The Armenian Mother

I was a mother, and I weep; The night is come--the day is sped-- The night of woe profound, for, oh, My little golden son is dead!

The pretty rose that bloomed anon Upon my mother breast, they stole; They let the dove I nursed with love Fly far away--so sped my soul!

That falcon Death swooped down upon My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; ’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark, And so, and so my heart was wrung!

Before my eyes, they sent the hail Upon my green pomegranate-tree-- Upon the bough where only now A rosy apple bent to me.

They shook my beauteous almond-tree, Beating its glorious bloom to death-- They strewed it round upon the ground, And mocked its fragrant dying breath.

I was a mother, and I weep; I seek the rose where nestleth none-- No more is heard the singing bird-- I have no little golden son!

So fall the shadows over me, The blighted garden, lonely nest. Reach down in love, O God above! And fold my darling to thy breast.