THE ARMENIAN MAIDEN

In the hush of the spring night dreaming

The crescent moon have you seen,

As it shimmers on apricots gleaming,

Through velvety masses of green.

Have you seen, in a June-tide nooning,

A languorous full-blown rose

In the arms of the lilies swooning

And yielding her sweets to her foes?

Yet the moon in its course and the roses

By Armenia's maiden pale,

When she coyly and slowly discloses

The glories beneath her veil.

And a lute from her mother receiving,

With a blush that a miser would move,

She treads a soft measure, believing

That music is sister to love.

Like a sapling her form in its swaying,

Full of slender and lissomy grace

As she bends to the time of her playing,

Or glides with a fairy-light pace.

The lads for her beauty are burning,

The elders hold forth on old age,

But the maiden flies merrily spurning

Youth, lover, and matron and sage.

RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.