
The strong branch of a walnut tree my cradle-bed became;
So plain and simple was my birth, so plainly I was reared.
My portion in this earthly life is conflict, fire, and flame.

My feet are bare, my chest exposed ; but what for that care I,
If only my young sister may grow up free like me ?
To me the sunshine and the cold and mist are all the same,
So long as here the Turk and Koord have no authority.
My life is hard, my life is rough; I never have been used
To dwell at ease in luxury and feed on dainty fare.
I do not live in palace halls, my dwelling is the rock,
The tempest and the earthquake are my companions there.

Let other men inhabit the valleys and the plains,
And with the base and ruthless Turk on terms of friendship be;
I will remain unvanquished forever and a day,
Even if twenty squadrons should come to vanquish me.
Instead of tender wheaten bread, the millet is my food;
I forge the red-hot iron day and night, incessantly ;
I make cross-irons for griddles, and spades to till the soil;
Men look upon my lot in life as hard, but I am free.

High genius and the homage of the mind are not for me;
Enough for me it is to have my dagger and my sword;
Enough for me it is to know that while the mountains stand
No foreigner shall ever be my master and my lord.
My arms my only playthings are; comfort I hate, and ease ;
A quiet and a placid life upon me soon would pall.
I love the chase, I love the fight, I love the fight’s reward,
And I am ever ready when comes the signal call.

When the alarm is given, then fearless I start forth;
The mountains of Sassoun breathe a sigh and cry aloud —
They cry aloud, and over them there spreads a crimson stain;
The red stain on the mountains, it is their heroes’ blood.
The hero’s heart, the hero’s hand! What does the hero care
Although a thousand wounds and one should pierce him, blow on blow ?
For every blow men deal him, a thousand he returns;
He strews the earth with corpses, a banquet for the crow.

I leap upon the mountains as leaps the mountain deer;
The thunder of my angry voice the lion’s roar is like;
I foam as foams the ocean, fierce beating on the shore;
And when I smite the foeman, as a thunderbolt I strike.
The stormy field of battle is my portion in this life ;
There either the red sunset light shall see, in evening’s breath,
My banner wave in victory, and give it greeting fair,
Or it shall see my silent face set pale and cold in death.

2. THE IMPRISONED REVOLUTIONIST.

REJOICE! Another revolutionist,
Turk, you have caught and in your prison pent.
I too have fallen a victim to your wrath;
But know, O tyrant, that I am content.

This is that dungeon, terrible and dark,
To which in bonds your cruel hand, blood red,
Brought many another like me; but of them
Even the awful prison stood in dread.

Their hearts were dauntless and their wills of iron,
Their souls invincible by any foes.
You swallowed them, but straightway from their bones
Against you new avengers there arose.

Into this dungeon Greeks and Servians
Entered, and divers torments they passed through,
And Montenegrins, poor Bulgarians—
But now with pride they all boast over you.

I kiss this rusty chain, with which you bound
Those heroes, who defied your utmost powers;
Whole nations have been ransomed by their blood.
Tremble, O tyrant! Future days are ours.

From the black clouds the lightning flashes out;
Even the cold flint gives forth fire; at morn
In the dark heavens the glorious sun doth rise;
And from his mother’s pangs the child is born.

So shall the future’s joy and melody
Come from our present sighs and tears and pains.
Against you a whole nation shall arise,
Roused by the clanking of our bloody chains.

I enter prison gladly, kiss my chains,
Embrace the darkness with its chilling breath.
Better the gallows is than your base yoke,
And revolutionists can sport with death.

But you, O tyrant, wherefore do you quake,
You, brave and mighty? Are you terrified
Lest you should not forget my death? Why fear
When you have thrust your sword into my side?

But no—methinks that you at last have felt
Your persecutions will be futile all;
And that, despite your efforts, in the end
The Armenian nation will be freed from thrall.

Then what to me is prison, torture, chains?
“Long live Armenia!” my last sigh shall be.
What care I even for death? By this my death
The martyr nation shall at last be free!

3. FURFURCAR (ROARING CLIFF).

FURFURCAR is an overhanging mountain with inaccessible rocky sides, around which, at the mouth of each pass, were ranged the seven villages that made up Dalvorig. Anyone climbing the path from Porkh to Hosnood hears the roaring (in local dialect furfur) of the wind. This peculiar sound is caused by the fierce current of the whirl striking the folds of the rocks; and from this the place took its name.
Zovasar, Andok, Maratoog and Gepin are the highest summits of the mountains of Sassoun. Furfurcar is not as high, but the passes and valleys that surround it, and the perpendicular height of its sides, make it almost impregnable. For many years its brave mountaineers were able to defend themselves successfully against all attacks. This poem was written while they were still unconquered.

REFUGE of Dalvorig’s valiant men,
Of strife and dangerous days!
Lo, all Armenia towards thee
To-day in hope doth gaze.
Thou black and naked mountain-side,
That, when winds o’er thee sweep,
Dost like a dragon hiss, or shore
Wave tortured of the deep—
Thou wild and desert Roaring Cliff
O’er Porkh that risest steep!

Many Armenian hearts, methinks,
Till now are turned to stone;
No love or pity wakes in them
Their brothers’, sisters’ moan;
But passion and fierce jealousy
Have in them made their nest.
O that thine heights may dry our tears,
Put heart within our breast!
O Roaring Cliff, protect the poor,
The plundered and oppressed!

A monument of freedom,
All glorious dost thou stand;
The ice and snow, to torrents turned,
Lick at thy feet the sand.
Thee Zovasar and Maratoog,
Andok and Gepin see
With envy; those far-shadowing mounts
Are high, but thou art free.
Of our deliverance, Roaring Cliff,
Do thou the cradle be!

Lighthouse of the Armenians thou,
Fear of the wild Koord’s heart;
Against the cruel tyrant Turk
Our fortress-wall thou art.
Only to lions dost thou give room,
In den and awful cave;
Only the eagle on thy peaks
A resting place may crave.
O Roaring Cliff, be evermore
The stronghold of the brave!

If against Dalvorig countless foes
Should come, and bid us pay
Twenty years’ tax,* “Come take it, then!”
The Armenian will say.
But, drawing to the Roaring Cliff,
He on the foe will rain
Bullets and stones, instead of gold
With interest in its train.
O wild and rocky Roaring Cliff,
Be then their shield again!

_____________________
* A favorite device of oppression was to demand over again
taxes that had already been paid.
_____________________

Let brave Armenians muster
From every village home,
From Berm, Karag and Khiyank,
From Khoulp and Muchtegh come;
Let Sim’s heights too be populous;
Fight, o’er the precipice
Roll down the foe, that Roaring Cliff
May see a sight like this—
Koords, Turks by thousands, fallen down
Within its deep abyss!

Let Sassoun’s lions assemble,
Fierce roaring, on thy crown;
Thence, like a raging torrent,
Let them toward Moush rush down,
Mowing before them briar and thorn!
Let field and town arise,
And stretch, to help Sassoun’s brave men,
Their hands, with sparkling eyes.
O Roaring Cliff, give to them strength,
Courage, and high emprise !

And when Armenia shall be free,
A fortress we will rear,
Named Roaring Cliff; Armenia’s flag
Shall o’er it glitter clear.
Let the surrounding valleys
And mountains joyful be!
Let the young matrons and the maids
All clap their hands for glee!
And let the cannon, that great day,
Boom out, with loud acclaim;
Let Roaring Cliff, Armenia’s pride,
Be aye an honored name;
And let our land, from age to age,
Still celebrate its fame !

4. THE LAMENT OF MARTYRED SUMPAD’s MOTHER.

This poem commemorates one out of countless acts of oppression. Sumpad, a young man of Alashgerd, had just finished his studies at Erzerum, and was on his way to the village of Pakarich as a teacher in 1888. He was arrested and searched, and among his papers was found a poem one line of which read, “The Turk is as wild as a wild cedar tree.” Sumpad was imprisoned and severely beaten. One morning he was found dead in his cell, the body bearing marks of poison. His mother and his sweetheart died of grief.

MY dearest Sumpad, my beloved son,
Flower of my heart and light of my sad eyes!
The Turk hath snatched thee from my arms, alas!
Thou for thy nation wast a sacrifice.

“As wild as a wild cedar is the Turk,”
Thou saidst; the enemy thy speech o’erheard.
The more I think of it, the more I grieve;
The wicked one took vengeance for that word.

Hungering arid thirsting for Armenian blood,
He threw thee into prison, O my dear,
And chained thee cruelly; thy pleading prayers
The God of the Armenians did not hear.

In Erzerum’s dungeon, in a corner flung,
Long didst thou pine, and pant for air in vain;
And when thou didst yield up thy latest breath,
Thou, for thy mother, couldst but clasp thy chain.

Oh, let it reach to highest heaven, the voice
Of my lament, a mother’s sighing breath!
And let Armenia’s valiant-hearted men
Take vengeance for my son’s untimely death!

Short was thy life as that of any flower;
Soon came the sunset and the daylight’s close.
Pass thou to heaven, afar from this sad earth!
There from thy sorrows thou shalt find repose.

Thither will come thy sweetheart, and I too,
To clasp each other, safe beyond earth’s strife.
I curse my fate, but bless thee, O my son,
Since for thy country thou didst give thy life!

Contents | Table of contents [as in the book] | Preface | Introduction

APPENDIX: The Armenian Women | The Armenian Church
Bibliography | Comments on the first edition of "Armenian Poems"